Writer's Block Party

Until now I never really knew why historically everyone chose July as their month to expend their gradually accruing array of .8 vacation days per month. Sure the kids are out of school, the weather is at its warmest, and TV is either in summer re-runs or bad reality show pre-runs.

The problem is for someone like me who has no children, hates hot weather, and relies on the idiot box for entertainment, friendship and companionship, this time of year is actualy the least ideal time for me to get away from my busy daily grind. (Who am I kidding? My current daily grind would barely harvest a single ground of Sanka let alone a pot of Colombian Dark Roast.)

When I used to do this writing thing for a living, I never really at any point found myself at a loss for words. Even if I had nothing pressing to bitch about I still could find something positive or constructive to add to the collective consciousness.

Right now the world is just sort of happening all around me and I'm sort of numb to the whole thing. Nothing is really sparking my interest on any level...good or bad. Sorry but debating the pros and cons of the so-called health care reform bill winding its way down the Congressional crapper, playing pin the tail on the "real culprit" who ultimately killed Michael Jackson, or kicking dirt on now former Chicago Blackhawks' GM Dale Tallon's corpse over what could be a "bill of goods" sold to the team by their arch nemesis Detroit Red Wings in now questionably-healthy and newly minted millionaire forward Marian Hossa, really leaves me flat.

I do have some stuff "in the can" that I want to share but at this time I'm just not able to organize my thoughts well enough to free them from the bowels of my mind. So I've decided to take a break from blogging and throw myself a "Writer's Block Party" to shake off some of the rust from all the stalled story ideas I am currently saddled with. I may even take it one step further and make this block party a road trip.

I know my travel budget is fairly limited since I haven't had a real paying job since the Taft administration but in order to recharge my cranial 9-volts I think I need to go ahead and take a much needed vacation.

The $6.40 question (about what I can afford to spend on a trip) is where? Where do I want to go in the world that would pique my interest, raise my spirits, and arouse...well pretty much anything in me.

Lets start with where I've been:

Illinois. Much like all of the Star Wars movies as well as the countless number of rejection letters from potential employers I continue to receive on a weekly basis, I've seen it before.

With apologies to Johnny Cash...

I've been to Palatine, Mundelein, Oregon, Oblong
Plano, Murphysboro, Wasco, Roscoe
Berwyn, Burr Ridge, Bourbonnais, Berkley
DuQuoin, DuPage, Dupo, Dundee
Oak Forest, Oak Lawn, Oak Brook, Oak Park
Elmwood Park, Orland Park, Loves Park, Forest Park

I've visited Zion and did not run into Morpheus or any of The Matrix cast. I've been through Springfield (and Shelbyville for that matter) without seeing The Simpsons and flew into Metropolis without a single sighting of Clark Kent.

I've been to the Friendship Festival in Kankakee, the Sweet Corn Festival in Hoopeston, and the Turkey Testicle Festival in Sandwich. Believe me...I've been everywhere, man!

Florida. A return trip to "America's wang" does intrigue me on some levels (mostly to see if the hillbilly hell hole I lived in during my adolescent and teen years still can support carbon based life and if the school system ever got past teaching the letter "G" in its English curriculum). Despite never having seen attractions like Disney World, Universal Studios, or Epcot Center the entire eight years I lived there (though I did get to see the Alligator Farm as well as several drunken college football tailgate parties in assorted collegiate venues' parking lots) I think that's a destination I can cross off my "to do" list, y'all.

Arizona. Made some truly "wonderful" driving memories with a few of my close friends on several cross-country trips from Chicago to Mesa and back; most of which had to do with our group's collective lack of maturity, personal hygiene, or the substandard accommodations we chose to partake in.

Aside from a visit to the Grand Canyon, my vacation memories of the Sunburn State primarily consist of staying at my friend's Aunt's house (whose amenities featured an average of no more than 15 seconds of luke warm water per shower and an air conditioner that shook and cried in pain when I turned it down one night from 82 to 70 degrees), using the tub at the Motel Five as a urinal after the toilet backed up, listening to my one friend have a loud conversation with himself in his sleep about someone named Barry, giggling uncontrollably at the movie theater marquee outside of a Perkins Restaurant which claimed to be showing the movie "Forrest Hump", trying to identify which homeless people under the viaducts reminded us of former professional athletes (I swear I saw Houston Astros legend J.R. Richard pushing a shopping cart), and me falling asleep at the wheel of my friend's minivan for a good minute or so and not really caring about the peril we were in either (even after the wheels started rubbing against the shoulder) as the sun rose over an endless strip of this boring highway to hell we were on.

