The Curious Case of Carlos Corrrea

 From my vantage point, Carlos Correa is a highly-talented ballplayer. Distinguished? A deserving all-star? Definitely Can't imagine the team who wouldn't welcome him into their locker room.

Correa plays shortstop, a position demanding extraordinary flexibility, balance, quickness and a throwing arm that is both powerful and accurate. Correa is no slouch at the plate, either. Correa sports a lifetime batting average of .279 and an OPS of .836. His calculated WAR over a 162 game schedule is 7.2.

All are well above average.

So in a free-agent market, it stands that Correa—at age 28—is certainly going to attract attention.

Which he has.

But however talented a two-way player he is, there are questions about his durability. Over his eight-year career, he has played in just 888 games. That's an average of 111 games a year, or about two-thirds of the MLB schedule.

Expected to be offered a Grade-A ginormous contract, Correa landed one. The San Francisco Giants offered him a thirteen-year contract for 350 million-dollars. Translated, that means he'd be earning 26.9 million-dollars per season through the age of forty.

I should clarify that I have no bone to pick with Correa. He has become a significant player at a very difficult position. And as pointed out earlier, he can field and hit. And if Giants owner Charles Johnson wants to drop 771,617 pounds of dollar bills into Correa's lap, Correa would be a fool to refuse it.

But then something happened.

In contrast to the dozens of MLB owners who mindlessly dispense decades-long contracts for hundreds of millions of dollars, the Giants paused and activated their brains. And if that isn't shocking enough, know the Giants backed out of the deal, stating there were medical issues that prohibited them from moving forward.

Ignoring the lack of precedent, Correa's agent (the insufferable Scott Boras) immediately dialed up the free-spending owner of the New York Mets. Informed of the newly-available Correa, owner Steve Cohen immediately offered Correa a nearly identical contract.

And then something happened—again.

While perusing Correa's medical record, the Mets happened upon the same issue that stopped the Giants in their tracks. And their offer remains unsigned as well. I'm sure Correa and Boras are very, very frustrated.

I'm an old guy. Been following baseball for over half-a-century. While initially excited by free-agency, salaries have become an absurd joke. And while neophytes might wonder how these teams pay these enormous salaries, the answer is they don't.

You do.

And as a result, baseball (like other sports) has become increasingly inaccessible to the people at the core of its fandom.

So I'm heartened to see owners engaging their brains before rubber-stamping contracts that are—at best—questionable. And before you label me as anti-labor, know that the era of grossly underpaid professional athlete ended roughly forty-years ago.

Yes, theoretically baseball players ought to be able to make any amount of money possible—just like you. And yes, baseball owners ought to be able to pay their employees whatever amount the market will bear.

The problem is that baseball remains a consumer product, dependent on millions and millions of fans being able to consume it. And the more out of reach the game becomes, the harder it will be to locate the legions of followers required for its survival.

I hope this contract re-think is only the first of many to come. And if my views upset Correa and Boras, please remind them that if I regularly showed up for work just two-thirds of the time, I wouldn't be negotiating a thirteen-year, 350 million-dollar contract.

I'd be unemployed.

Merry Christmas

Ah, the big day. Christmas.

Once more set against a world rich in turmoil, its message of love and goodwill seem almost childishly naive. Perhaps they have endured because all of us, whether or not we make our feelings public, wish for them.

Rancor and divisiveness are exhausting.

Peace, understanding and cooperation are not.

Just a thought.

 

Anything Can Happen, and It Probably Will

It took me a long time to get to New Zealand. Not in terms of actual travel, but musically. In terms of the pop music that existed there practically unknown to the rest of the world. Sure, we all knew the music of its neighbor to the west: AC/DC, INXS, Nick Cave, Tame Impala, the Divinyls, Powderfinger, Midnight Oil and the Church.

But New Zealand? Not so much.

I'd like to claim that through my forays into every used record store in Chicago I'd single-handedly unearthed the glories of Straitjacket Fits and the 3Ds and the Tall Dwarfs, but that would be a lie.

Closer to the truth were the multiple volumes of The Trouser Press Record Guide I owned, exhaustively compiled by Ira Robbins. The entry that captivated me most was for a band called the Clean. I immediately set-out to find their two 1982 EPs—unsuccessfully.

Fortunately, a compilation was released about that time, sparing me the anxiety that had accompanied my pursuit of Big Joe Turner and LaVern Baker LPs. I was enchanted, and eventually found their EPs as well as two terrifically rare live albums.

I didn't hear the news of Hamish Kilgour's death until a week after it happened. Granted, we're not talking about an A-list celebrity, but given my long-delayed introduction to the music he made with the Clean, it somehow seemed appropriate.

The drummer was reported missing November 27^th and discovered in Christchurch the 29^th. He was 65. No cause of death was given.

He learned the drums by playing along with Velvet Underground records, indicating a desire for something fresh and different. His playing was a big part of the trio's sound, appropriately described as “pulsing, dirty, metallic pop.”

Joined on guitar by his brother David and future Bat Robert Scott, the band clicked big in New Zealand. They toured and played sold-out dates throughout the country.

Then they broke up.

Like so many bands, their influence was larger than their catalogue. In addition to providing the first single for Roger Shepherd and his fledgling record label Flying Nun, the band's inventive, lo-fi sound eventually found its way to fans all over the world.

Contemporary critics credit the Clean with influencing bands like Yo La Tengo, Pavement and Superchunk.

Following the end of the Clean, Kilgour founded the Great Unwashed and later, Bailter Space. By 1988 interest in the Clean had grown to the point where a reunion was arranged. A powerful collection (Compilation) was released which included new songs.

In 1990 Vehicle was released.

Eight years after their two EPs turned New Zealand on its head, the Clean at last had a profile equal to their influence.

But with Hamish now residing in New York City and brother David remaining in New Zealand, new Clean releases were sporadic. In the meantime, Hamish kept busy with a multitude of bands and solo releases.

Kilgour once said, “There's no point worrying too much about the commercial viability of your music. Fads and fashion come and go.” They were words only a non-conformist like Hamish Kilgour could speak.

The best description of the artistry that wound its way through his records was captured in a 2012 interview. “Often in simplicity, you find magic things. You're looking for this magic spot where beats sit.”

In a time marked by the losses of Christine McVie, Loretta Lynn and Mimi Parker, this might be the most regrettable.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Selig, Bonds & Clemens

Like so many other public institutions, the Baseball Hall of Fame has become something of a battleground. Who belongs, who doesn't. Who has been unfairly ostracized, who has been unfairly admitted. The allegations (and the debate) goes on and on and on.

The current disagreement is over the players who benefited from steroid usage. While technically not a rules violation (baseball was notoriously slow to act on their usage), it obviously provided an under the counter advantage for those who imbibed.

Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmeiro and Jose Canseco are only the most-prominent names who admitted to using. Dozens (probably hundreds) of others also used them. But even in an era of bloated hitting statistics, steroids didn't turn everyone into Mickey Mantle.

Which is fundamental to the pro-steroids argument. Bonds and Clemens would've made the Hall of Fame, anyway. Why should they be punished for enhancing their skill set?

