By David Whitehouse
The old man had fallen to the pavement and his wife couldn't get him up. A passing woman, plump and middle-aged, had helped him to his feet and that was how I found the three of them, locked in a tight, immobile huddle in the bright light of a winter's afternoon.
-Are you going to be all right now? I heard the plump woman asking them.
The wrinkles on the face of the old man's wife were fragile like the threads of a spider's web.
-You'll be all right now, won't you? the plump woman said.
The wife's eye, encrusted with flaky skin, was delicate as that of a young doe as it shifted shyly through her wispy brown hair toward me.
-I'm afraid I really couldn't say, she said.
I took the man's arm. He was big and burly with thick white hair. His wife smiled at me and the seed of youth was in her smile.
The plump woman was gone.
-Dad! What are you doing? We're going to be late for the PARTY!
My kid, who I had fetched from school, was using a lamppost to swing himself round and round.
-Go on, the old man said. Don't waste your time. You'll be late.
-Don't worry, I said. We've got lots of time. We're early.
The three of us shuffled forward, the wife holding one of his arms and me the other. It was a hundred meters to his house, he said. But he couldn't keep going and I caught him as he slumped down again. We got him back upright but he could go no further. We were stuck.
-DAD! I don't want to stand here in the COLD!
-I'll call an ambulance, I said.
I pulled out my phone.
-Thank you, the man said.
The call was answered straight away. I told the woman where we were.
-His wife and I tried to get him home, I said. But he can't walk any more. We're stuck.
-Is he inebriated? said the voice on the line.
-What?
-Is he in a state of inebriation? Is he drunk?
-No, I said. He's an old man.
-I'm 85 years old, the man said.
-He says he's 85 years old, I said.
-And he's not drunk? the woman said.
-No, I said.
-I'll send an ambulance, she said.
We waited motionless. My child sulked. His wife, elegant in her long black winter's coat, said nothing.
The ambulance arrived, together with a police car. Three young men jumped out of the ambulance. Two blue-uniformed women emerged sluggishly from the car. They wore black boots and carrying long black truncheons. The old man's wife stood aside and looked at me, as if puzzled.
We were in France. I held the man up from behind by slipping my arms under his armpits.
-Good afternoon, sir, said the ambulance driver. We've come to take you to hospital.
-I'm not going to hospital, the old man said. I want to go home. It's a hundred meters down this street.
-If you want to go home, call a taxi, the young man said. I can only take you to hospital.
I was starting to sag under the old man's weight. The five uniforms stood impassive before us.
-I'm a bloody doctor, the old man said. And so is my daughter. I want to call her. Her number is at home.
-It's best to be examined, I said. Then you can call your daughter.
The driver of the ambulance folded his arms.
-Yes, he said finally. You need to be examined.
-Maybe your wife can go and get your daughter's number? I said. While you get in the ambulance.
-Don't ask her, the old man said. She's got Alzheimer's.
At this, the other two young men from the ambulance moved forward and grabbed the old man's arms. The driver, arms still crossed, gave me a small nod. I stepped away. My child, like a wild horse springing out of a box, charged headlong down the street.
*
It started the next Sunday morning as a dull ache in my testicles and got worse. By the time I stood in my living room, in front of the parents of the new kids at my children's school, it felt like a spoonful of molten lead had been dropped into each one of my balls.
They had come round to discuss how we could share the job of taking our children to school.
Five assorted kids were running wild in the background. The visiting mother was a tall, large-breasted woman and as the pain grew worse, I struggled to keep my chin up to meet her gaze.
-I'm a public relations consultant, she said. So it's very difficult to know exactly where I will be on a particular day . . .
-Stop leaning against the wall, my wife said. Why can't you stand up on your feet?
The husband shook his head and sighed, staggered by the dimensions of the problem. I wanted to cup my balls.
An intense round of negotiations followed. I smiled through gritted teeth. There were numerous complications. Mondays. Tuesdays. Wednesdays. Thursdays. Fridays.