Nevada. Okay, we're obviously talking about Las Vegas here as there is really no other viable reason to visit Nevada (unless you want to see Reno or Area 51). Despite my extraordinary track record of gambling futility, I usually enjoy my trips to Las Vegas. I have to say though, my last few visits have really been hit or miss. The Las Vegas Strip is really dying. The economy has pretty much taken the middle class out of the casinos leaving only the rich and powerful whales at the Wynn and the Bellagio and the penny-slots-and-$1.99-steak-and-eggs-in-the-ghetto-part-of-the-Strip crowd. Even the cadre of hispanic folks handing out burlesque flyers and hooker rookie cards to the many passers-by have disappeared. The once picturesque skyline is now muddled by half-finished buildings and decrepit older casinos who have yet to be put out to pasture. Add to that the disappointment of my last two Miss Illinois titleholders being cheated out of their rightful place in the Top 10 at the Miss America Pageant and me being molested by some fat dope sitting next to me (who must have mistook my leg for a succulent pork chop with applesauce) on one of the plane rides back, and I've pretty much cashed in my chips on Vegas. What happens there can basically stay there, in my book.

I've been through other states but can't honestly say I've made any lasting memories in those places. I saw the Rocky Mountains and the Painted Desert. I've seen Nebraska and Iowa...yay, corn. Ate a Whopper with some "unexpected" toppings in Colorado (we'll leave it at that), saw a cow try to hump a pick-up truck in Oklahoma, lost my swimming trunks in the wake while tubing in Michigan, watched my grandmother drive off the road into the grassy median and then back on again in Wisconsin, accidentally defiled a book from the 1700's at the University of Notre Dame library in Indiana, got pulled over in Texas for speeding late one night with the ultimate irony of The Eagles' "Life in the Fast Lane" blaring on the radio, and took photos of the highway signs in Dix, Illinois and Beaver, Utah. Ah, memories.

Sure there are other places I would like to visit. San Francisco, Seattle, New York, Vancouver and maybe even Intercourse, PA. Beyond that, I think I get more relaxation and pleasure out of reliving old memories of respites past than I do of thinking about planning future ones.

Airline travel is such a pain right now and I still don't know how my friends and I managed to drive cross country all those times without the aid of a GPS or an iPod...or air conditioning.

No, I think I'll just stay right here, fill up the tub, insert my aquarium's air pump hose into the water to make a Polish jacuzzi, microwave some Pizza Rolls, pour myself a glass of Ginger Ale, and toast to one of the most relaxing trips a writer like myself can take...a trip down memory lane.

Now if I could just get over this writer's block and think of something to write for my blog...hmmm.

Mailing It In

Riddle me this:

Can any major sports city in the country boasting professional teams in at least three of the big four leagues (MLB, NFL, NBA and NHL) be a bigger joke than Chicago is right now? Hell, I'll even see your cities with teams in two of the four leagues and raise you an MLS team kicker (sorry, bad poker metaphor).

Seriously. Lets put this evidence under the microscope!

In less than two weeks time, we've had the Chicago Blackhawks pull a major coup, bucking a century's worth of penny-pinching and Jurassic-era business practices, with the signing of free agent offensive super-stud Marian Hossa to a 12-year, $60+ million dollar deal, only to risk flushing all that positive momentum down the crapper on a silly paperwork snafu and the reliability of the Postal Service with the potential loss of young, budding talent Kris Versteeg to unrestricted free agency. Are you kidding me?

We've got America's darlings, the Chicago Cubs, who after two years of wrangling with suitors and haggling with Tribune Company creditors were on the verge of finalizing a deal to sell the team to the Ricketts family of TD Ameritrade fame. Then in an act reticent of total "Cub-dom" (or should that be "Cub-dumb"), the Chicago Sun Times quotes multiple sources within the team's lame duck ownership group (namely the paper's own competitor, the Chicago Tribune) that no agreement has been reached and the team is still fielding offers from other sources to maximize top dollar.

Top that off with the Chicago Bulls losing free agent Ben Gordon to the Detroit Pistons (perhaps interleague payback for the aforementioned Hossa deal), the Cubs losing pitcher Ryan Dempster to a fractured toe in the wake of jumping over a dugout railing to celebrate a victory last weekend, and the Chicago White Sox losing pitcher Bartolo Colon - not to free agency or an injury - they just can't find him period!

