The Midwest of Nowhere

Of Americans Battling Spainards in South Africa..

2009-06-24T07:20:00.002-04:00

This almost seems like the title of an ill-conceived Tom Robbins novel... and for the United States Men's National Team to actually produce a win against Spain, we could use some of that particular writer's mad flights of fancy.

By the way, for the uninitiated, I'm talking about soccer. If you haven't heard, there is a fairly large international tournament going on right now in South Africa. No, it isn't the World Cup. That is next year, but rather the Confederations Cup. Think of it as a dress rehearsal for the World Cup, but still vastly important. Well, if you win.

Anyway, to catch you up, the US slid into the semi-final round with an impressive win 3-0 over Egypt after a decent effort against Italy that resulted in a 3-1 loss and a no show against Brazil that resulted in a merciful 3-0 hammering. I'm not going to get into the math that allowed the US to advance with that collection of results, but trust me, the Yanks got through. And waiting for them is none other than Spain. Torres. Puyol. Villa. Xabi Hernandez. Fabergas. Xavi Alonso. Sergio Ramos. You know, the best team on the planet. Not only does Spain boast a rich with talent, they are also in form right now to the tune of s record-setting 15 match win streak.

So what's this mean for the Yanks? I think it means that Spain is due to lose one. So far in this tournament, Spain has faced Iraq, New Zealand and South Africa, which isn't exactly a collection of top international squads. The US is better than all of those teams, although admittedly nowhere near the level of Spain. However, the US did play a scrappy match 1-0 in Spain last year against a similarly in form Spanish squad right before they went on to win the European Championship. And not that he would make all the difference in the world, but Landon Donovan was missing from that match.

That brings us to today. Neutral ground. Big tournament. A match that matters. Everyone in the world expects the US to lose. On paper, they should get throttled. But you never know in soccer. A goal mouth scramble here. Lucky corner kick there. Maybe someone gets a red card. Things can happen in an instant that change the entirity of the match.

Maybe, the US can get lucky today. But even with luck on their side, they are still going to have to work their asses off.

Just Another Cole McGrath

2009-05-29T21:52:00.003-04:00

As you may or may not know, there is a new video game out on the PS3 called "InFamous." For the record, I haven't played it. I haven't seen anyone else play it. I've merely seen commercials. Now, originally, I didn't think anything of the commercials. Something about an urban wasteland and superpowers, blah, blah, blah. Nothing exciting right? Well, wrong. Sort of. Probably just for me.

One of my fine quasi-nerdy hipster friends who knows things alerted me to the fact that the main character of "InFamous" has a very familiar name: Cole McGrath. And yes, that is my name.

At first, I was a little excited that a potential blockbuster video game character and I shared a name. On the surface, it seems sort of cool. Well, cool to those who play video games at least. I have to emphasis sort of cool, because it isn't like someone in real live could possibly mistake me for a video game character and that would result in free drinks or anything...or could it? Maybe in the right setting. Like Gen-Con maybe. That's a big maybe though. And I don't know how big of a victory it is to have a bunch of video game obsessed guys buying me (also a guy in case you didn't know) alcohol. Actually, that's a little creepy.

So I thought on it for a while. And the more I thought about it, the more upset I was. There are already two more prominent Cole McGraths out there as it is. The current leader is an independent professional wrestler who goes by the name Cole McGrath. Get this: His gimmick is that he is gay. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but the fact that a professional wrestler shares your name isn't great to begin with for the ladies. Add in the fact that he pretends to be gay and that guy isn't helping me at all in Broad Ripple on the weekends.

Cole McGrath #2 is a diamond smuggler. Now, this guy is a pain in my neck. And balls. And shins. And, well, everywhere. How so? Well, the name Cole McGrath is apparently a red flag at airports. I know this because every time I've been in an airport for the last six years or so, I've been "randomly" pulled out of line for a more thorough security check. When I was in Ireland, my fine roommates decided to figure out why this was continually happening to me. Lo and behold, some 40+ year old guy uses the name Cole McGrath as an alias as he tries to move precious stones from place to place. Just know that if you ever fly somewhere with me that we're going to be at the airport for a long, long time.