I could feel a fever coming on. After what seemed long enough for the international war crimes trial of a minor African warlord, it was done.
-My balls are hurting, I said to my wife once they had gone.
The emergency doctor came straight around and we grappled briefly in the children's bedroom, my wife having indicated this was where the examination should take place. My temperature was through the roof.
-You should have done straight to hospital, the doctor said. Rather than calling me. If there's torsion in the balls, you have only six hours to save them.
-Six hours? To save my balls?
My balls: six hours.
-When did they start hurting? he asked.
-They've been hurting for . . . a few hours, I said.
The ambulance was soon there and I was bundled into the back. Off we went, red light flashing, into unchartered territory. My amazing years of potency, it seemed, could be drawing to a spectacular end.
When I came back home it was possible that I would be . . . something else.
At the hospital a woman in a white coat pulled me out of the waiting room and took me to the guy that was going to examine me.
Except that there was no guy.
How could there be no guy? She wasn't going to . . . it wasn't possible that . . . oh no.
I looked at her again and three crucial points struck me. In this order.
1. She was wearing knee-high leather boots.
2. She was wearing black pantyhose. It had to be pantyhose, the alternative didn't bear thinking about.
3. A quick glance at her face showed her to be aged between 18 and 70 and free of any major disfiguring marks.
This was an infringement of my human rights. I would write to my health insurance company. I would complain to the association of balls doctors.
No, more than that. I would contact my Member of European Parliament.
I took my trousers off in the changing cubicle. Then I stepped into her office.
I lay down glumly on the couch.
-Please take your penis in your hand, she said.
She was wearing latex gloves. She rubbed a cold liquid on my balls. The she ran a scanning device across them. She studied the results on a big screen in front of her. I could see now that she was about 50, wore glasses and had brown, mousy hair.
Her manner was quick and professional. This was crazy beyond my wildest dreams. My private little world had not been breached. She might as well have been a dentist. It might as well have been my teeth.
-There's no torsion, she told me. You have a minor case of epididymitis. You'll have to take some medicine.
-No torsion, I said. I struggled to absorb the news.
I was still me. I was going to leave here and end this day just as I had started it.
-I just need to do one more test, she said.
She squeezed the skin on one ball between her fingers and I screamed. She squeezed the other ball. I screamed again.
-That's right, she said. Scream! She grinned at me with a toothy leer. Come on, SCREAM! Which one hurts the most?
-Both of them!
-Perfect, she said.
She laughed and I roared in tortured relief.
*
At home I sagged triumphantly into an armchair. I was exhausted but the medicine was already starting to wash the pain away.
-Dad! Dad!
One of my kids came hobbling up to me.
-What?
-My little toe is hurting. I think I need an ambulance!
I called out to my wife.
-He says his toe is hurting.
-Just kidding Dad, he said. And off he ran.
David Whitehouse is married with three children. He works as a journalist in Paris, where he has lived for the last 13 years, after moving from his native Britain. He edits The Lesser Flamingo, a new ezine.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Three poems from Felino Soriano
Painters’ Exhalations 91
—after John Coyne’s Flight in Green
Because the ocean
reverts
to mirrors on waves’
tabletop function
scripting
an unknown causation
stating sense dangles from the tongue
-caused interpretations,
inversion
proclaims sans standing philosophical
head-standing,
flight can deem itself contained by framed borders
man refuses to dislodge. This though
does not
deter
the winged from acrobatics atop air’s angled,
unbounded stage
as day of emergency transforms psyches into
lost and winded animals
catapulted among their foreign reactions.
Painters’ Exhalations 93
—after Elsa Dax’s The Night
Night constructs nest
mosaic ingredients softened mirror
for owl rest subsequent hunt,
feed, meander between itchy bark.
Stars incorporate flickered pause
saluting scientists attempting
ascertaining distance
relative to a pebble future from
man’s grabbing hand. Navy
pocket square president’s fold
sky’s tailored blazer. Music
becomes a multiplying flesh:
wind, mythical ambiance, goddesses
announce in retribution, decrees
not a whim among the ruling
giving surnames to stars’ orphaned
children.
