american splendor

What do you think of when Louisville, Kentucky is mentioned? Most think of the Kentucky Derby.

I did not.

Let’s just say the splendor of that whole event took me by pleasant surprise as I pulled in to that lovely town for a couple days break after crushing roughly ¾ of my body in Nashville running a half marathon. The sun was shining bright as I happened upon an outdoor festival that was celebrating the arrival of another year of the Kentucky Derby. I was completely pleased with the performance of the locals in Louisville. Not only could you get by pronouncing the name of their fine city about 15,000 different ways, they also encouraged the disregard of all things related to work and employment for the days leading up to the Derby. I fit in beautifully swilling 24oz. cups of Budweiser, getting sunburned and listening to live music downtown at Waterfront Park which hugged the banks of the Ohio River. Just a good dose of American splendor, let me tell you. No bitching about politics, gas prices or inflation there. And you could feel it in the air. I felt indestructible for those 8 hours of random conversations and frisbee-throwing with the sounds of Americana tickling my ears. I kind of got lost staring in the to the beautiful randomness of the whole affair. Sometimes you cant help but wonder why certain places and things come together. Too pretty. That night Mason Jennings played, and for as many times as I saw him in years prior with much left to be desired, I was completely pleased that night in Louisville. Maybe even overjoyed.

The whole day just reeked of beautiful happenstance. American splendor.

Wilco sang about happenstance on their new album “Sky Blue Sky.” Maybe once or twice. And that day felt like sky blue sky— cheesy. It’s all about the fucking tie in though. I just can’t stop listening to that band. Nothing is pulling my ears away from their arsenal of records— A.M. being the most popular right now. This isn’t a new thing either. I can actually remember when it all started—well at least when this latest wave of obsession started. There were a few days back in 2006 when I had just moved in to my apartment in Wicker Park where I got a small gig writing for a Chicago-based zine that was looking for humorous content related to the indecision of being in your 20’s—the “so what do I do with my life now?” sort of stuff. I thought it was absolutely perfect, but things ended up not panning out because they were struggling to keep the website up due to funding.

Awesome.

ANYWAY, the first piece I had written for them that never actually got published was a short little essay about Wilco and one particular night that totally rejuvenated my wholehearted love for the band—and led to my current state of constant listening.

The story started with me at my girlfriend of the time’s apartment. It was late at night during the week in August. Her studio apartment was not air-conditioned. This left me paralyzed in perspiration unable to sleep at something like 2am. I turned on the little clock radio that had an auxiliary cord dangling from the side of it—this allowed me to plug in my iPod. I was probably sleeping in roughly 3 gallons of sweat at that point. My body was completely drenched. Yep. Awesome.

I rolled over, unable to sleep, and turned on “Hell is Chrome” off of Wilco’s fourth album “A Ghost is Born.” I kept the volume pretty low so as not to disturb anyone else’s sleep patterns and remained there listening. I ended up playing the song about 10 times over and over while my mind drifted back a few months to my life on the road traveling around the world. It was an oddly invigorating and sobering moment given that current state of perspiration saturation. I laid there, eyes wide open in the pitch black staring up at the ceiling, looking retroactively at the months that were, while I simultaneously super-imposed them on my current situation that was completely opposite—proper job, an apartment, a steady and consistent pattern to life. I was happy looking back but certainly questioned the general position I was in at that moment as I looked forward at my cookie cutter existence. My mind darted back to the days on the road and then quickly darted back to my current state sitting in an upright desk char. That night I played out the active scheme that I feel took place in my life on a daily basis—I held on closely to what was as I sort of blindly pushed forward in to this eerie unknown. I wasn’t exactly happy with all the question marks that were surrounding me (is this where I belong right now in my life?), but a lot of those can never be taken away.

What can be said is that in THAT moment I was pleased to be laying their in a pile of sweat trying to wrap my arms around becoming comfortable with those general ambiguities of life—this idea that we can’t have all the answers, but we can just generally keep a peaceful and honest direction (goal) in our everyday existence and the boat will steer properly. And it was like “Hell is Chrome”—no matter how much the lyrical direction of the song was related or unrelated to my thought patterns—ushered me in to that vision so beautifully. The openness of that guitar solo just left my mind exploding with thoughts as my eyes wandered the black ceiling with that balmy Chicago air nearly suffocating me.