And while the Chicago Bears have remained remarkably hushed this off season, still riding the high of the Jay Cutler trade with Denver this past spring, it still makes me laugh to listen to some of Bears Nation criticize the move. He's overrated. He's cocky. He doesn't sign autographs. Orton is better. We gave up too much. Why not give Caleb Haney a shot?

Guess what? JAY CUTLER IS AN ACTUAL NFL STARTING QUARTERBACK!

Despite the Bears' Super Bowl XX victory in 1986, the Bulls' six title run in the 1990's, and the White Sox World Series title in 2005, the overall national perspective of Chicago is essentially "a tradition of mediocrity" and Chicago fans' mentalities for the most part can be summed up in one word: "meatheads". And while I don't necessarily care what other areas of the world think of us, I can't help but agree with either of those assessments.

This is a sports town who embraces their own and shuns change of any kind...even if it is for the better.

This is a sports town whose baseball legacy can be defined by some greenery adorning brick walls in the outfield, a college of coaching, Harry Caray, Disco Demolition Night, baseball shorts, and prior to 2005, 100 years of nothing to show for any of it.

This is a sports town so steeped in tradition (or, again, is it fearful of change?) that its management brain trust is often afraid to act on anything for fear of upsetting the balance?

This is a sports town whose basketball team sent Benny the Bull and the Luv-a-Bulls out to the airport to greet and woo potential All-Star free agents while other teams sent what those players ultimately wanted: legitimate, loaded contracts.

This is a sports town whose coaching carousel reads like the dossier of a D-list celebrity candle party. For every Phil Jackson and Mike Ditka, there's a Terry Bevington and a Jim Essian just itching to soil themselves; thus making their memorable contributes to the festering Chicago coaching compost heap. This phenomenon (perceived or otherwise) undoubtedly influenced the sudden changes of heart by even second-tier retreads such as Dave McGinnis, Doug Collins and Barry Melrose in officially accepting coaching positions with Chicago teams. (Do you realize how close we were to having Barry Melrose and his mullet coaching the Blackhawks? How long did he last with the 'Ning? A week-and-a-half?)

This is a sports town whose fans revel in the potential of their team's "hot young prospects" (most of whom historically do not live up to expectations - see Brandon McCarthy, Felix Pie, Tuomo Ruutu, Miguel Olivo, Gary Scott...shall I continue?) and then cry bloody murder on the notion that any one of them should be traded for anything remotely beneficial to the team's long-term success from outside the organization.

This is a sports town whose teams, like a lot of other cities, are frugal with their spending cash but not to the penultimate detriment of their teams' well-being and that of their fiercly loyal collective fan base as some Chicago ownership and management groups have chosen to be. From Bobby Hull to Greg Maddux to Jeremy Roenick to Elton Brand to Magglio Ordonez...how cheap are we?

And when teams in this town do in fact make a splash and land a big name player via trade or free agency, it is almost always one on the downside of their career (see Ken Griffey, Jr., Maddux - the second time, Bobby Orr, Charles Oakley) or a player who slips through the cracks of the teams' advanced scouting and medical staff who fail to diagnose a slightly torn labrum, degenerative knee or even a case of acute ass-wipedness (see David Wells...on all three!)

Granted, all of these recent blips on the Chicago sporting radar will iron themselves out before any lasting damage can occur. Versteeg will re-sign with the Hawks soon. Despite his numbers, Gordon's absence from the Bulls' line-up will probably further facilitate Derrick Rose's growth as an offensive player. Dempster's toe will heal in time for the Cubs to miss the playoffs. Their ownership situation will be a mere matter of how many zeroes to the left of the decimal point a suitor can muster. And unless Bartolo Colon was hanging in the same bar with Steve McNair last weekend, I'm sure he'll emerge from his hole in time to make his rehab starts in Triple-A Charlotte.

It's the notion that Chicago really is the lonely kid at the prom or the precious ugly duckling debutante that never "swanned-up". Our blue collar attitude and toughness-wins-out-over-talent system of values are the subject of mockery by pundits and talk radio hosts nationwide. We are laughed with and we are laughed at...and we love it. Because it's our tradition and that's what makes our town, our teams, and our fans so great!

Tradition is wonderful! It is something I will always cherish, not just in sports but in all aspects of my life. You know what else I cherish? Winning...and the respect that comes with it.

How about we start a new tradition?