Painters’ Exhalations 94
—after Joe Machine’s Sailor at Rest
Sustained water life, stilled on
sea’s obese spectrum
authors insanity in an etching scrape
across altered pining psyche. Misinterpreted
tranquil blue slaps the unaware, predetermined
fallacy placed in soil of gullible beliefs,
the ignoramous. Rest from the dance of waves
vomit
the mopping of decks aware of their reeking
cells.
Cliché sailor posing, respite on a bar’s hardened stool.
Head submerged, thoughts the drowning hands
grasping at answers found floating amid
inebriation. Snake
tattoo slithers in overhead light, the rare light
alive atop existence’s manifested
darkness.
Felino Soriano is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults in California. He is the editor of the online journal, Counterexample Poetics, which focuses on International interpretations of experimental poetry, art, and photography.
—after John Coyne’s Flight in Green
Because the ocean
reverts
to mirrors on waves’
tabletop function
scripting
an unknown causation
stating sense dangles from the tongue
-caused interpretations,
inversion
proclaims sans standing philosophical
head-standing,
flight can deem itself contained by framed borders
man refuses to dislodge. This though
does not
deter
the winged from acrobatics atop air’s angled,
unbounded stage
as day of emergency transforms psyches into
lost and winded animals
catapulted among their foreign reactions.
Painters’ Exhalations 93
—after Elsa Dax’s The Night
Night constructs nest
mosaic ingredients softened mirror
for owl rest subsequent hunt,
feed, meander between itchy bark.
Stars incorporate flickered pause
saluting scientists attempting
ascertaining distance
relative to a pebble future from
man’s grabbing hand. Navy
pocket square president’s fold
sky’s tailored blazer. Music
becomes a multiplying flesh:
wind, mythical ambiance, goddesses
announce in retribution, decrees
not a whim among the ruling
giving surnames to stars’ orphaned
children.
Painters’ Exhalations 94
—after Joe Machine’s Sailor at Rest
Sustained water life, stilled on
sea’s obese spectrum
authors insanity in an etching scrape
across altered pining psyche. Misinterpreted
tranquil blue slaps the unaware, predetermined
fallacy placed in soil of gullible beliefs,
the ignoramous. Rest from the dance of waves
vomit
the mopping of decks aware of their reeking
cells.
Cliché sailor posing, respite on a bar’s hardened stool.
Head submerged, thoughts the drowning hands
grasping at answers found floating amid
inebriation. Snake
tattoo slithers in overhead light, the rare light
alive atop existence’s manifested
darkness.
Felino Soriano is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults in California. He is the editor of the online journal, Counterexample Poetics, which focuses on International interpretations of experimental poetry, art, and photography.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Opening Day 2009
Editor's Note: Major League Baseball opened its season April 6, so this week we asked a fan of the St. Louis Cardinals and a fan of the Chicago Cubs, arch rivals in the National League Central division, to offer their reflections on Opening Day.
Out of the Cold, a Need for Closure
By Matthew Melick
I woke up on Opening Day dreading the thirty degree temperatures and snow that had pushed into St. Louis the night before. But I knew that these temperatures were short-lived—it was baseball season. Each spring in the Midwest, Opening Day—as all the great baseball writers have written—signals an end to the cold and darkness. As a Cardinal fan, Opening Day usually means two things—the natural beauty of spring and its longer, warmer days will be arriving shortly, and Cub fans can be excited about their team’s prospects for a couple weeks.
But this year, it is our turn to be excited, hopefully for more than a couple weeks. This is the year the Cardinals take back the Central, the year they come up with an answer in the bullpen. In 2008, the Cardinals blew a Major League-leading 31 saves and somehow still managed to finish just four games out of the wild-card. But that was last year. This year, the Cardinals have a great new closer and all of the problems of last year (and the year before) were just that, problems in the past. Right? For some reason (probably like most Cardinal fans), on Opening Day 2009 I had an uneasy feeling about the prospects of a bullpen anchored by a former catcher with only eleven prior Major League appearances.