So the essay never went anywhere except on my hard drive in a Word document, but I remember writing that piece in my new Chicago apartment having been moved in for about 14 minutes. I don’t think I even had silverware at that point. I was sitting on the hardwood floor with the windows open while the sun poured in. Wilco had always been a favorite of mine, but we go through these moments— whether its seeing a band live again or just recalling a song associated with a specific moment in the past— where our love for a certain song or album is totally rejuvenated. And that then translates to obsession-level playing of their music. So naturally, I played “Hell is Chrome” 4,000 times that afternoon in the new apartment, but I am reasonably sure I haven’t stopped in the last two years either. As it is, “No More Poetry” is my number one played song in iTunes right now. Apparently I have played it 70 times since the last time I updated my list. Scary.

Chicago remains a looming thought in my membranes: HOME, but not so much anymore. “Home” is an interesting concept. I find now more than ever that as I think of home as a relative term I get a bit nostalgic. Life on the road is a beautiful thing for my mind right now, but I would be totally lying if I said that I don’t occasionally miss the pleasantries that went along with my existence as a more conventional human being in Chicago—or wherever else I may find myself in the future. I guess Chicago is my closest sense of comparison.

I still remember trying to find that goddamn apartment in Wicker Park. I was cut-throat picky with the whole decision. I wasn’t going to settle for anything that didn’t feel exactly how I wanted HOME to feel like. It turns out after one month of sleeping on the futon at my then-girlfriend’s apartment and nearly destroying that relationship because of the extremes of living together, I quickly found something that suited my needs.

1417 North Wood, Apartment 2F.

I took trips to IKEA which was appalling at first. 20 years ago there was a day when all it took to make me happy was construction equipment. I am dead fucking serious. I was enamored with jack-hammers, back-hoes, forklifts and any Caterpillar earth mover for that matter. Philip won’t eat dinner? Take him to see a tractor. Can’t get him trained to shit in the potty? He will do it in front of a construction worker. My poor parents—we would be driving to grandma’s house and any split second image of a cherry picker or otherwise would warrant a stop of at least 13 minutes. I was completely blown away and amazed by the yellow and black machinery doing work on the side of the highway. Now, I was blown away by IKEA. I was baffled with the $6 woks! The 49 cent dish rags! Dining room chairs for $12!

Jesus.

I painted the walls with the help of my dear friend Mark (I use “dear” in that sentence to try and sugar coat the fact that Mark threw away $150 on a plane ticket to come visit me for the weekend in Chicago and ended up bringing his paintbrushes and a couple of tarps for my little project) in colors that blinded nearly everyone when they entered my apartment— the most appalling of which was probably in the guest room. The color of one wall in that room most closely resembled Ecto Cooler. It was lovely shade of green in its own right, or at least that’s what I thought. I think it gave everyone else a headache if they looked at it too long.

I arranged the place how I thought it would need to be. I didn’t mess with having a couch; I just left an old futon open all the time with about 45 pillows surrounding it and called it a day bed. It was REALLY comfortable though. My new enormous flat-screen TV sat about 10 feet away from this scene— my attempt at rewarding myself for efforts related to adopting a more conventional lifestyle and biting the bullet with taking a job that had me sitting on my ass for 9 hours a day in front of a computer. Lord knows I don’t even watch TV that much and probably had no business doing so seeing as how much I sat in front of a computer, but it seemed like a worthwhile purchase. It is sitting in my parent’s house in the basement now gathering dust if anyone is interested.

The balcony was high and far my favorite part of that HOME. I probably spent the majority of my time out there. It looked out at a maze of apartment buildings and the EL in Chicago. It wasn’t a particularly aesthetically pleasing environment to everyone else (I remember having this conversation while I was sitting outside with a friend saying over and over how beautiful it was. She looked at me in dismay and simply asked me “tell me again exactly WHAT you are looking at?”) but it was a place where my mind could wander away from everything no matter how loud the train passing by was. At one point I slept out there for a few weeks straight when the evils of winter faded and spring started to show its face. It was comfortable.

HOME.