Finding Buried Treasure in Life's Little Piles

Just a quick postscript to one of the rambling points I made in my previous blog entry regarding cleaning out my closet and old toy box this past weekend and finding some truly unique treasures...specifically my portfolio of old drawings, cartoons and, of course, my pride and joy..."Groo the Wanderer vs. The Transformers" issues #1-4.

This was my E.T.: a boy and his special childhood friend...now reunited 20+ years later! This was my first kiss, my first steady relationship and my first love all in one age ravaged, water stained package.

It's not just finding this long since buried gem from my childhood intact that has me so giddy and giggly, but rather the entire process of pouring over each panel and harkening back to how much I cherished each free moment that year, both during and after school and throughout the summer, to put this thing together. It's grimacing at the site of my poor seventh grade spelling and grammar (which at the time I thought was fairly superior to everyone else's) and my glaring inability to draw straight lines - and yet my outright stubborn refusal to succumb to the pressure of using a ruler and a pencil instead of my own eyes and a pen to craft this epic. No, once I got it off the ground this little baby was going to be uniquely me - beautifully flawed for all the world to see, and frankly all for the enjoyment and edification of just one person...ME!

Not to toot my own horn here but this was groundbreaking stuff for me! I melded two fantasy worlds, entrenched deep within in my thirteen-year-old heart, inexorably together in one four-part mini series that I developed out of nothing except my own imagination and a few strokes of my pen. I inserted Groo co-creators Sergio Aragones' and Mark Evanier's patented hidden messages into each issue. I even gave myself and a dozen of my former classmates smaller cameo roles throughout and even wrote my all-time super hero role model, Wolverine, a guest spot in the story's finale.

Sure I've done better work since then. In the same portfolio I found some of my more recent samples of journalistic cartooning which most would probably agree are far superior to my early work. Still, while the drawings are a tad more polished and the humor a lot more thoughtful and mature (in a mostly immature way), I'm still most proud of G vs. TT.

And even though my cartooning hand has become fairly silent over the last decade due to the early onset of jaded, crusty old fart syndrome, looking at my old work gives me renewed confidence and desire to bust out the drawing pad and pencils (yes, I did eventually listen to myself and retired the four-chamber, multi-colored ballpoint pen).

In fact, I also found the series' even more ambitious and priceless attempted sequel, Groo the Wanderer vs. Everyone (with the subtitle Secret Wars III - building off of another popular Marvel Comics mini-series of the time) including the tip-of-the-cap cover salute to my favorite comic book cover of all time, Giant Size X-Men #1. This one only made it about 10 pages and two weeks into the start of eighth grade before I put it to bed for good. Perhaps I might pick up where I left off. Who knows? Think I can remember a 20-year-old storyline?

I can't tell you how happy I am to have unearthed this lifetime treasure. If nothing else, this reaffirms for me what many people have tried repeatedly to tell me for my entire life (and I usually ignore out of some sense of modesty): I'm pretty damn talented.

Despite its cliched script, hackneyed illustrations and sometimes illegible print (even before suffering all the water damage from hitching a ride in my school backpack on a daily basis), Groo vs. The Transformers really is me at my quintessential best. Not only was this one of the few projects of this scope in my life I have ever taken on and seen through from fruition to completion, this was also probably the last notable thing I ever did just for myself...but that's going to change, I promise!

And I'm not promising you this...I'm promising me.

Cleaning Up Some Random Piles

One of the things I have learned since the economy chewed up and regurgitated my full time career roughly 2 1/2 years ago is that long holiday weekends are really more a nuissance to me now than a cause for celebration.

Not that I went out of my way to paint the town red, or any other hue for that matter, over a Fourth of July weekend even when I was doing the whole 9 to 5 thing. In fact, I probably did even less on those occasions than I do now just to decompress. I guess the primary difference was I actually had something to look forward to when the weekend was complete, even if I wasn't really looking forward to it (like going back to my dead-end job of clock watching). Lets just say this past weekend was not a really productive weekend for me on any level.

Besides confusing Thursday with Friday, Friday with Saturday, Saturday with Sunday, and Sunday with Saturday, I managed to watch all-day marathons of old TV series I have seen ad nauseum (I can still hear Gordon Ramsay yelling, "Oh my gawd, come on! Let's go, yes?" in my own personal Kitchen Nightmares rattling around in my sleep), grilled mountains of various red meats over a couple of days for a giant party of one (consuming a grand total of maybe two hamburgers and a few ears of corn and donating the rest to the wildlife fund I currently have residing in my backyard), participated in some convoluted, impromptu, townie tailgate party at my local grocery store parking lot to take-in a fireworks display, took photos at this Independence Day parade whose pacing rivaled most Chicago stop-and-go rush hour traffic jams, washed and subsequently stained all my light colored clothes in my town's unique laundry water supply (which I think consists of one part water and two parts marinara sauce and rust), and stared aimlessly into my computer screen all weekend trying to think of something meaningful to write - to no avail.