Unfortunately, my feelings were validated—so much for change. So much for the chance to be hopeful about your favorite team’s prospects. Opening Day 2009 will forever be imprinted in my memory as the day I learned that one team can have two blown saves in one game.
Yet at the end of the day, somehow, hope had returned. It is spring, things change and grow, it is just a slow process. That is perhaps the best part about Opening Day. If your team wins—“awesome, this is the year”; if your team loses—“oh well, it is early.”
October Doesn't Care
By Bryan Timm
As a Cubs fan, I have come to a realization that is going to make this season a little different from those past. October just does not care.
October doesn't care about Opening Day. October doesn't care about players being tired from the World Baseball Classic. She doesn't care about signing a fiery right fielder or about the struggles from an imported center fielder. She doesn't care about the Houston Astros looking for some semblance of revenge for what Carlos Zambrano did to them after Hurricane Ike devastated Texas.
I encourage Chicago Cubs fans to ignore all the columnists, talking heads and any other random idiot trying to make a case for caring this early. It doesn't matter to me anymore, and it shouldn't matter to you. The only thing that matters is what the Cubs do once the season changes from summer to fall and the playoffs arrive.
I understand the excitement surrounding Opening Day because I feel it too. The prospect of sitting outside with a cold beer in my hand listening to Pat and Ron call a game is just as attractive to me this year as it has been in years past. But this year has to be different. It has to be.
The Boys in Blue may get off to a fast start and run away with the division. They may struggle early and have to hold off the Cardinals down the stretch to get in. But barring some sort of insane string of injuries, the Cubs are going to win the division, probably quite easily. So while I may be yelling at the television in May because Kosuke Fukudome misplayed a fly ball, resulting in a Cubs loss, it will be a reserved yell. Because quite simply, October just does not care.
Matthew Melick is an associate attorney at Carmody MacDonald P.C. in St. Louis, Missouri.
Bryan Timm is a cross country and track coach at Rosary High School in Aurora, Illinois.
Out of the Cold, a Need for Closure
By Matthew Melick
I woke up on Opening Day dreading the thirty degree temperatures and snow that had pushed into St. Louis the night before. But I knew that these temperatures were short-lived—it was baseball season. Each spring in the Midwest, Opening Day—as all the great baseball writers have written—signals an end to the cold and darkness. As a Cardinal fan, Opening Day usually means two things—the natural beauty of spring and its longer, warmer days will be arriving shortly, and Cub fans can be excited about their team’s prospects for a couple weeks.
But this year, it is our turn to be excited, hopefully for more than a couple weeks. This is the year the Cardinals take back the Central, the year they come up with an answer in the bullpen. In 2008, the Cardinals blew a Major League-leading 31 saves and somehow still managed to finish just four games out of the wild-card. But that was last year. This year, the Cardinals have a great new closer and all of the problems of last year (and the year before) were just that, problems in the past. Right? For some reason (probably like most Cardinal fans), on Opening Day 2009 I had an uneasy feeling about the prospects of a bullpen anchored by a former catcher with only eleven prior Major League appearances.
Unfortunately, my feelings were validated—so much for change. So much for the chance to be hopeful about your favorite team’s prospects. Opening Day 2009 will forever be imprinted in my memory as the day I learned that one team can have two blown saves in one game.
Yet at the end of the day, somehow, hope had returned. It is spring, things change and grow, it is just a slow process. That is perhaps the best part about Opening Day. If your team wins—“awesome, this is the year”; if your team loses—“oh well, it is early.”
October Doesn't Care
By Bryan Timm
As a Cubs fan, I have come to a realization that is going to make this season a little different from those past. October just does not care.
October doesn't care about Opening Day. October doesn't care about players being tired from the World Baseball Classic. She doesn't care about signing a fiery right fielder or about the struggles from an imported center fielder. She doesn't care about the Houston Astros looking for some semblance of revenge for what Carlos Zambrano did to them after Hurricane Ike devastated Texas.