I think those are the things that my mind occasionally yearn for given this new life of mine on the road—just that sense of comfort that you get from stupid trips to IKEA, dressing up your couch the way that YOU want, painting things in the color that only YOU will appreciate or just finding the simple comfort in the beauty of a balcony. Unfortunately, the Marriott doesn’t always provide that.

I got a quick dose of HOME comforts making my way to Washington DC via Indianapolis and Louisville. I was headed to DC to see my good buddy Mark (the one who helped me paint) and Mike from the college days. I would be able to live comfortably in an apartment—someone else’s mind you, but sometimes all you need is a couch and a pantry with an overflow of Cheez-its to feel that sense of HOME.

I still remember the first time Mark and I met. It was freshman year of college. We had all just moved in to the basement of Abbott hall at Michigan State. Mark lived next door to me in the dorms. So, that first day we all moved in, Mark and I walked to the Breslin Center for our freshman welcome seminar with Mark’s new roommate—his name was Phil. As we walked, Phil told us a story from his high school days. Basically the story revolved around Phil rear-ending a car in his school parking lot, the victim of this activity not getting a police report immediately and then Phil rubbing it in the guy’s face later on by denying the entire thing. I still remember Phil uncontrollably laughing telling us “ISNT THAT AWESOME!? THAT GUY WAS SUCH A DUMBASS!!” Mark and I just sort of stared at each other in horror. Well, I was laughing. Mark was terrified because thatwas his roommate for the next school year.

Days later I would actually meet Mike under similar circumstances. Instead of living next to me in Abbott Hall, he lived about 5 feet across from my door. The minute I saw Mike I thought he was Mexican which made me really happy. I thought for sure he would make us empenadas from time to time—maybe on Tuesday nights or something. He wasn’t Mexican at all though as it turns out. I remember one night Mike and I drinking before a party that freshman year. I was dating this girl that was basically holding a knife to our throats to take straight shots of Popov Vodka from a Dixie cup. All this so that we would be drunk like she was for some party we were apparently attending. I guzzled one down feeling like my throat had just been charred with a propane torch. Mike threw one down and then proceeded to vomit for the rest of the night. Poor fella. That was the first time we hung out. Maybe.

It turns out Mike and I became better friends a few years later when we shared a single room on Beal Street together for my bonus senior year (the last semester of my four and a half years) at MSU. Mike had this awesome bed in that room, and seeing as how I was the “illegal” on the rental lease I had to sleep in a conspicuous bed—which ended up being a futon mattress (probably the same one that served as the basis of my day bed in Chicago) just thrown on the floor. I am pretty sure I slept without sheets for 6 months. There was a small handful of nights where I lay sleeping on the floor nearly destroying my back while Mike lay 4 feet away in his Sealy Posturepedic mattress as we hashed out the occurrences of what ended up being a rather adventurous final semester.

Anyway, I was now visiting them both in DC for a few days before heading down to Florida for a Crocs event. I pulled up to Mark’s apartment in the truck fairly stressed out from having to circumnavigate the streets of Washington DC with the Crocs tank. He had zoned off a parking spot for me which was pretty nice so I thankfully didn’t have to mess with that. I walked in to his place while pulsating bass lines shook my torso. Apparently Mark was listening to dance music now. There was a small army of individuals in his apartment, all of which were looking pretty intoxicated. I drank warm whisky from a plastic cup for the rest of the night and it’s never tasted as good.

The days in DC were spent with Mike (while Mark was at work) waxing philosophy and taking walks through the streets of DC. We share a similar penchant for decoding the abstract, or even understanding further the blatantly obvious. We ate Ethiopian food. I think Mike almost shit his pants after on the walk home. At one point I felt like we were at the top of the city perched on a cement wall in Columbia Heights with laser beams of sunshine baking away the morning haze. We talked about women. Mike talked about his lack of situation in that department, which sometimes can be perfection. I enjoy the simplicity of it all.

The nights with Mark were similar. We had a lot of catching up to do as it had been quite some time since we last spoke. He has been helping me craft my approach with this ongoing book project of mine. It’s currently in the works, but Mark has been and will be a persistently driving force behind the whole operation. Or at least I am really hoping he continues to help me with it all.