So I went to Plan B: The Larry King/USA Today Ramblefest concept. Those of you who still read newspapers (all four of you) or have seen the old SNL skit (all three of you) know what I'm talking about. To construct his columns, it seemed as though Larry would essentially throw a dart against a bulletin board full of current events and topics, invest a sentence or two of his own opinions (or when all else fails...borrow someone else's), rinse and repeat about fifteen times, and then for good measure interject an occasional deeply thoughtful quip that stands on it's own like, "I really like the way maple syrup pairs with banana pancakes."

I call it the ultimate writer's cop out...and right now I got nothing else for you! Consider the feel of my journalistic integrity officially copped.

* I would pay top dollar for a group photo of the participants of the National Conference of Governors from 2008. Think of that potential All-Star starting line-up (cue Ray Clay and the Alan Parson's Project music): At shooting guard from Alaska...Sarah Palin! At the other guard, former New York governor...Eliot Spitzer! Wait substituting for Spitzer, also from New York...David Paterson! (Wait...do we have this deep of a bench?) The man in the middle...of all his legal issues...from Illinois, Rod Blagojevich! At forward, from New Mexico...he'll pay to play...Bill Richardson! From South CAROLINA...Mark Sanford!

* It has been awhile since I've been in school but has the curriculum changed for English and Journalism majors to no longer include proofreading? Case in point: While previewing the upcoming Johnny Depp/Christian Bale biopic "Public Enemies", I witnessed not one, not two, but three media outlets (two different TV stations and one print publication) refer to the film as "Pubic Enemies". Perhaps they were referring to the old Buzz Kilman's Porn Emporium version of the movie; soon to be premiering alongside the re-releases of Throbbin' Wood or Carlito's Gay.

* A few years ago in a radio interview I heard former major league catcher Darren Daulton remark something to the effect of if you look at a digital clock it always reads 11:11. While I knew this had to be some sort of random, drug-enduced psychobabble he was spewing after his latest rehab stint, I have started to notice this phenomenon as well. The clock always does read 11:11 - not necessarily when it's 9:15 or 12:08 or whenever but when it actually is 11:11 it really does read 11:11! Weird.

* I hereby declare this day to be the end of the music industry. I recently heard a modern rock cover version of Wham's "Careless Whisper" by the band Seether on the radio - this on the coat tails of Disturbed's take on Genesis' "Land of Confusion" and some other non-descript, Jessica Simpson-esque sounding song ripping off the acoustic guitar baseline to America's "Ventura Highway". I realize this practice has been going on for decades and that musicians, producers, singers and songwriters are now officially out of ideas but come on! You kids leave our folksy 70's and campy 80's songs alone!

* Are all movies now made in 3-D?

* If Michael Jackson's debt situation is as dire as the media is reporting, and the demand for tickets to his public memorial in Los Angeles is so overwhelming, doesn't the situation cry out not only for the public sales of tickets but perhaps the addition of a second show? Maybe even an honest-to-goodness, real life "Farewell Tour"? I'm serious.

* Things that can't (or shouldn't) be grilled on the barbecue: lettuce, cheddar cheese, grapes, apple slices and Oreos. Things that can (and often will) be grilled on the barbecue: exposed arm hair and eyebrows.

* In the wake of Manny Ramirez's return to the L.A. Dodgers line-up after a 50-game wrist slapping for testing positive for a banned substance, Rafael Palmeiro said he could relate to Ramirez's plight of being wrongfully accused of doping. This from a guy who etched out a potential Hall-of-Fame career, proclaimed the integrity of his numbers and his innocence in front of Congress, subsequently tested positive for steroids later that year, and then said he unintentionally took steroids given to him by former teammate Miguel Tejada - mistakenly assuming they were nothing more than a B-12 shot. Not exactly the credible endorsement Ramirez was seeking. (This also gives me the opportunity to dust off this old nugget from my childhood. When at a baseball card show in Orange Park, Florida in 1989, Palmeiro when asked by a patron to personalize a signed photograph with "I promise to take it easy on the Yankees next year" asked that same person how to spell "easy". I know - because I was next in line behind this person!)