And I agree. To the first part, anyway. Both enjoyed notable and highly-successful beginnings to their careers. But as we were to see, that wasn't enough. It didn't matter that Bonds was a Gold Glove All-Star and a perpetual MVP candidate. Or that Clemens was a consistent Cy Young contender. They had to be Babe Ruth, too.

Bonds also underwent pronounced physical changes, including an enlarged head. Never one of the games nice guys, he became highly irascible, lashing out at fans and the media at the slightest provocation. I'll never forget his pronouncement that “we” didn't like him because he was Black. 

Really, Barry? Is that the reason? Are you saying that if you were white I'd be your fan club president? 

Hmmm.

Whatever regard I carried for him evaporated at that point. I relished his unofficial nickname: Asterisk. In addition to his chemically-enhanced output, he became the game's biggest asshole. Is that what's known as a win-win?

To the remaining members of the steroid club, Bonds was a blessing. As the player who enjoyed the greatest, most eye-popping benefit, he took a lot of heat off of those performing in smaller markets or with under-achieving teams.

The most convincing pro-steroids argument came from a baseball writer at the Chicago Tribune, who defended her picks thusly: The Commissioner who turned the blindest eye possible to the steroids scandal was voted into the Hall of Fame. Why? Because he made his employers a whole lot of money.

Should we really punish the players?

It is an argument I cannot fault. 

After the 1994 strike, baseball found itself on shaky ground. Or at least ground as shaky as a multi-billion dollar business ever finds itself on. It was scared. It's probably an overstatement to say the 1998 home run chase between McGwire and Sosa saved baseball, but again, it poured an awful lot of black ink into baseball at a very crucial time.

Being businessmen first, last and always, it doesn't take a great deal of imagination to envision team owners urging Bud Selig to go as easy on steroid use as the public would allow. And for that reason and that reason only, I'm grateful for Barry Bonds. His outsized success was impossible to ignore. Ditto questions about the game's integrity.

Judging by the vote counted Monday by the Contemporary Baseball Era Player's Committee, plenty of questions remain. And none of them appear to be answered with the words 'Hall of Fame'. Neither Bonds, Clemens, Palmeiro or Curt Schilling received the number of votes required for entrance.

I'm sure another generation, by and large ignorant of the steroid era, will look at their numbers and wonder why a previous generation had a problem with them. But for now, justice has triumphed. And in 2022, that's something.

 

Ten Years Gone

I am as naive as any right-wing conservative you care to name.

For instance, on December 14, 2012, as the news about the Sandy Hook, N.J. elementary school shooting broke, beyond my revulsion and sorrow was the thought that maybe, just maybe this might be the mass murder that would propel the United States to enact profound changes within the Second Amendment.

Yep, I was the doctor who confused pancreatic cancer with indigestion.

Meanwhile, unflushed conspiracy-theorist-slash-radio-host Alex Jones ranted and raved about the shooting, claiming it was an event staged by the U.S. government that would one day enable the government to confiscate America's firearms.

(Dear Trump-tard, Be honest. Isn't everything that happens in the world ultimately a plot to confiscate American's guns?)

So. If burying your eight-year-old daughter wasn't traumatic enough, imagine some mentally-ill conspiracy theorist trumpeting this idea and inciting the mental-defectives which constitute his audience to actively and deliberately harass the parental victims of this shooting.

Which of course they did.

In La Piazza Gancio land, Jones would have been placed in an industrial-strength meat grinder with his remains scattered for the benefit of any diseased rodent that cared for them.

Sadly, it seems that turds also enjoy the benefits of the Constitution. Which is another way of saying that, yes, Alex Jones had rights.

Thankfully, so did the survivors. They sued Jones for his toxic re-interpretation of the shooting and in late-November, won. While I've no qualms with the damages awarded the families, I do regret the lack of oversight which might have been able to freeze Jones' assets.

Thusly, he is moving as a much more slender man, hiding and transferring whatever he can lay his fat little hands on to prevent it from being part of the damages. He even declared bankruptcy, just like his buddy Donald.

Yes, imitation is truly the sincerest form of flattery.

I don't know how successful his attempts will be. But for a domestic terrorist who employs a lawyer who declared the verdict as a “very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech”, just about any annoyance or inconvenience we can heap on Jones is appropriate. (Meat grinder included.)

Before I close, let me correct Jones' lawyer, Norm Pattis:

Mr. Pattis, I believe the very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech you refer to was the day your client opened his mouth about Sandy Hook. 

Wikipedia lists Jones as having four children. In a better world, he would soon know the pain those Sandy Hook parents already know.

BG

By all accounts, Brittney Griner is a gentle soul. Quite a feat, considering the challenges being a six-foot nine-inch female who weighs two-hundred five pounds and is openly gay present. (Not to mention that unless your name is Giannis Antetokounmpo or Joel Embiid, she can probably kick your ass to the dark side of the moon in a game of basketball.)

As players in the WNBA often do, she had traveled to Europe to play a second season following her 2021 WNBA Finals appearance with the Phoenix Mercury. It is unknown if she had successfully smuggled cannabis into Russia previously, but this time her attempt was unsuccessful.

I don't pretend to know Russia's drug laws or precisely what is meant by “a small amount” of cannabis, but I'm guessing that even in Vladimir Putin's Russia, this is not the equivalent of a first-degree felony. And yet Griner has been treated nearly like a serial killer.

Detained in February and tried in August, she was sentenced to nine-years in prison. Her legal team filed for an appeal and were denied in October. Now comes word that she has been sent to a penal colony, an extraordinarily harsh punishment in light of her crime.

At first glance, it's hard not to wonder if she is being treated more severely owing to her status as a celebrity. After all, this is Putin-land, where cases like this proceed in whatever fashion will guarantee maximum exposure.

A commonly held belief is that Griner is a political pawn, kept in storage until such a point she can be used as a bargaining chip in the aftermath of the war in Ukraine. And if this is the case, does it make sense to let a valuable prisoner languish in such deprived conditions?

This is supposition, of course. For all I know, Putin lost a butt-load on the Mercury in the 2021 WNBA Finals and this is his preferred manner of extracting revenge. But given the dire reality of Putin's twisted autocracy, the probability remains that this woman has become a pawn in his latest political drama.

All that is left is for the U.S. and Russia to determine her worth before the inevitable negotiations begin.

Another chapter in the book of human cruelty.

Inflation

Two-thirds of the U.S. population is under fifty years-old. Which means that the inflation currently gripping the country is something they have never experienced. Never felt. Never lived through.

For them, it is an especially unnerving thing. At least until Tuesday, when they can vote Democrats out of office. With Democrats gone, inflation will disappear and the economy will magically repair itself.

Right?

As someone who came of age in the inflation-happy seventies and early-eighties, I can and will laugh at them.

Contrary to their politically-motivated feelings, our parties rarely have much to do with inflation. In 2022, the pandemic, the ensuing lockdowns, supply and labor shortages and overwhelming consumer demand have a bit more to do with inflation than whatever Democrat(s) you choose to blame.

Take gasoline. I don't know the person who hasn't carped about fuel prices. But climb into your car and hit the road. Is the amount of traffic not markedly higher than in any of the past five years? I, myself, routinely sit through multiple traffic light cycles where I never did before.

If Americans can't afford gas, we are doing one hell of a job at hiding it.