So Mark and Mike coach the Rockies—a local little league baseball team. Honestly, the concept of this is just scary to me. Mark has the intensity of a rabid wolf even in the generally mundane situations like reading the paper in the morning. Mark doesn’t just have a casual glance at the thing, he reads it, screams about something on the front page, then leaves the paper in a disheveled mess all over the floor of his apartment. Mike, on the other hand, usually carries the sort of carefree attitude that suggests he has no business managing the sporting lives of a small pack of 6 and 7 year olds. I was eager, to say the least, to see these two in action as they coached.

On Sunday night, the team had practice. Mark must have called Mike 14 times throughout the day reminding him of the time that he and I would need to meet him to get to the field punctually. Once we arrived, we picked up Nelson— Mark’s little brother that plays on the team. Nelson was dressed in full athletic attire complete with socks hiked to his knees bearing the team colors. Mark barked out orders within 5 seconds of little Nelson entering the car and climbing in to his car seat. Mike was talking about candy bars with the little fella but Mark needed to know where Nelson’s ballcap was. Eventually all that business was sorted out and we were en route to the practice field. Little Nelson politely asked for his warmup music, to which Mark blasted track 5 off of a U2 compilation that was created just for car rides to baseball-related events. I was fairly impressed with the organization of the whole endeavor— even the music was orchestrated to fit the moment. “Vertigo” blared through the speaker box of the minivan as we paraded through the neighborhood streets to the field. Mike stared out the window looking bored as he was clearly used to this ritual. Nelson was in the back seat just banging out a few air guitar chords and getting in to it. Jesus. I was even getting excited.

We arrived and Nelson filed out of the minivan like he was in some sort of military drill. Mark, after crushing through a 24oz. fountain Coke, removed the materials for the practice from the trunk, which included the obligatory canvas coach’s bag that carried all the catcher’s gear, the batting helmets, 14,000 baseballs and a few metal bats. Mike turned to me and asked if I was impressed yet. You bet your ass I was. Holy shit. This was the real deal.

We approached the baseball diamond with a rag-tag bunch of kids hopping around like they had each just eaten an entire one pound bag of cane sugar— screaming, shouting, running, jumping, tripping, skipping, galloping, crying, whining, slapping. You get the point.

I wanted to go back to Mark’s apartment immediately.

Mark started shouting uncontrollably within about a minute and a half while Mike rattled off player’s names to get their attention. I was completely unaware of what the fuck was next, but I was introduced as Coach Phil— an event which made me swollen with excitement and also want to vomit. Coach Phil sounded fucking TERRIBLE. I really don’t like being called Phil to begin with, and now I was being called Coach Phil by an army of terrorist children. All I could think of was some overweight, hairy man with a clipboard and those tight polyester shorts that fall about 12 inches above the knee cap—that sounded like Coach Phil to me.

Devastating.

I was placed in charge of throwing fly balls to the army of kids and instructing each child on how to catch them. I was immediately taken back to my days in little league. My team was always the best in the league believe it or not. I played first base for something like 10 years in a row. My neighbor Bob always coached the team and his son most closely resembled Nolan Ryan on the mound circa 1989. We were an indestructible force. Now I was left taking the skills gained from little league days from well over a decade ago and now try to teach these little kids how to properly field a fly ball. Jesus. I hadn’t done so much as even looked at a baseball in probably 6 years and now I had to somehow get it together for all these whipper-snappers that I wanted to cuff for calling me Coach Phil? All I could think about was what in the hell I was going to do when one of the fly balls crushed Natalie in the face and broke her nose. I text messaged Google to get the local ambulance service’s number. I was struggling to properly convey understandable directions to the kids so as to properly lay out the necessary steps in fielding the ball. One child in particular, his name was Daniel actually, had a side-arm like Dennis Eckersley and found it hysterical to throw the ball about 15 feet to the right or left of me when it was time return the ball after his turn.

Well, Coach Phil took very fucking kindly to having Daniel run laps around the field until his face was purple. Yep. If the team was going to win on Tuesday night I was going to need to instill some discipline in those little fuckers.