* Parallel lines perhaps? We had former President Bush throughout his Presidency advocating the need to invade and continue the fight in Iraq and Afghanistan with the ultimate goal of finding weapons of mass destruction in an effort to defeat terrorism for good. No weapons found - terrorists still abound. Shortly after his election, President Obama advocated for the need to pass the economic stimulus package for banks and large multi-national corporations to stabilize the economy, stating that failure to pass the stimulus would result in the unemployment rate climbing to 9.5% by mid-2010. Stimulus package passed - unemployment rate at 9.5%...and it's still 2009! Interesting.

* My cat has also begun "authoring" his own "My Piles of Stuff" blog all over my carpeting...only he leaves out the "B" in "BLOG". These are not the piles I was planning on sharing with the world.

* Things found during my weekend clean-it-up, throw-it-out fest: Coppertone sunblock from 2001, hamburger patties from April 2008, office keys from two of my previous jobs, my forgotten epic, four-part, comic book mini series "Groo vs. The Transformers" (written and drawn by your's truly circa 1986), some truly hideous Hawaiian shirts and a can of Chunky Soup with former All-Pro defensive end Reggie White on the front in a Green Bay Packers' jersey...keep in mind, he finished his career with the Carolina Panthers...and he's dead now. Also, is the fact that I never find anything good (like an original draft of the Bill of Rights or something even more surreal like an unopened six pack of Like cola circa 1982) when I clean out my closets more of an indictment of me personally or the fact that I am just too dumb to ever collect anything worthwhile? (Ten Michael Jordan rookie cards for a quarter a piece? P'shaw! Those will never be as valuable as my dozen 1988 Donruss Gregg Jefferies cards! eBay stock for $10 a share in 1998? Piss on that! Get me more Mark McGwire Roid-abilia and Princess Diana Beanie Babies!)

* By the way, if there is any positive at all to be derived from former Tennessee Titans' and Baltimore Ravens' quarterback Steve McNair's tragic death from multiple gunshot wounds this past weekend, it is that I hope it will finally convince my friend Dale not to waste a first round pick on him in our Fantasy Football draft this year.

* Not that I'm complaining about this but we haven't even seen a seven-day streak of consecutive 85+ degree days yet this summer and already I'm seeing Back to School signs and Christmas ornaments in stores!

* And, oh yeah, I love a good comfortable pair of socks on a Monday.

See Larry, anyone can do it.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

This can't be real, can it?

As I awoke this late morning, the calendar read early July yet the temperature outside was a very Autumn-like 50-some-odd degrees. It was beautiful...my perfect summer day. Odd.

Ripe with an unusual surplus of energy, I went for a brisk walk and along the way a very beautiful young woman out for a jog greeted me with a genuine smile and a friendly hello. Huh?

Then I opened my morning paper and discovered that the Chicago Blackhawks, my hockey organization, just inked free agent offensive juggernaut Marian Hossa to a 12-year, $60+ million dollar contract...what's going on here?

Wait...something happened, didn't it? The Earth spun off it's axis, crashed into Uranus (I know, still can't resist an attempt at sophomoric potty-mouth humor when the opportunity presents itself) and now this is the after-life where everything goes your way.

Or maybe this is The Matrix and my hairless, naked body with hoses and tubes connected to every orifice is sitting in some vat of pink Jell-O with scores of other human batteries feeding some futuristic race of machines bio-electric energy while a computer program desperately tries to convince my brain that life is wonderful all in an effort to mask the machines' sinister purpose.

This just can't be happening...right?

I mean, this is the Chicago Blackhawks we're talking about. The Original Six franchise that helped launch the National Hockey League in the 1920's and has not updated their methods of doing business since. The organization that deemed it a good idea to continue to black out all telecasts of home games even after fans stopped coming through the turnstiles to watch them in person. The team that would sooner spend money on retreading tires on the Zamboni for the tenth time before spending it on their own players...let alone free agent players!

It's not the dollar amount or even the number of years that staggers me. It's the fact that the Blackhawks were the team to pull the trigger on the deal after coming off an already impressive showing last season. What's more they did so much to the detriment of their hated Detroit Red Wings rivals; blatantly stealing away their best offensive asset and planting him squarely on the Hawks' formidable young first line for the better part of the next decade. WOW!