I encourage Chicago Cubs fans to ignore all the columnists, talking heads and any other random idiot trying to make a case for caring this early. It doesn't matter to me anymore, and it shouldn't matter to you. The only thing that matters is what the Cubs do once the season changes from summer to fall and the playoffs arrive.
I understand the excitement surrounding Opening Day because I feel it too. The prospect of sitting outside with a cold beer in my hand listening to Pat and Ron call a game is just as attractive to me this year as it has been in years past. But this year has to be different. It has to be.
The Boys in Blue may get off to a fast start and run away with the division. They may struggle early and have to hold off the Cardinals down the stretch to get in. But barring some sort of insane string of injuries, the Cubs are going to win the division, probably quite easily. So while I may be yelling at the television in May because Kosuke Fukudome misplayed a fly ball, resulting in a Cubs loss, it will be a reserved yell. Because quite simply, October just does not care.
Matthew Melick is an associate attorney at Carmody MacDonald P.C. in St. Louis, Missouri.
Bryan Timm is a cross country and track coach at Rosary High School in Aurora, Illinois.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Two poems from Ray Succre
This is the Spark
Early by a dawner's clock,
with sleep to come where sleep should end,
I am bound all licked by a pastime become time thief.
If I reach your trickling alarm without shut eyes,
in that you rouse and find mine red,
as I sit and bloody my head with the ever-leaping story
of a character in a game on a screen,
fetch me from this pleasurable invention.
Start with profanity, or call on guilt, use nudity or bacon.
Up all night, I'll haven't a care; turn it off or take over—
only fetch me and send me on.
In a Pit of White
The cold year banked in less-lit December,
stumbled past, wings straining and indignantly spread,
straight into the snow—all it could do to stop.
Of all the things it could have spun anew,
thought to mention in passing over to next year,
this year chose to impart nothing but frozen children,
back from the white and stuck for long spans
in an un-sunned, wishful house.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second novel, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in summer 2009. He tries hard.
Early by a dawner's clock,
with sleep to come where sleep should end,
I am bound all licked by a pastime become time thief.
If I reach your trickling alarm without shut eyes,
in that you rouse and find mine red,
as I sit and bloody my head with the ever-leaping story
of a character in a game on a screen,
fetch me from this pleasurable invention.
Start with profanity, or call on guilt, use nudity or bacon.
Up all night, I'll haven't a care; turn it off or take over—
only fetch me and send me on.
In a Pit of White
The cold year banked in less-lit December,
stumbled past, wings straining and indignantly spread,
straight into the snow—all it could do to stop.
Of all the things it could have spun anew,
thought to mention in passing over to next year,
this year chose to impart nothing but frozen children,
back from the white and stuck for long spans
in an un-sunned, wishful house.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second novel, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in summer 2009. He tries hard.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Two poems from Felino Soriano
Painters’ Exhalations 90
—after Ella Guru’s Congregation
Staring into a body felt
by the unseen eyes. The listening
discerning pebbles placed atop lake
tongues, swallowed, —this is a talent
multitude hiding often in wrinkled fabric
the mind cannot mend until
light threads altered connotations. They a smiling
foreground
to the jazz inheritance full-swing method
riding the trumpet solo
away into imagination’s various homes
forming bodies with fingers
snapping echoes available for lengthy
musical interpretation. Wine glasses sipped dead.
Absence here means nothing
as in a crowd of anger, the sole smiling
forced to cower
within corners of malevolent confinement.
Painters’ Exhalations 92
—after Susan Constanse’s In the Aftermath
In the aftermath
absence curls its shadowless
monuments around the pupils
too aware of conscious perception.
Chairs lined
criminal profiles with messenger
witnesses too afraid to sit
or compose facial feature
recognition.
Bodies reside here
only by name tiptoeing memory
thus
façade panels
the weakened room
allowing
for the dead to reborn selves
after dust dissipates
revealing
tabula rasa
skin
akin
to conception ensuing saddened death,
mother pounding questions.