Fact: inflation is the byproduct of a market where demand outstrips supply. That's why automobile dealerships, despite their often bare lots, are making two to three times the income than they ever have before. That's why the price of gasoline and airline tickets leap like a twenty-four year-old Michael Jordan.

And when the product itself isn't undergoing material or labor shortages, the cost of getting it to market has—as you know—exploded.

So. How do we beat inflation?

I propose a radical idea: consume less.

Don't run to Target for a fresh jar of moisturizer. Don't go to the grocery store for a carton of ice cream or a bag of chips. Consolidate your trips. You'll use less gas, save time and hopefully wean yourself from the illness known as instant gratification.

It is us, you see, who are at the root of inflation. Ask yourself: what are we telling Exxon Mobil and British Petroleum and Royal Dutch Shell when we mindlessly lap up the latest increase they have gifted us with?

We don't care! Price isn't important! Raise it again—we can afford it!

Until supply outstrips demand, companies have no incentive to drop prices. Their purpose is to make as much money as possible, and under current conditions they are doing a fabulous job.

Some have even resorted to price-gouging just because the current climate allows it.

I'll say it again: the more we consume merely because that's how we've always consumed, the more we will pay for our purchases. With the mid-term elections happening tomorrow, it's a great time to ask of ourselves that which polls indicate we most want to ask of our candidates:

Do something about inflation.

We can make it happen. Reigning in our thirst for instant gratification would help.

Kyrie Irving's Entitlement

Dear Kyrie Irving,

Please tell me how you would feel if a prominent white basketball player linked a movie that was hostile to Blacks to his various social media accounts.

My guess is you'd be pounding on Adam Silver's door demanding the player in question be removed from the NBA. You'd be crying to every TV camera in sight about the relentless slandering of Blacks.

Finally, you'd be filling any and all available social media space with accusations that the NBA is a racist enterprise and needs to be held accountable.

But that didn't happen, did it?

You linked a movie damaging to Jews to your accounts and because you are an obnoxiously-paid, high-profile athlete, the rest of us are supposed to either forgive, excuse or (gulp) understand.

Got it. 

That go for Kanye, too?

Sincerely,

La Piazza Gancio

 

I Tried American Express for a Year. Here's What Happened.

In the midst of the COVID-19 lockdown, I was presented with an appealing offer from American Express. Desperate to break the monotony of sheltering in place, I signed up. It was a shiny, new thing. I gave in.

Sadly, that was the peak of my Amex experience.

I should admit I don't lead what would be called an American Express lifestyle. I don't stay in thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suites. I don't wear tailored suits as I jet off to London or Dubai on business. I don't drive a German luxury sedan or an Italian sports car.

An internationally-known chef has never prepared my dinner. 

Am I painting a picture here?

Yes, the card featured free balance transfers and a zero-percent APR for the first year, but as someone who rarely carries a balance this was only a minor perk. The cashback bonuses were nice, but since I didn't use the card that much, they were also negligible.

Following a post-holiday review of my finances, I realized I didn't need another credit card and called American Express to cancel. This was as painless as you'd expect it to be and was confirmed by American Express in a follow-up e-mail:

“Dear La Piazza Gancio,

This message is to confirm that American Express has processed your recent request to cancel the following Card (sic) account(s):

Blue Cash Preferred ending in XXXXXX.

If you have other Card accounts registered for Manage Your Card Account online they will still be available online at americanexpress.com.

Sincerely,

American Express Customer Service”

 

It paralleled the language of the agent who had handled my request over the phone. But as I was soon to learn, American Express and I have very different definitions of 'cancelled'.

Even after cancelling the card I continued to get bills for the $95.00 annual membership fee, which I found quite strange being that I was no longer a cardholder. $95.00 for a card I no longer have? Wow. Seriously?

Assuming it was another error by a short-handed and over-worked staff, I ignored them. I mean, this was as cut-and-dried as consumer stuff gets, right? I had the card and now I don't. Why would I pay a membership fee?

Things were peachy until I was hospitalized in July. During my hospitalization a relative graciously stepped-in to take care of my bills, and when the American Express notice arrived she processed it as if it were a bill for purchases.

Only it wasn't.

I cringed. I immediately called American Express to request a refund.

The agent told me a fanciful story. One that said since the card wasn't cancelled within twenty-eight days of my last purchase, they were within their rights to apply the membership fee. Neither the agent with whom I made the initial request or the follow-up e-mail made any mention of a fee.

Nor did the small print on their monthly statements.

Even more interestingly, the following notation appears on their bills: “We have billed your annual membership fee. However if we do not receive your payment we will need to close your account due to inactivity.”

So. Let's see. I cancelled the card in January and did not pay the membership fee that month. Or in February, March, April, May and June. That's six months. It begs the question when, exactly, is an American Express account rendered inactive?

It's a cash grab—nothing more, nothing less.

I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau September 7^th. Having heard nothing from either party regarding a resolution, I e-mailed the BBB. I was told American Express had contacted me by mail.

If by that they mean there was written correspondence on American Express' corporate letterhead within an American Express envelope sitting in my mailbox, then no. Nothing.

(I filed a second complaint via the BBB. I'll let you know what happens.)

If you enjoy doing business with corporations who issue shady and nebulous fees without explanation, then please. Apply for an American Express card today. But as gambling sites caution their customers, never bet more than you can afford to lose.

Charging a membership fee for a card that no longer exists is beyond the pale. Furthermore, I don't understand how they are able to. Why isn't this illegal?

Until I find out, do business with American Express with extreme caution. (If you're a football fan, imagine being the quarterback for the Miami Dolphins.) Who knows how many more unspoken fees lurk behind their shiny corporate exterior? 

I'm hoping the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau will be able to tell me.

Mail Box Adventure

I'm a guy who routinely returns his shopping cart to the corral in the grocery store parking lot. I take pains to avoid exposing volatile household cleaners to direct sunlight or extreme temperatures. I unfailingly refrigerate after opening.

And if it even needs to be said, I consistently acknowledge those gracious-enough to allow me into traffic—especially during rush hour.

So how is it a mindful and conscientious soul like myself received the following in his mailbox?

Outwardly, they didn't appear particularly threatening. One envelope contained an invitation to one of those we'll-buy-you-dinner-if-you-listen-to-our-sales-pitch, while the other was a notice from my car manufacturer.

No biggie, right?

And taken separately, I'd agree with you. But together they served to impart nagging doubts about my life and the karma I am putting out there.

The invitation was just that, only there wasn't a free dinner included. But it did extend to me the opportunity to explore questions one should ask before one “needs” to ask them. And by that I mean our (ahem) 'final expenses'.

Having just recovered from a bout with head trauma for which I sacrificed two-thirds of the summer, I wasn't particularly eager to ponder—much less plan—my funeral.

I set it down and opened the envelope from the car-maker.

It was yet-another notice informing me of a recall on my seat belt pretensioners. It (again) explained that if deployed incorrectly, the unit's micro gas generator could explode, exposing all within the passenger compartment to jagged pieces of metal hurtling through the car at skin-piercing velocities.

More importantly, four months after the recall was initially announced, there are still no non-explosive pretensioners available. Just paper reminders of the death trap I must ride in daily. If nothing else, the notice lent an eerie sense of portent to the 'final expenses' invitation.