We re-convened at the pitchers mound after the drill and I was praying that this meant that practice was over. My shoulder felt like someone hit it with a bowling ball from throwing all those fly balls. Mike and Mark were speaking to these kids as if they had both been doing this for a few year. Again, I was impressed. All the kids just sort of looked wide-eyed up at them—except for Daniel. I am reasonably sure Daniel’s father who was now at practice wanted to hit me in the face as he tried to urge his son to take a drink of water immediately to avoid dehydration. I looked on confidently as I was completely pleased and comfortable with my punishment scheme. My stone cold stare back was mental assurance to Daniel’s father that his son was being given a dose of athletic courage.

The Monarch’s, the opponent in the three days, were the fucking LEAGUE CHAMPS. There was no room for Daniel’s bullshit.

All of the kids lined up single file next to run the bases. That seemed perfect. I took a seat at the 3rd baseline player’s bench and gathered myself. I checked my phone praying to god that someone called and left me a voice mail so I could legitimately step away from this carnival of sorts and act like I was genuinely taking care of some matters of business. Nope. As I looked up I heard the collection of shouts from the kids about how they wanted Coach Phil to chase them as they ran around the bases. Sure, I thought. Sure, I’ll fucking chase the little assholes around the ball diamond. I did it once but that wasn’t enough. So I did it again, and again, and again until I was reasonably sure I had either re-broken bones in the lower half of my body or my lungs were about to collapse.

Awesome.

Practice was over and the moment we dropped little Nelson off all hell broke loose in conversation between Mark, Mike and me. There was a maelstrom of swearing and intensity going around—but not about bad kids, not about the women that Mike wanted to bang at the bar later, hell not even about what we were going to have for dinner that night. Oh no. We were talking strategy about Tuesday’s game against the Monarchs. Thankfully I would still be in town and able to help out. We were all taking it VERY fucking seriously. We exchanged thoughts on the lineup and a bit of pre-game thoughts all in an effort to coach these kids to a victory against the league champs from last year. Yep. This was no joke.

Honestly, Sunday passed and Monday morning I woke up rehearsing in my mind the batting order for Tuesday. I would have absolutely no say in the matter as this was strictly Mike’s role amongst the Mark and Mike coaching combo—but still, all I could think about was BASEBALL and VICTORY. Dinner that night was intense. There was no small talk related to anything other than baseball and kicking the shit out of the league champs in two days.

Tuesday night rolled around and we picked up little Nelson at his home to take him in the minivan to the ballgame. I shook young Nelson’s hand as he climbed in to his car seat and asked him if he was prepared to destroy the opponent. He shook his head. Then I turned to Mark asking where the hell his cleats were. They were gone and I was furious. Mark was furious. Mike was staring out the window looking at the blue sky. Jesus. I sat shotgun and took the lead on the getting the pre-game U2 disc pumping through the speakers. I looked back at Nelson and Mike playing some sort of hand game while Mark yelled at them to focus. This was serious. “Vertigo” came on and Bono started the song off. By the time it got to part where he screams “CATORCE!” I was violently waving my hands and yelling with the window down. I continued shouting with my teeth showing, to which Mark even looked at me with dismay. I kept screaming to Nelson if he was ready to crush the opponent to which I got the same casual nod. Mike was still gazing at the flowers as we drove by.

We arrived at the baseball diamond again and Mark parked the minivan. I was stretching before we even got out to the field and hopping on my toes to stay limber. The sight before me as I approached the field sent shivers up my spine. Not only were we playing the league champions, but they were all at least 6 inches taller than the Rockie’s tallest player. Their coaching squad all wore matching attire and the kids stared at Mark, Mike and me as we gathered around the kids dragging the canvas bag with all the gear. The Monarch’s were taking part in an intensive calisthenics routine that rivaled that of the New York Mets. They were using a goddamn pitching machine for their warm up. Jesus. I was intimidated by Robert—the Monarch’s star right-fielder— who looked as though he was 45 years old and stared me down with flared nostrils as I approached the Rockies bench. Good god.

The Rockies sideline was slowly preparing and I paced around them with intensity that rivaled Mark’s. I spoke with each player individually and instructed them on the importance of victory that night. I took to discussing matters related to my observations of each player based on the notes I had taken and discussed a few players’ injuries. I had instructed young Matthew to ice his foot every hour on the hour for the two days leading up to the game so that he would be prepared to place pressure on the ball of his heel as he tore ass running the bases. Upon inquiring about his adherence to my healing regiment I was appalled to find out he thought it was more important to ride his bike around the block and jeopardize his performance that night.