Felino Soriano is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults in California. He is the editor of the online journal, Counterexample Poetics, which focuses on International interpretations of experimental poetry, art, and photography.
—after Ella Guru’s Congregation
Staring into a body felt
by the unseen eyes. The listening
discerning pebbles placed atop lake
tongues, swallowed, —this is a talent
multitude hiding often in wrinkled fabric
the mind cannot mend until
light threads altered connotations. They a smiling
foreground
to the jazz inheritance full-swing method
riding the trumpet solo
away into imagination’s various homes
forming bodies with fingers
snapping echoes available for lengthy
musical interpretation. Wine glasses sipped dead.
Absence here means nothing
as in a crowd of anger, the sole smiling
forced to cower
within corners of malevolent confinement.
Painters’ Exhalations 92
—after Susan Constanse’s In the Aftermath
In the aftermath
absence curls its shadowless
monuments around the pupils
too aware of conscious perception.
Chairs lined
criminal profiles with messenger
witnesses too afraid to sit
or compose facial feature
recognition.
Bodies reside here
only by name tiptoeing memory
thus
façade panels
the weakened room
allowing
for the dead to reborn selves
after dust dissipates
revealing
tabula rasa
skin
akin
to conception ensuing saddened death,
mother pounding questions.
Felino Soriano is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults in California. He is the editor of the online journal, Counterexample Poetics, which focuses on International interpretations of experimental poetry, art, and photography.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Are You There God? It’s Me, March Madness
By Brandon Christol
It’s March, and you know what that means: It’s Fire Prevention Month!
Oh, and it’s time for March Madness! Ah, March Madness—an annual tradition of buzzer-beaters, upsets, watching basketball at work while trying not to get caught, and—most exciting of all—lots of numbers accompanied by alliterative adjectives (e.g. Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight and Final Four). It’s an extended sports spectacle that grabs the attention of Americans young and old and fills the coffers of bookies everywhere. Sixty-four teams enter with one common goal: to apply the concept of Murphy’s Law to my bracket by losing if I pick them to win and winning if I pick them to lose.
March Madness is one of my favorite times of year, mainly because it features 126 hours of sweet hoops action spread out over 10 different days. But there are many other reasons to feel much gladness about March Madness:
Western Kentucky over Drake, 2008
Illinois vs. Arizona, 2005
Top ten March Madness buzzer beaters from ESPN
Enough already, just tell me what to do with my bracket!
OK, now that we’re all ready for the games, I’m going to share with you my unrivaled expertise and guaranteed predictions. That’s right—advice straight from the person who finished in a respectable 8th place last year, and quite presciently predicted that all four #1 seeds would make the Final Four. (Pay no attention to my 43rd place finish in 2007, in which I guessed only one of the Final Four teams correctly.)
While there’s no one team with a stranglehold on the title this year, I still think the sport is top heavy. I have two #1 seeds making the Final Four this year (Louisville and Pitt) along with a couple of #2 seeds. I think Pitt, with the talent and athleticism of DeJuan Blair, Sam Young & Co., will come out of the East and ultimately defeat Louisville for the title. I love the Cardinals out of the Midwest—they didn’t just survive the insane gauntlet that is the Big East, they won the regular season and conference tournament titles, and I don’t see them losing to a young Wake Forest team, a strong but rebuilt Kansas squad, or the solid but not-quite-at-that-level Michigan State. In the South, I think UNC will stumble in a shootout with Gonzaga, opening the door for Oklahoma. And out West, I have Memphis taking down UConn in what should be a great game.
Teams that could advance further than expected include West Virginia, Purdue, Clemson and Utah State, who travels to the neighboring state of Idaho to face a Marquette team that has dropped five of six after losing Dominic James. And though I’m a big Illini fan, I’ve got them bowing out as the victim of the classic 12/5 upset. While Bruce Weber is one of the best X’s and O’s coaches in the tournament and has had them overachieving all year, U of I lacks a go-to guard in the clutch. Plus, Chester Frazier, their best defender, is most likely out. Either way, I don’t think they’re getting through Gonzaga, though I’d love to be wrong.