So now there is this additional Cole McGrath out there. And he may become the most popular one of all of us if this game takes off. Granted, this is petty and selfish on my part, but I liked being on at least the second page of Google when I threw my name in. Sure it was for a really old volleyball article, but I was there. I was on the boundaries of the zeitgeist at least. Now, after less than a week of the game being out, that article is on the fifth page of a Cole McGrath Google search. I am fading fast. Soon enough, I'll be nothing more than a failed writer working a dead end customer service job. Well, I'm already that, but soon enough people will know it by NOT knowing it if that makes any sense.

Damn you other Cole McGraths. Give me back my tiny bit of notoriety!

Taking a Cab Home from the Hospital on a Sunday Morning (fiction)

2009-05-13T23:16:00.003-04:00

Robert J. Keeshan. That was the cab driver's name according to the license on the dash.

"So where to?"

The passenger reached forward over the back of the seat with a piece of paper that stated his address. He knew he would have to do this. The driver did not.

"What? Not talking today. I asked..." Robert stopped as he turned his head and saw a hand outstretched towards his shoulder. Robert saw the bright plastic bracelet on the passenger's wrist. "Oh, I gotcha. Sorry, buddy," he said as he took the paper.

The passenger shook his head and blinked hard.

"5119 Ralston, huh?" Robert asked. Of course, this question was met with silence as the passenger merely nodded in the backseat.

Robert Keeshan, he thought. Where did he know that name from? He probably went by Bob though. Maybe Rob. Bob Keeshan? Rob Keeshan? It was familiar enough that it was connecting something for him, but not enough for him to recognize it. This would be maddening.

The engine started and so did the meter. This would be no more than a 15 minute trip, but the silence would make it feel longer. The passenger wished Robert would turn on the radio.

Robert guided the cab out of the hospital parking lot. It was 10:37 a.m. according to the digital clock held to the dashboard with black electrical tape. There wasn't much traffic. On the sidewalks, there was no one but the churchgoers and the addicts. It had rained overnight and the air smelled faintly of earthworms and sewage.

"So how are you doing, buddy? Feel good to be going home?" Robert asked.

The passenger thought of the ridiculousness of Robert trying to have a conversation with a man who clearly couldn't talk, but obviously felt some obligation to chit chat. The passenger gave a half smile and a quick tilt of the head that Robert could see in his rear view mirror.

Football player maybe? Was this cab driver a former star athletic who had fallen on hard times and now had to taxi around those just released from the hospital? That didn't seem right. Robert didn't look like the kind of guy who would have played any sport at a high level.

"Nobody could come to pick you up, huh?" Robert asked as he took a right from the middle lane. "That's a shame."

The passenger stared coolly into the rear view mirror and slightly shrugged. This trip to the hospital, like so many others, had not been planned. When the surgeon nicked his vocal cords while misguiding a tube down his windpipe rather than the intended esophagus, he effectively lost the ability to talk. He could still choke out a few raspy whispers, but not much more. This trip to the hospital, like so many others, had not gone well.

Was he on the news lately? Were there any recent stories about a heroic cab driver? Did Robert jump out of his car to save a small child from getting hit by some drunk driver? That didn't seem right either. Judging from the way he was shuffling the papers on the seat next to him and paying little attention to the road, it seemed more likely that someone would have safe small children from the front bumper of Robert's car.

"Almost there, pal. You aren't going to get sick are you?" Robert asked as he made the turn off of College Avenue.

The passenger raised his hand and bowed his head slowly. He wasn't going to vomit. Not now at least. All he wanted was to be home. He needed a good shower badly.