If my body is to be shredded to the point of cessation by what is reportedly a safety device, does the car manufacture's customer care package at least guarantee a ride to the nearest medical facility, where my death can be properly confirmed and recorded?

And if not, is it the comprehensive customer care package the manufacturer states it is? Can my estate sue for misrepresentation?

And looking to the cause-and-effect side of things, is it possible to draw a line between the organization offering the 'final expenses' presentation and any and all explosions caused by the faulty micro gas generators?

Sigh. Life is complicated.

I sidestep the Q&A and visit an attorney. There, I declare my preferences as to how memorial events following my death should unfold. From there, it's off to a firm specializing in body armor. The head-to-toe protection isn't cheap but, this firm excepted, can you really put a price on human life?

It renders driving very difficult and places an undue burden on my car's air conditioning unit. Owing to the proportions of the head protection, I'm thankful for the sunroof. Ignoring heartless comments about resembling a certain seventies cartoon character, I relish my newfound sense of protection.

And to think some people refer to this as junk mail.

We'll Always Have Paris

Amid a grey and soggy spring featuring two distinctly uninspired Major League Baseball teams, the Chicago Sky began their defense of the franchise's first WNBA championship. But it wasn't as pretty as their eventual league-best won-lost record would indicate.

An opening night defeat to the Los Angeles Sparks bordered on ugly, with repeated turnovers (especially on the offensive end) short-circuiting possessions. The Sky appeared unfocused and distracted. But six games in, the Sky stood at 4 -2.

It continued, with the Sky winning twenty-one of their next twenty-seven games. To that point, they never lost two in a row. Need more? How about their 3-0 record versus the Connecticut Sun, a team that had presented a major hurdle in last year's playoffs.

With just three games left in the season, a pair of sloppy losses to the Seattle Storm and Las Vegas Aces gave the Sky their first two-game losing streak. A lifetime spent as a Cubs fan was not required to wonder if perhaps the Sky might have gotten a bit too comfortable.

Thankfully, they finished the season strong with a decisive win against last year's Finals opponent, the Phoenix Mercury.

Bring on the playoffs!

They started as ignobly as had the regular season. The seventh-seed New York Liberty exploded out of the gate and beat the Sky in Chicago, outscoring them by eight in the fourth quarter. This was not good.

The Sky were able to refocus and take games two and three.

Next up was the Sun. After seven straight losses to the Sky, I don't imagine motivation was an issue in Connecticut. Nor do I imagine a lack of confidence was an issue for the Sky. With home court advantage in the five-game semis, Chicagoans had every right to feel optimistic.

Owing to a brutal third quarter, game one went to the Sun. No big deal. A team that good was bound to win one sooner or later, right? Game two was a reassuring win for the Chicagoans. They were confident and dominated the game.

On Connecticut's floor, the Sky also took game three. I permitted a small smile to manifest itself upon my face—the Sky were back in control.

Game four was a chassis-shaking, tire-shredding disaster. The Sky were never in this one as the Sun took out their long-simmering frustration and punished them over four quarters of a WNBA playoff game.

Ouch.

Would a return to Chicago re-animate the Sky? Or had Big Mo shifted irreparably to the team from the East coast?

Connecticut took the quarter number-one 24-16. Chicago took the second quarter by the same score. They also took the third quarter 18-8. A certain Cubs fan was ready to let go.

But as the hoary old sports cliché goes, the Sky had been here before. They knew what they had to do.

Only they didn't.

They shot 2 for 15, snagged 3 rebounds and dished out 2 assists. They did not visit the free throw line. Not once.

The Sun? They shot 8 for 15, pulled down 14 rebounds and handed out 8 assists. They went 8 for 8 from the free throw line. They outscored the Sky 24-5.

I can't imagine a WNBA title contender ever played a worse quarter of basketball.

Under different circumstances, I would have called Candace Parker's early exit from the court a bad case of over-indulgence. The byproduct of a bloated sense of entitlement. But given the Sky's fourth-quarter meltdown, to come so close only to have it ripped from your hands had to have been excruciating.

And with the expected retirements of Parker, Courtney Vandersloot and Allie Quigley, the look of next year's Sky will be very different. They're still talented. But will they remain legitimate title contenders? Not so sure.

We are often told to appreciate the moment. To be in it. That a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. And sports is pretty good at imparting those lessons. The unexpected run to a title by last year's Sky team was as inspiring and as mind-blowing as it gets.

And I'm happy to say I wallowed in it.

But being in the moment and being vested and engaged ain't so hot when your team crashes. It eventually renders us as Humphrey Bogart in the movie Casablanca, when he ruefully tells Ingrid Bergman “We'll always have Paris.”

So it goes.

Priorities

In my previous post, I pondered the possibility of our relentless tuition hikes somehow ending up in the hands of Alabama football coach Nick Saban. This is what's known as a rhetorical question; a question one poses without really expecting an answer.

So it was interesting that a related story emerged shortly thereafter.

College football fans will recognize the University of Nebraska as a traditional gridiron powerhouse. But the gluttony of twelve-win seasons, high-profile bowl games and season-ending finishes among the collegiate top ten that used to constitute the diet of Cornhusker fans hasn't been a thing since Tom Osborne's retirement following the 1997 season.

Don't get me wrong. There have been plenty of fine seasons in the nearly quarter-century since. But the Nebraska Cornhuskers haven't provoked terror in the hearts of opponents since the Clinton administration. And if that weren't bad enough, the 'Huskers have enjoyed just one winning season in the last seven. Their five-straight losing seasons is something not seen in Lincoln since the late-fifties and early-sixties.

So yes. All things being relative, this is a program in need of a pick-me-up.

And Scott Frost was the coach entrusted to do that. But the thing is, only one Nebraska football coach has a worse won-lost percentage. And a chorus of impatient fans, nervous alumni and (I presume) a toxic media have been begging for his removal. Following a home loss to decided underdog Georgia Southern, this has come to pass.

None of this is much of a surprise, is it? Especially given the elevated expectations Nebraskans have for their football team.

But what is fascinating is that had the University waited until October first, the penalty for the early-termination of Frost would've been cut in half, from fifteen-million dollars to seven and-a-half. But what's $7.5 million-dollars to a humongous university?

A national championship is not at stake. Nor is a season that would find the 'Huskers winning as often as they lost. What's the big rush? 

There isn't one. At least, not one a sentient human being would understand. But I think we have a window into the kind of thing mad tuition money often fuels.

Thankfully, tomorrow's gifted electrical engineer or barrier-breaking medical researcher is being denied access to higher education for a good reason. Ditto a nurse, an urban planner or an accountant. And that reason is the restoration of a football program.

It's the pattern we see in many aspects of life these days. Self-serving ego, shortsightedness and display overriding the more understated virtues of purpose, long-term growth and commitment to the greater good. 

But that's so easy to do when the money you're spending isn't yours, isn't it?

Student Debt Forgiveness Isn't Fair?

Back in the bad old days, it was commonly agreed that education was a good thing. That an educated citizenry moved a country forward and that it behooved a government to make this possible.

Then the sixties backlash hit and Ronald Reagan was elected president.

