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. : )