Captain Kangaroo. That was it. Robert Keeshan was the name of the actor who played Captain Kangaroo. Why he knew this, the passenger did not know. He vaguely remembered re-runs of Captain Kangaroo on WGN from when he was a small boy, but certainly he wouldn't have known that Captain Kangaroo had a name other than Captain Kangaroo. It must have been on Jeopardy, he thought. Was this really Captain Kangaroo? That didn't make much sense either. Robert didn't look nearly old enough to have been a children's television icon back in the 1980's. Was Captain Kangaroo even alive still? Surely this was just a coincidence. One of those things. Of course, the passenger could not ask.

Robert pulled up to 5119 Ralston. The passenger reached for his wallet, took out $18 and handed it over the seat. He waved his hand so he would not get any change.

"Thanks, brother. Hope you feel better," Robert said as the passenger slid out of the cab. The passenger stuck out an open palm without turning back to look at Robert.

As he walked up the steps, the now former passenger could tell the lawn needed mowing. The dandelions were starting to outnumber the blades of grass. That would have to wait though. Now was time to rest. Placing his key in the lock, he wondered if anyone else ever noticed the cab driver's name. He wondered if anyone ever asked.

Another Sunday night

2009-05-10T20:59:00.000-04:00

Back in college, I wrote a column for the newspaper about the days of the week. To sum it up briefly, I contended that all of the days of the week had a distinct purpose or at least feeling to them with the exception of Tuesday. Monday starts the work week. Wednesday is "hump day." Thursday is Friday's Friday in that it isn't the end but you can see it from there. Friday is full of excitement as the weekend approaches. Saturday and Sunday are full of freedom. Tuesday sits oddly as a blank 24 hours without anything special attached to it. These were the kind of deep thoughts I was able to pull 500 words out of back in my salad days when I was green in judgement and cold in blood.

Now that I'm in the "real" world, I've come to realize more and more that all of the days of the work week feel more or less the same to me. This is what happens when for five days out of the week you drive the same direction to work to climb the same stairs and sit in the same cubicle in the same poorly lit room. The weekend does still possess some magic, but the truly unique period of the week for me comes after 5 p.m. on Sundays.

Sunday nights, like the one I'm writing during at the moment, have become times for almost instant introspection. What was it that I made of this weekend? Did I take advantage of these none time sheet hours as much as I could have? What is it that I will remember this for? What am I going to do with the upcoming week? Why does this room smell like Egg McMuffins? When was the last time I had an Egg McMuffin? You know, the big questions.

Here's the kicker: None of these questions ever really get answered in a satisfactory way. The weekends seem to bleed together. This bar. This home improvement project. This nap on the couch. Before I know, it will be Monday morning and someone will ask me how the weekend was and I will answer, "Fine." And that's always the answer, but is it ever really?

And seriously, why does it smell like Egg McMuffins in here?

The Requisite Welcome

2009-05-10T20:14:00.000-04:00

In the sense of full disclosure, welcomes have never been my strong suit. I struggle with them as most people do with farewells. Whether it being walking up to someone in a bar or meeting a friend of a friend at a backyard barbecue, welcomes clamp down on throat and cause the few ounces of individuality in me to run for shelter in the safety of south side of my spine. That being said, welcome to the Midwest of Nowhere.

I wish I could define for you, dear reader, what is in store for this blog and what effects your reading of it will have on your life, but let's face it, I'm no visionary. For me, this blog represents a sort of beautiful dumping ground for thoughts, ideas and, on what I hope to be rare occasions, opinions. This is not a soapbox. This is not a source of news. This is not scandalous or salacious. This is not meant for anything other than enjoyment.

Think of this as a more observational record, both real and imagined, of one young pseudo-intellectual trying desperately to do more than just live life set against an urban environment in the heartland of America. Real and imagined, you ask? Why yes. There will be fiction here, but rest assured, it will be born out of these fingers and this place. Let's face it, very few, if any of us live lives that are wholly real, so why fight it? Anyway, I'll denote the fiction when it happens by writing something clever like "Fiction" at the beginning of the posts to which it applies.

And with that, here we go. Let's try to keep our hands to ourselves and enjoy the ride.