That's why I'm having such difficulty accepting this as fact. In my Blackhawks reality under the old Dollar Bill Wirtz/Bob Pulford regime, the big news of the off-season more than likely would have been the signing of 47-year-old decrepit veteran Chris Chelios and his instant elevation to Team Captain or possibly the hiring of venerable Wayne Van Dorp as Special Assistant to the General Counsel or some other nonsense.

This just absolutely floors me! I'm not much for hyperbole, even after my team throws a lot of coin at a key acquisition, but with all due candor this one signing signifies not only a tremendous shift in power in hockey's Western Conference but a change in mindset in the entire Chicago Blackhawks organization enabling a potential return to glory that all Hawks fans have so richly deserved for the better part of the last half century. You deserve this. I deserve this!

Granted Hossa's commitment to the Indian will not be the end-all, be-all to the Blackhawks' Stanley Cup dreams. The signing will inevitably push established, higher priced veterans like Nikolai Khabibulin (enjoy Edmonton, Khabi) and Marty Havlat out the door and might even make the ultimate goal of securing the long-term services of the young nucleus of Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane more difficult, particularly within the constraints of the NHL's ever-shrinking salary cap.

Still, whether Hossa helps lead the team to a Cup title or not, two things are for certain:

The Blackhawks are finally a real hockey team doing real business in the 21st century and I cannot wait for the puck to drop on this coming season!

12 years and $60+ million dollars. What's next? The Bears acquiring a legitimate All-Pro starting Quarterback after fifty years of futility at the position?

Oh yeah...I'm sure that'll happen!

Death of an Icon

The tragic passing of Michael Jackson last week has had a surprisingly profound effect on me, as it has no doubt had on the rest of the world these past few days.

I say "surprising" in that while I was a tremendous admirer of his music (Thriller, in my book, is still one of the Top 5 albums ever produced) and his ability to entertain multiple generations of fans, I was not a hugely devoted fan of Michael Jackson. His death, while sad and very much so for his family and his children, does not resonate within me as it would a loved one or as it did with say a Walter Payton or a Kirby Puckett.

Those were childhood heroes of mine and their deaths affected me very personally as I felt a piece of my youth died with them. In the case of Jackson, on the surface anyway, there is nothing ultimately heroic about his life. He pulled himself, and his family, up out of poverty and into the mainstream consciousness of pop culture through song and dance. Yes, he brought joy to millions and spawned a new era of popular music that broke barriers of color and genre. And yes, he had his ups and downs and battled his many personal demons along the way, as does every human being.

Don't get me wrong. I am not in death indicting his impact on the world based on his sordid past or recent alleged transgressions. Whatever you think of the man personally is a discussion for another time and not relevant to this particular conversation.

What is relevant is that Michael Jackson's passing signifies the death of something bigger, the likes of which this world will NEVER see again: the death of the celebrity icon.

In the days that followed Jackson's departure, I had a debate with a friend of mine about who the next iconic celebrity would be whose death would generate a worldwide outpouring of sympathy and emotion and a genuine feeling of loss in pop culture. Who would that be? Think about it.

Take Presidents and heads of state out of the equation. They are celebrities but they are elected celebrities who can be measured with a variety of litmus tests that reveal nothing about their impact on pop culture.

And for that matter, take sports icons out of the mix as well. Their impact (with the singular exception of someone like Muhammad Ali whose legacy affected more than just boxing fans) is mostly limited to their individual arenas of competition.

Who is it? Who now carries that mantle?

We've lost dozens of iconic celebrities over the last decade or so: Princess Diana, Bob Hope, Johnny Carson, Frank Sinatra, Paul Newman, Charlton Heston...and the list goes on but with each death there was always another iconoclast waiting in the wings to be revered in their waning years. Honestly, who is left to come off the bench now?

Oprah Winfrey? Maybe. There's no good way to quantify the impact Oprah has made on the modern TV talk show genre. She definitely set the standard and paved the way for myriad copycats (from Maury Povich to Tempestt Bledsoe) to try and steal her crown. Ultimately though, it is that same glut of pretenders that waters down her impact on pop culture. I feel Oprah's celebrity is more a product of the media machine, branding and the amazing array of talented staffers she surrounds herself with.

What about iconic celebrity actors of our generation?

Tom Hanks? Tom Cruise? Both heavily decorated actors with strong filmographies but will either endure into their 60's and 70's as a treasured and still marketable silver screen icon in the way that Newman or Robert Redford or Jack Nicholson did?