Like all candidates, he made a lot of tough-sounding campaign promises. He was going to eradicate crime, play hardball with the Soviet Union, eliminate wasteful spending and streamline the federal government so that it would operate with the seamless efficiency of your favorite small business.

(This isn't to overlook the promise that he was going to bomb Iran into the Stone Age after bringing home the hostages held within the American embassy.)

To be sure, Reagan benefited enormously from the presidency of Jimmy Carter and his struggle with the Iran hostage crisis. But that crisis also seemed to coalesce conservative frustration with the liberalism that had taken root throughout the seventies and Reagan's landslide victory was the proof.

After his election America went into two recessions that the manufacturing-centric Rust Belt still hasn't recovered from. And that wasteful government spending? It wasn't eliminated, it was re-arranged.

I'm sure most of your remember your mom re-arranging the living room or another room in the house. Or maybe you altered the layout of your bedroom. The dimensions of the room remained the same as was the furniture within. But the room was...different.

Ditto our fortieth president. In his view, he did eliminate wasteful spending by cutting federal aid to education. After all, what point was there in having the government subsidize the liberalizing of American students by aiding their access to higher education?

(Further illustrating the depths of his anti-education stance—and one could add anti-poor--was his deft manipulation of school menus. He was the man behind having ketchup declared as a vegetable in order to cut costs on school lunches—not to mention having them appear more nutritious than they actually were.)

Needless to say, the savings weren't passed on to your folks or mine.

As he so often did, Reagan had a better idea. He would re-appropriate the newly freed-up cash to the Pentagon and its motley collection of defense contractors. Always eager for another handout, those contractors would transform that money into a shiny new thing that would bamboozle our elected representation until they were eager as hell to shell out whatever was necessary for research, development, manufacture and implementation.

(Anyone from that era will recall the ultimate hustle of the defense contractor era, the Star Wars project. It cost approximately thirty-billion dollars (in nineteen-eighties money) and did absolutely nothing. It was scrapped by President Clinton in 1993.)

So. After tripling the nation's debt and quadrupling the defense budget, at least an ever-increasing number of students could be shut-out of higher education.

According to the Education Data Initiative website, college tuition has increased 130% since 1990. (And that's adjusted for inflation.) Off the top of my head, I'm thinking the only things that can compare are the salaries of professional athletes and the cost of healthcare.

Professor's salaries haven't exploded in a similar fashion, nor are schools assuming a student's room and board. Is Chateaubriand (accompanied by a pleasing—but never intrusive—Chateau Lafite '59) adorning dining hall tables these days?

Or is all this money going to Alabama football coach Nick Saban?

Maybe it's the byproduct of the dire warnings we hear to the effect that without a college degree, you're nothing. Pair this with the news of the ever-worsening outlook for low and mid-income families and we have a driver for our nation's fanatical pursuit of higher education.

And yet, what is an enhanced education worth when students are graduating with a debt load that will take decades to pay off? Do the conservatives who endorse this see the long-term effects of shutting out would-be consumers from the economy?

And those are the students fortunate-enough to see graduation day. Many more abandon their education because there simply isn't money available. And that's just the biggest factor which can influence a decision like this.

Since President Biden's announcement that he was enabling eligible students to receive ten-thousand dollars in loan forgiveness, outrage has erupted. Students with six-figure debt say it doesn't go far enough. Conservatives say it's not fair and are challenging its legality.

I am compelled to ask: not fair to whom?

It should be obvious that to the owners of the financial institutions that make these loans, this is a pay cut. This is government interference in what they consider to be sacrosanct domain—their businesses.

Never mind that the United States in the only first-world nation that places access to higher education on such a lofty shelf. Never mind the hypocrisy of placing students into decades-long debt merely for the chance to earn a living wage. Never mind the social stratification these incessant tuition hikes engender.

These aspects constitute a conservative wet dream. But how do they further the ambitions and abilities of the United States? How is a nation denying so much of its citizenry access to higher education advancing itself? How does this line-up with the ideals espoused by the founding fathers?

If you ain't got it now you ain't never gonna get it?

As the citizens of so many big cities see on a daily basis, hope is a critical element in a functional society. Hope is what keeps us moving forward, stretching ourselves to grasp the next branch on the tree. Hope is what keeps us engaged.

Without it, we are a dispirited population with no skin in the game. People who, incorrectly or not, feel that if they have nothing to live for, you don't either. While an admittedly extreme example, I see it in the seventeen-year olds armed with automatic weapons, killing, raping and carjacking; utterly unconcerned with your life or their own.

We can change this. But first we have to want to.

Where I Was

One month it's the demands external activities make on your time. The next it's head trauma. At least I have a good excuse for being gone so long. Ironically, it was at the very job I had taken to sand-off the rough edges of inflation where I incurred my injury.

I work in a store that dabbles in many things; furniture, home decor, women's clothes and odd bits of gourmet food. I do a little of everything, like most people on the payroll. On this hot and humid Saturday, I was preparing to liberate some overstock when I collapsed, resulting in an unscheduled meeting between my head and the store's cement floor.

Afterwards, I briefly regained consciousness and surveyed the damage. But I soon lapsed back into the netherworld of unconsciousness.

My next waking moment was in an unfamiliar room with oddly-dressed people I didn't recognize. I was in a bed and felt intensely uncomfortable. There were monitors and tubes and catheters connected to me. Where was my job? Where were my clothes? What have you people done to me? I felt like I had been kidnapped and then disabled. 

The nerve-endings in my head were abusing my central nervous system as if it owed them money. My fight or flight mechanism was gearing-up and preparing for escape.

I needed to get the fuck out of there.

Then there was a voice.

“La Piazza?”

It was a nurse, standing next to my bed.

“Is that your name?”

“Yes” I replied weakly.

“Do you know where you are?”

My memory began its long, slow emergence.

“A hospital?”

“Yes. Do you remember what happened to you?”

I pondered. There was a vague memory of the fall, which now seemed like a long time ago. Then blanks. There were questions: how did I get here? How long had I been here?

“I fell at work.”

“Yes. You hit your head and did quite a bit of damage. An ambulance brought you here and we performed brain surgery and your anesthesia is just now wearing off. How do you feel?”

Collecting such events and reducing them to a four-word question seemed woefully inadequate. But given the circumstances, that four-word question was the best that could be managed.

“Tired.”

I remember shifting in my bed, unaware of the significance.

“Okay. Drink some water first. You're really dehydrated.”

I obediently drank and then drifted off to sleep.

The next few weeks are fuzzy, with sketchy memories of incessant checks on my vitals, random personal visits and scattered phone calls. Then there were the unending entreaties from the medical staff to eat. (I lost ten pounds in my first two weeks and didn't resume semi-regular consumption until I was threatened with being fed via a nose tube.)

In my brain's distorted view, my personal doctor had set-up a personal diet years earlier and I just didn't need these interlopers interfering. Left unanswered was how I would consume—much less obtain—that food from my hospital bed.

Eventually I was able to leave the confines of my bed and begin various forms of therapy. Beyond the relief of escaping my room was the challenge of recovering my muscle tone and making sure my brain was capable of handling the mundane but essential rigors of everyday life.

It is noteworthy that on the eve of my discharge, the speech therapist went back to one of our initial visits and shared my responses to some questions she had asked about a short story. To put it nicely, my answers were unrelated.