But enough talking about basketball—bring on the games! Enjoy!
Brandon Christol is an assistant director of admissions at Illinois Wesleyan University in Bloomington, Ill. To read more of his sports writing, visit his blog Wait ‘Til This Year.
It’s March, and you know what that means: It’s Fire Prevention Month!
Oh, and it’s time for March Madness! Ah, March Madness—an annual tradition of buzzer-beaters, upsets, watching basketball at work while trying not to get caught, and—most exciting of all—lots of numbers accompanied by alliterative adjectives (e.g. Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight and Final Four). It’s an extended sports spectacle that grabs the attention of Americans young and old and fills the coffers of bookies everywhere. Sixty-four teams enter with one common goal: to apply the concept of Murphy’s Law to my bracket by losing if I pick them to win and winning if I pick them to lose.
March Madness is one of my favorite times of year, mainly because it features 126 hours of sweet hoops action spread out over 10 different days. But there are many other reasons to feel much gladness about March Madness:
- You get to hear Gus Johnson call last-second shots. “Rises and FIRRRRRRES … GOT IT!!!!” Sometimes I spice up my day by pretending Gus Johnson is announcing my actions. As in: “He drives down the road, looks right as he goes to parallel park, squeezes in there, straightens it OUUUUUUUUUTTTTT … GOT IT!!!” If you don’t know what I’m talking about, or even if you do, click here, sit back and enjoy the beautiful rhetorical stylings of the third greatest announcer in the world.
- The Chippens NCAA Tournament Challenge!
- It means baseball’s Opening Day is just around the corner. In fact, the championship game often coincides with the Cubs’ first game (like it does this year), which is like having your birthday on Christmas or buying a house and discovering that it comes with a BMW.
- It’s college basketball with no Dick Vitale. Why won’t he stop yelling at me? I don’t care what BMOC stands for. What did he say? The ACC is strong this year? I can’t understand him when he screams like that. He sounds like Kermit the Frog if he were afflicted by voice imodulation disorder and injected with some sort of serum limiting his speech to strange and ridiculous exaggerations.
- Winning the Chippens NCAA Tournament Challenge!
- One word: Drama. It’s Win or Go Home. There’s something natural and Darwinian about it. Teams play 25+ games, fighting and clawing to claim a spot in the tourney, and then all of a sudden—BAM!—a last-second heave from half court (hopefully called by Gus Johnson) can send them packing ‘til next year. There’s no best of five, no byes, no Papajohns.com Bowl. It’s drama to the 64th power.
Western Kentucky over Drake, 2008
Illinois vs. Arizona, 2005
Top ten March Madness buzzer beaters from ESPN
Enough already, just tell me what to do with my bracket!
OK, now that we’re all ready for the games, I’m going to share with you my unrivaled expertise and guaranteed predictions. That’s right—advice straight from the person who finished in a respectable 8th place last year, and quite presciently predicted that all four #1 seeds would make the Final Four. (Pay no attention to my 43rd place finish in 2007, in which I guessed only one of the Final Four teams correctly.)
While there’s no one team with a stranglehold on the title this year, I still think the sport is top heavy. I have two #1 seeds making the Final Four this year (Louisville and Pitt) along with a couple of #2 seeds. I think Pitt, with the talent and athleticism of DeJuan Blair, Sam Young & Co., will come out of the East and ultimately defeat Louisville for the title. I love the Cardinals out of the Midwest—they didn’t just survive the insane gauntlet that is the Big East, they won the regular season and conference tournament titles, and I don’t see them losing to a young Wake Forest team, a strong but rebuilt Kansas squad, or the solid but not-quite-at-that-level Michigan State. In the South, I think UNC will stumble in a shootout with Gonzaga, opening the door for Oklahoma. And out West, I have Memphis taking down UConn in what should be a great game.