Brad Pitt? Probably the closest thing we have to a modern day "movie star" with his combination of talent, charm and good looks and his resume is far from complete. Still I think his "celebrity" as Mr. Jolie will inevitably overshadow much of his past and present work and cast aspersions on many of his future projects.

Who can even tote Sophia Loren's or Katherine Hepburn's hatbox out of the current cadre of "A-List" actresses? Julia Roberts, Renee Zellwegger and Meg Ryan on their best days put together could not hope to do so.

And don't even get me started on the music industry because frankly there is no such thing right now.

Yes, Sir Paul McCartney is still around to be treasured but even his star has not shined as brightly into his golden years, whether by choice or just through the natural passage of time. There will be a definite sense of loss when McCartney leaves us but that wound originally opened 30 years ago when we lost John Lennon and any hope (misguided or otherwise) of a Beatles reunion.

The demise of the album and the practice of fostering style over substance spelled doom for the music business a long time ago. I'm not saying I don't respect or even enjoy The Jonas Brothers' music (because I do, even though I'm twice their age)...I'm saying that I can't do either because the industry won't allow me to do so.

For every Jonas Brothers there is an N'Sync, a Backstreet Boys, a Hanson, a New Kids on the Block and a Menudo waiting to knock the previous week's newest mega-sensations off their pedestals.

Much like tennis, the power brokers of the music business feed on rushing young talent through the grinder while the meat is still fresh, cramming them down society's throats, fleecing them for what it can, and leaving the remains for the come-back buzzards to pick at, often before many of these performers even turn 20. There is no time for a musician or a band to make a lasting impact because their shelf life has been so drastically reduced thanks to the industry and in part to another blight on pop culture, American Idol. If video killed the radio star, Idol dismembered and buried the corpse.

The concept of celebrity has become so muddled because the idea of what passes for entertainment today has become equally obscure.

When Sinatra and other members of The Rat Pack walked into a Vegas night spot or Raquel Welch strolled down Hollywood Boulevard, you knew you were seeing genuine royalty, "in your face" beautiful people, true star power, and the penultimate definition of celebrity.

Now names like "Sanjaya" or "Omirosa" or "Jon and Kate" are on the tips of every one's lips and mentioned in the same breath as revered stars of stage and screen. Surnames like "Octomom" and "Brangelina" have found their way into the celebrity nomenclature. Even pseudo-celebs like Paris Hilton or Internet-celebs such as Perez Hilton, LonelyGirl15, Star Wars Kid and others of their ilk are primarily famous for being famous. Hell, Patti Blagojevich is considered a celebrity and she's famous for being the spouse of an indicted former Governor. Should Mrs. Dahmer or Mrs. Manson be invited onto next season's I'm a Celebrity - Get Me Out of Here?

Even the coverage of celebrities has become a cottage industry onto itself. TMZ and X17 (and whatever other letters you want to pick out of the Scrabble bag) dedicate their entire operations to the 24-hour-news-cycle mentality of hunting down and documenting every moment (insignificant or otherwise) of the life of every celebrity (again...insignificant or otherwise).

Who needs scripted comedy when Jackass has all the unscripted side-splitting guffaws you could ever want? (And what voids their antics can't fill, YouTube's millions of channels of viral video entertainment can!)

Reality shows have essentially supplanted the modern game show and television drama all in one fell swoop! (So what if Detective Sipowicz may not survive a gun shot wound to the chest...that pompous ass Chet may not survive this latest session of Tribal Counsel!)

And programs like Idol, America's Got Talent or So You Think You Can Dance, which give the viewer control (or at least the illusion of control) over the outcome, have become so entrenched in the world scene that the line between manufactured celebs and actual celebs has been blurred beyond all recognition...and possibly for good.

So when Judgement Day commeth for Madonna or George Clooney or Jennifer Aniston, will the public celebrate their lives in much the same way they are now doing for Michael Jackson? Or will this phenomenon of elevating anyone seen on camera anywhere doing anything remotely entertaining dilute these modern day celebrities' eulogies to the level of a Billy Mays? (No offense intended - rest in peace, Billy.)

There can be no argument that Michael Jackson was an icon beloved (or at least renowned) worldwide. His place in history is secure as his face (whichever one you inevitably decide to use) will forever be on the Mt. Rushmore of the music industry next to Elvis Presley's...and name your other two spots (probably Lennon and McCartney for me).

Last Friday we lost a legend but we also lost a legacy...the legacy of the modern day celebrity icon.

Guess the burden now falls to either Vince the Shamwow Guy or the Dell Dude.