I remain ignorant of how my brain repaired itself—all things being relative—but it is one of the wonders of my life.

Accompanying my emerging appetite was behavior that, while hardly qualified for a Miss Manners forum on civility, at least wasn't outright hostile. If I have any regrets (aside from falling on a cement floor, of course), it's the uncooperative manner in which I initially treated the medical professionals attending to me.

It's par for the course for people with head injuries to treat all concerned with distemper and disregard. It's the byproduct of the shock, dislocation and confusion that accompanies a head injury.

I am thankful for those who had the wherewithal to see through those temporary conditions and focus on bringing their patient to the best realization of their post-fall potential. I have never participated in that profession, but I am positive it is as challenging as it is fulfilling.

It is because of them I am able to write this. And am able to operate a computer, measure a tablespoon of paprika needed for the Hungarian goulash I ate last night and recall where I stored a spare bottle of body wash many months ago.

It is the wildest of understatements, but it could have ended so very, very differently.

FYI

Dear Readers of the Square Peg:

Yeah, it's been a while since I posted. I apologize. The world has really knocked me off my axis the past couple of years (as it likely has you).

Between a part-time job, a volunteer gig and exploring some mental health issues (what—you thought this shit came from a balanced and healthy perspective?), I've been pretty busy. And frankly, the national news is often a bit much for me to digest. So there goes a favorite source of material.

2022 is just so fucking weird! I know this isn't factually true, but I feel as if I'm the only one who sees the creepy dude with nothing but a demented gleam and a machete climbing through the bedroom window.

Am I?

Disgusted with the presidency of Joe Biden (I mean, let's face it: Biden could invent sex and sixty-percent of America would say they got screwed), for whom everything that could've gone wrong essentially has, people are actually embracing Republicans.

Republicans!

What the fuck?

You think Republicans are going to fix the supply chain shortage and inflation and keep us safe from the eruption of tyrants happening all over the globe?

The same way Trump protected us from foreign interference in our elections? Or his sparkling handling of the pandemic? Or the laissez faire attitude he took towards Vladimir Putin as Putin was planning to upend the western hemisphere?

That kind of protection?

Oh that's right—Republicans hate the same people I do! Seeing my hate reflected in the faces of my elected representation is worth all...

Of.

This.

How can people embrace the short-term, zero-sum ideas that constitute Republican “policy”? Even with my modest eyesight I can see where they will lead. And how monstrously difficult they will be to undo.

While the scientific community continues its debate over time travel, it is incredibly ironic the party which makes such a show of denying that community is the one to accomplish it and get to the finish line first.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Dark Ages.

Props

Thank you, Dan Bernstein, for having the stones to speak an ugly truth out loud on the radio. You had the temerity to say “We want this. We vote for this.”

I have never, ever heard those words spoken out loud.

As you said, a vote for a Republican is a vote for dead kids. Republicans are complicit. And indefensible. In light of all the complexities that surround gun violence, it is remarkable we can draw a line back to a single political party and its unswerving, unwavering support of all things gun.

It also happens to be the same political party given to anointing itself as the 'defenders of the sanctity of life' via their plans to revoke Roe v. Wade--even as they enable previously-unseen numbers of guns to find a home here.

This is on you, Republicans. First, last and always. May it not be long before you and your loved ones know the terror of those children in Uvalde, Texas.

God damn you all.

The Zach LaVine Conundrum

After I openly questioned the Bulls moves over the summer of 2021, they went and got really good really fast. To the point where in early-January, they were playing at a sixty-win clip—a stunning turnaround for a team that had won just 31 games the year before.

But as is so often the case, gravity showed up and asserted itself. Injuries smacked the Bulls around like a right uppercut from Mike Tyson. Brutally efficient, they didn't even wait for the season to get ten-games old.

The first Bull to go down was young forward Patrick Williams. Beginning just his second season, Williams was being counted on to provide some scoring heft in addition to his emerging defensive chops.

But in game-five against New York, Williams was felled by a wrist injury. It kept him on the bench for five months—or until the Bulls' freefall was well under way.

The talented-but-fragile Lonzo Ball lasted until mid-January. He, as much as anyone, was responsible for the Bulls' sudden ascent. His knack for disrupting opposing offenses created fast-break opportunities, which fed right into the Bulls' transition-oriented offense.

Such a fast-paced offense served to minimize the Bulls' height deficit up front and masked several defensive deficiencies.

As of Ball's last game (Golden State January 14^th) the Bulls stood at 27 – 12 and were in the thick of the battle for the Eastern Conference's top seed. From that point on, they went just 19 – 24, landing with a thud at the sixth seed.

And exactly one-week later, (Milwaukee January 21^st) fan-favorite Alex Caruso sustained a wrist injury. The same physical, gutsy play that endeared him to ticket-buyers also seem to guarantee he will miss portions of every season.

Caruso's injury knocked him out for two-months. And that was after a COVID protocol removed him from service from just after Christmas until two days prior to his fateful encounter with the Bucks.

With three long-term injuries to critical personnel, it's not really much of a puzzle why that sixty-win pace couldn't be sustained.

And yet there was one more injury that would befall the Bulls. Piling on? Absolutely. Life in the NBA? Absolutely.

Zack LaVine, the centerpiece of the long-ago Jimmy Butler trade with Minnesota, had become an all-star caliber player. He excelled in transition and was never afraid to take the big shot. A rising talent? Without question.

Except for one thing. LaVine has a bad knee which resists easy diagnosis. In his contract year, it must be driving LaVine to distraction to have his knee go bad now.

While he never missed the block of time so many of his teammates did, LaVine's knee impacted him even when he played. It neutered his first step while introducing a previously unknown element of hesitancy in his game.

Max contract? Huh. What was once a no-brainer is now one steeped in second thoughts.

How bad is his knee? Would LaVine accept a less-than-max contract loaded with incentives? If not, how would it impact his value in a potential sign and trade? Even in the worst-case scenario, would the Bulls be able to replace him at a similar salary?

Despite LaVine's resolute language about exploring free-agency, his leverage as been dealt as big a blow as the Bulls'. After all, who wants to hand a max contract to a potentially damaged superstar? Especially with Anthony Davis' stay in L.A. so fresh in everyone's mind?

In many ways, LaVine and the Bulls are stuck with each other. They can't adequately replace him without incurring the luxury tax. LaVine would suffer a giant financial hit by signing elsewhere. Unless revelatory news arrives about LaVine's knee, I have to feel interest in him will be fraught with reservations. The question of which Zach are we getting looms large.

If LaVine is serious about getting out of Chicago, the Bulls should be able to extract significant recompense for their twenty-seven year-old superstar. You know, like the Sixers and Nets did for theirs last year.

Right?

On the other hand, would the absence of LaVine conceivably free-up Nikola Vucevic? Speed the development and consistency of Coby White? Ayo Dosunmu? How about Patrick Williams?

Despite his offensive fireworks, LaVine is not much of a defender. In a purely theoretical sense, I would be curious to see what those Bulls looked like. Additionally, we have to remember: in the player-centric NBA, an individual's worth to his team is often overrated.

Remember that Chicago sportswriters didn't think the 1993/94 Bulls would even make the playoffs after MJ's retirement. I wanted to laugh—and did.