Awesome.

Mike gathered the kids around and read off the lineup he had created on an old receipt from my pocket just 15 minutes prior to showing up at the diamond. The children listened and did jumping routines when they heard their name called. I immediately told them that unnecessary jumping was just not acceptable seeing as how an injury before the game was just not allowed. They needed to focus on victory. I asked them repeatedly if they were ready to destroy the opponent. Each and every time I got a silent nod from Mark. Mike was playing with daisies.

The Rockies took to the field first and I squatted on my knees pulling grass and throwing it in the air to check the wind direction. The kids were out in the field and the Monarch’s lined up ready for battle. They were shouting war codes that I was unaware of. These kids were total business and I was impressed. The coaching staff looked on with solemn delight and I was terrified at the whole thing really.

Their first batter Robert stepped up to the plate—the same kid that caused me to pee my pants a little in the stare down contest. His teeth were showing and he was making an odd assortment of noises that made him sound like the Incredible Hulk. More war codes were fired out but the one thing I could understand was the screaming coming from one coach’s mouth telling Robert to murder the baseball.

“Just kill it Robert! KILLLLLL THE BALLLLLL!!” Holy shit. I was worried and excited all at the same time. Nelson and the rest of the Rockies were doing cartwheels in outfield. Daniel was playing with dirt at shortstop and I was furious. I yelled out for him to straighten up just as a laser beam off of Robert’s bat shot over his head about 400 feet in to left field.

The Monarchs got about 7 runs that inning. Every kid on their bench crushed the ball and grunted as they ran the bases. I was already questioning Mark on the availability of a mercy rule. I think every inning the Monarchs went to bat they got about 7 runs. Had you asked me, I thought the score was about 48-0 until there was one flicker of hope late in the game.

The bases were loaded and a Rocky batter stepped up to the plate— his name I can’t recall (Mark, help please? This is crucial to the story. He was the slightly overweight kid with the father that simultaneously talked on his Blackberry and coached at first base. This was totally unacceptable to me. Had it not been for his specific asking me if I preferred Phil or Philip I would have undoubtedly started a shouting match with him). I was coaching third base. Marco was on third base singing songs to himself and I told him that I would make sure he didn’t get his snack at the end of the game if he did not shutup and get to home plate to score the first run of the game. I saw the fear of god in his eyes, but Marco made it home damnit. This of course after the forgotten Rocky batter absolutely crushed the ball in to center field. I screamed at Marco to run to home plate. The next runner was approaching me from second base and I signaled her home. At this point I was on my knees waving my left arm like a windmill to send the kids to home plate. My shorts were filthy and dust was being kicked up at every swooping of my arm. The base hit ended up being a home run and we chalked up for four runs. Mark and I did a celebratory dance near the pitchers mound that probably looked depressing to the opposing teams coaching staff. I was ecstatic and once the inning was over, Mark approached the kids and told them that that was exactly how it needed to be done. As I was foaming at the mouth with excitement screaming with Mark, I think they were all just terrified.

That was high and far the best moment of the game seeing as how the Monarch’s not only defeated the Rockies that night, they also took their manhood. It was a defeat I did not want to accept. Salt in the wound of course came when the kids thanked “Coach Phil” for helping out that week. I was frustrated and disheveled but managed to give a hearty reply to all the smiling faces. After all, they deserved it—well, as soon as Marco cleaned up his fielding stance and Natalie got a little more comfortable positioning herself under a fly ball.

As the sun set that night it was a quiet ride home for Nelson. There was no closing remarks from U2. We were having trouble putting words to the whole occasion but told the little fella there was always next time and you just always have to give it your best. Amidst all that, it should be very clear that the highlight of my existence in Washington DC was taking part in that little baseball extravaganza with those kids. It was yet another sneak attack of American splendor out there on a crisp and pleasant Tuesday night.

(A very worthwhile read is Mark and Mike's blog about coaching the Rockie's to a victorious season: http://arockieseason.blogspot.com/)