Best-case scenario? LaVine's knee gets an all-clear, he gets his max contract and the Bulls are able to make the roster tweaks that propel them deep into next year's post-season.

Worst-case scenario? The condition of his knee remains inscrutable, he balks at the less-than-max contract offered by the Bulls and out of spite signs elsewhere, where he enjoys many productive years unhindered by knee trouble.

Take your pick.

Beyond the obvious, this could undo the recent advances Bulls leadership has made in making Chicago a free-agent destination.

Like the mountain of debt that can fit on a 3.37” x 2.12” piece of plastic, there is much riding on Zach LaVine's knee.

It will make for an interesting summer.

Hit and Run

Okay, I admit it. My trip south last month wasn't exactly the Shackleton Expedition to Antarctica, was it? There was some way cool stuff. But still. When the final portion of something—the ending—goes badly or is disappointing, that frequently becomes the lingering, lasting image.

The taste that remains on the tongue after the sweet has washed away.

Is it an outgrowth of that portion of us which reacts more-powerfully to negative news than positive? Is it tied in some remote way to our survival instincts? To better enable the survival of the species?

I wonder as I wander, people.

A carton of Trader Joe's Carne Asada burritos to Brooklyn Nets owner Joseph Tsai for calling out his point guard, Kyrie Irving.

I mean, kudos to Kyrie for landing in a profession where he can say and do pretty much whatever he wants—for as long as he can dribble and shoot a basketball, anyway. And for the generational wealth he's accruing.

Nice.

But to put it mildly, Kyrie is a flake. Selfish. And a knee-jerk contrarian. And yes, he gets to do that. Just like I do. Or you. I get it. But sabotaging the efforts of your teammates and the man who is paying you prodigious sums of money because you're a self-appointed medical expert and don't “believe” in vaccines?

That is messed up.

You want to make socio-political statements? Fine. But do it when you're the only one suffering the consequences. Do it on your time—not the company's.

You conceivably cost the Nets and their fans a title. How do you feel about that? Do you feel anything at all? Your behavior is the equivalent of a player ignoring two open teammates as he forces a three-on-one in the paint.

Please don't ever play for Chicago, okay?

On August 9, 2020 James Massey got on Facebook and posted this: ATTENTION ATTENTION LOTTING (sic) START AT 12am. DOWNTOWN AREA AND UP NORTH AREA ONLY BRING YA TOOLS SKI MASK AND GLOVES.

Falls a little short of “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country” but there you go. Exploiting the simmering social unrest in the wake of George Floyd's death at the hands of a Minneapolis police officer, the would-be entrepreneur orchestrated a mass smash-and-grab on social media that proved catastrophic for the city.

Lost in the shattered glass and the police lights and the burglar alarms was the irony: it was a physical manifestation of what the Republican-enabled one-percent have been doing to the country for years.

Not so ironic is that only one group faces consequences.

And while Massey's 15-month sentence for inciting that rioting in Chicago is more than Donald Trump will ever see for January 6th, I still have to feel it falls a little short. Keep in mind that with time off for good behavior, that gets halved.

Not sure how hundreds of millions of dollars in property damage and irreparable damage to the city translates to fifteen-months, but what do I know?

What I do know is that twenty-one months after the looting, the city still hasn't healed.

Ah. The world is such an imperfect place.

Sigh.

 

Seeking Spring

Crap. I haven't posted in two weeks.That's how it goes when you're singing the song of Illinois to the point of laryngitis. That's right. As an untrained vocalist, I first lost my voice and then couldn't write.

While the link between cause and effect might appear somewhat tenuous to you, it's not. It's a thing. And I have only to prove it.

Now fully recovered, I can share with you that I left Illinois (only mildly aware we were in the midst of the second most-overcast April ever) for Atlanta in order to drive a Porsche Cayman GT4. I had arranged it back in February.

Displaying the unerring acumen which regularly courses through this blog, I departed on a Sunday morning, the better to avoid area traffic.

And things went swimmingly. Before I knew it I was south of Indianapolis and approaching the Kentucky border. A bit of sun even broke through as I passed into Louisville. I was relieved to discover it is still warm and yellow.

This condition followed me to Bowling Green, where I was to first visit the National Corvette Museum.

And Monday morning I did. Suffice to say that if you are any kind of car buff, this is a museum you need to visit. An entire museum devoted to a single car might sound like a really thin plot line, but trust me. The folks behind it make it work.

Despite the overcast skies and threat of rain, I left deeply satisfied and ready for the trek to Atlanta. Sadly, that portion of Tennessee visible from I-75 was awash in rain. It wasn't until I reached the hills in the eastern part of the state that the sun deigned to make another appearance.

And bless its hydrogen and helium-based heart, it remained out for the rest of the day.

Fighting through what I assumed was early-rush hour traffic, I reached my hotel and settled in. Tomorrow I would explore the city.

I awoke to find Atlanta under grey skies and precipitation. If it weren't for the temperature, I would've assumed I was in Illinois. I set-out northbound on I-75, only to find rush hour volumes of traffic. I gritted my teeth and eventually arrived at my destination.

I discovered that when you're not in a car, Atlanta is actually quite pleasant. Even amidst an all-day rain. But traffic was so bad I gave up on destination number-two and returned to my hotel. I vowed the next time I got behind a steering wheel it would belong to a Porsche.

Which almost happened. But due to this life-long habit I have called eating, my body again required sustenance. I set out in the no man's land between Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport and my hotel and looked for a place to eat.

I dismissed a gas station qwik mart, some forlorn-looking mom and pops and the usual fast foot outlets before spying what my disappointed and rain-soaked soul truly craved: pizza.

The quattro formaggio pie I had (alongside a bottomless glass of Coca-Cola—go figure) was unexpectedly good. With a perfectly-baked cracker-thin crust, tasty marinara sauce infused with fennel and basil and the generously-applied four cheeses, I had morphed into a very happy guy.

Not even a motorcycle screaming down the interstate next to my hotel at 3 AM could dislodge my bliss.

At 3,276 pounds and sporting 414 horsepower, the Porsche Cayman GT4 is a prodigiously potent automobile. One able to shove you back in your seat as its naturally-aspirated flat six snarls just inches behind your head before carving-up corners like a mad chef with newly-sharpened cutlery.

This isn't a car you drive. This is a car you wear.

Tearing around the racecourse amounted to driving under the influence. I was well and truly intoxicated. Raving. And drooling. I didn't want to leave it. The National Corvette Museum couldn't compare. Nor could the delicious pizza I enjoyed the day before. It was the kind of car sex I had no idea even existed.

Sigh.

125K? Here's a kidney. And my liver. Keep the change.

But road trips are, after all, about the road. And just minutes after finishing off another pizza (sex burns a lot of calories, you know) I was back on I-75, headed out of Atlanta and its permanent rush hour and towards my next destination— Charlotte, North Carolina.

Late-afternoon turned quickly to night, and the traffic as I neared Charlotte was wearying. I'll drive a car on a racetrack all day long but bumper-to-bumper at 70 mph? Nope. After refueling in Gastonia, I spotted several motel signs and took the bait.

I ended-up at a well-worn outlet of a national chain. The clerk requested a one-hundred dollar security deposit and in retrospect, perhaps that should have been my cue.

The room was dimly lit, which was probably a good thing. The lone window was fogged with condensation and pools of water sat in a corner of the shower floor. The bathroom sink began backing up before I could finish washing my hands.

But the room's greatest surprise lay in wait until morning.

That was when I discovered a small, brown six-legged insect crawling across the white sheets of my bed. It wasn't a spider and it wasn't a cockroach. Ah. What else? A tick.

Uttering a silent prayer of gratitude it wasn't attached to me, I went to the bathroom and searched my body for evidence of a bite. There was none. But visions of Elena Delle Donne were (and are) never far from my mind.

In need of distraction, I plotted out a route that would take me through the Blue Ridge Mountains and into West Virginia. It was a sound and entirely sensible plan. Sadly, not even a second consecutive sunny day (Wait. Two? In a row?) could shield me from Interstate 81.

Wikipedia states that as a mostly rural route, I-81 has found favor with truckers, who use it to bypass more heavily-traveled routes like I-95. For similar reasons, drug and human traffickers favor this interstate also, which certainly adds another dimension to one's cross-country motoring.

While this drew the attention of a FBI task force, the medical equivalent was not in evidence as I dodged truckers and did my best not to provoke the already-aggrieved drivers of various conveyances who, in an effort to impart their sense of urgency, attempted to let no pavement go unused between their vehicle and my own.

At a rest stop I was at least able to examine that portion of my anatomy visible to the unaided eye for the tell tale bulls-eye that indicated a Lyme-infected tick bite. And what of the Blue Ridge Mountains you ask? Between the wall of trucks and the tailgators, I didn't see much of them. But I hear they're nice.

I will remain forever grateful to Burning Spear and Garvey's Ghost for preventing me from becoming a brake-checking viral sensation.

The junction with I-64 offered welcome relief from the insanity of I-81. I settled in to its uncrowded lanes and simply enjoyed the view. Whatever sights I missed earlier were compensated for as I wound my way through the rural expanses of West Virginia.

The curvy, mountainous roads restored my enjoyment of cross-country driving. Cloaked in the newness of actual spring, millions of tiny green buds lent a supple and fertile gorgeousness to the land and the blue sky above it. It was beautiful. So un-Illinois.

Did a landscape like this once inspire Aaron Copeland?

While I hadn't put in a long day of driving in terms of hours or mileage, I felt the need to linger. And so I did. I took a room in downtown Charleston and then wandered around. Appearing comfortable, clean and unpretentious, it didn't seem a city within a state mired in an opioid crisis.

I returned to luxuriate in the newly-remodeled room. Many quarters of NBA basketball later, I drifted off into a contented sleep.

The complimentary breakfasts I had grown used to took a turn. No fruit. No yogurt. No coffee. Fried meats, eggs and starches. And decaffeinated coffee. Ugh. Given the luxurious room, I couldn't complain. And didn't. I loaded the car and set out for the nearest Starbuck's.

(Yep. Beer snob. Pizza snob. Coffee snob. Sorry.)

Coffee in hand, I considered the sky. It wasn't the kind I had encountered earlier in the week outside of the National Corvette Museum. No, this was the featureless, sheet of grey that is as infinite as the universe itself.

With a goal of Auburn, Indiana (and the Auburn Cord Dusenberg Museum), I instinctively knew it would accompany me the entire way. Did I mention it wasn't raining?

A largely relaxed drive ensued. Although I must confess I provoked a patron at a gas station when she discovered the person in the ladies room was, in fact, me. But considering they were single-occupancy toilets, did it really matter?

Listen. I had consumed a grande black coffee and a 16 oz. bottle of water since leaving Charleston. My need to, um, evacuate was fairly urgent. And the person in the men's room showed no signs of leaving any time soon.

Respectful person that I am, I had raised the seat before peeing and lowered it afterwards. What the hell, lady? Maybe I should have informed her I was a carrier of Lyme disease.

I continued northward along the eastern border of Ohio, taking in the skyline of Cincinnati and what remains of Dayton. The traffic was mildly twitchy, but nothing like I had encountered on 81. Besides, I would be jumping off at Lima. No sweat.

Right?

The route which was to have seamlessly taken me into Auburn got lost. Only after repeatedly entering the destination was my phone able to direct me. But no matter. Every motel, hotel and Airbnb rental within thirty miles of Auburn was sold out. Spoken for. Or otherwise unavailable.

I hadn't even considered the possibility. A basketball tournament had taken over the area for the weekend. Three hours and change from home, I grabbed a cup of coffee and left.

As I crossed the border from Indiana into Illinois, it began raining.

Singing the Song of Illinois

As I raise the shades on my bedroom windows and behold the leaden grey sky and newly fallen snow that coats my backyard, it strikes me that I have been looking at Illinois all wrong.

I promptly discard the notion of a t-shirt which reads 'You don't have to be a masochist to live in Illinois—but it helps' and instead, consider the state where I have spent the majority of my life in a new light.

It's not a place of maddening congestion, sodomic property taxes and bottomless political corruption. Or even endless expanses of really crappy weather. 

It is a place of abundance. I just didn't see it.

For example, the community in which I live isn't a far-flung backwater removed from all that I want to see and do. Instead, it provides an invigorating navigational challenge as well as ensuring my car gets a proper workout every time I take it out.

As with our bodies, the maxim of 'use it or lose it' also applies to automobiles.

The network of two-lane roads I must use to get everywhere aren't clotted with traffic signals every half-mile. No, they are festooned with yellow-stemmed road blossoms which provide me with opportunities to ruminate and even meditate at strategically-placed intervals.

Thusly, I arrive at my destination newly-refreshed despite the elongated travel times.

Similarly, the roads I travel aren't choked with inattentive or squeamish drivers unwilling or unable to travel at the posted speed limit. Like the aforementioned road blossoms, these drivers present multiple opportunities for contemplation as I creep along at roughly two-thirds of the allowable speed.

What's the old expression? Slow down and smell the roses?

The fragrant, pre-climate change springs I recall haven't disappeared, only to be replaced by the meteorological equivalent of bonus months of winter. No. This climate-based algorithm is actually driving down the pro-rated cost of my winter apparel!

I mean, that awesome puffer coat I just had to have last October is getting cheaper by the month when I'm wearing it well into April, right?

Which is a good thing, because in this year of record-high natural gas costs, the weather has thoughtfully dovetailed with that dynamic and required my furnace to remain in service well beyond the established norms.

And that's okay, because my expense-adjusted wage will automatically compensate for it. Wait. It won't. Shit. 

And let us not forget that while it doesn't remove the risk entirely, it is a fact that interminable stretches of cloudy days lower one's chances of melanoma.

Finally, I endeavor to ignore the fact that the annual property tax I pay on my exceedingly modest (it blushes when I roll up the shades) Illinois abode would translate to a four-thousand square-foot opus in my locale of choice.

The new me directs his thinking to the schoolchildren my local taxing body insists are the beneficiaries of this theft and how they no doubt embrace it as they ignore their teachers and concentrate instead on their social media accounts, the coming weekend's hook-up and/or the multifaceted outrage that is life without the latest generation smartphone.

Sigh.

Like the header says, 'Tart. Cheeky. And definitely not for everyone.'

Don't say you weren't warned. : )