Teams that could advance further than expected include West Virginia, Purdue, Clemson and Utah State, who travels to the neighboring state of Idaho to face a Marquette team that has dropped five of six after losing Dominic James. And though I’m a big Illini fan, I’ve got them bowing out as the victim of the classic 12/5 upset. While Bruce Weber is one of the best X’s and O’s coaches in the tournament and has had them overachieving all year, U of I lacks a go-to guard in the clutch. Plus, Chester Frazier, their best defender, is most likely out. Either way, I don’t think they’re getting through Gonzaga, though I’d love to be wrong.
But enough talking about basketball—bring on the games! Enjoy!
Brandon Christol is an assistant director of admissions at Illinois Wesleyan University in Bloomington, Ill. To read more of his sports writing, visit his blog Wait ‘Til This Year.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Two poems from Ray Succre
Fulgent Men
divide themselves young on a thermonuclear
regain of slussy or cwat or punt or tritch,
obscene term for female genitals,
with a crescent wrench hostility,
a gain of signatures from unfortified ponies.
Or as they think.
Deep retracted from this expansive show,
I've learned to hold hands, clean or vulgar,
hands, domestic or dizzying, rid of glary bits
and brimming with notice, and divide myself
to tandem memory, day by bang-up day,
as goes this less sleepy, stellar sort of me.
Dead On (Indirectly)
Contents_Hot thinks well of himself, per se,
and thinks you're the virtue circular
he met through an online dating mess.
You should know, Miss_Gourmet,
Contents_Hot spends Thursdays dunking
his costumes in Tide for the churner-paddle,
eating microwaved sandwich pockets
(the package warning from which he
designed his longstanding screen name),
and then gesticulating wildly with his genitals
while reloading downloadable content.
You will likely find in him a grand monologue
of dorkdom from feverish, ongoing isolation.
He needs you, you know, a poise of parole,
and would treat you to his restoration,
should you greet him more than the once,
tonight and blind, to the misjudge of pictures,
should you become happy with him and decide
to quell the chessboard of your seldom pleasing
days.
You're no gourmet and you want to be in love.
He's an intuitive kisser-at-the-door, you know.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second novel, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in summer 2009. He tries hard.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Truth and Resurrection
By Megan Taylor
Newspapers everywhere are dying.
Mass extinction has threatened their medium for some time, and those that live on may only do so by way of evolution into something else entirely. What will someday be classified as a “newspaper” may, by journalistic standards, be a “publication” at best.
It is widely speculated that dinosaurs died off as the result of some cataclysmic meteorite crash into the earth. Just like scientists argued over the cause of mass extinction, analysts have their different theories about what ails the newspaper industry today.
Most often, we hear the Internet threatens to dissolve print media. News done a la Internet is instantaneous. Readers can follow a story as it develops, and, for the most part, it’s free. Advertisers may no longer think about things like circulation when considering their best resource, but rather about Web hits, which typically outrank the circulation of even the best of pubs.
Threat initiated by the latest technological advancement is nothing new. Imagine the fear newspaper publishers must have felt when television producers began providing viewers with live news coverage. But newspapers have proven that they can ride out change, and this should again be the case as papers contend with the Internet. When marketed properly, a Web edition of a newspaper can help bring in more revenue and garner more exposure world wide. Many pubs use the Internet to build readership and promote their print editions. Indeed, the World Wide Web is not what afflicts newspapers today.
If newspapers (increasingly viewed as archaic and dated) are the dinosaurs, then greedy corporate America’s mismanagement, and not the Internet, will be the meteor directly linked to their demise.
In corporate culture, making money is more important than serving the public. Pressed by a limping economy (which gains its crippled status through the greed of other corporate enterprises), newspapers have seen a significant drop in revenue generated through advertising. Couple that with increasing print costs, and newspapers executives everywhere feel the pressure to crunch numbers.
Thus, the newspapers let accountant types and advertising clods run the show instead of editors. Devoid of all passion for truth and journalistic integrity, these number crunchers make cuts in the most illogical places while spending more money trying to sell ads. They can hire more people to sell, but if the product is compromised, who will want to buy it? It’s true a newspaper also is a business, but it can’t be run like any other business, because it is not.
In these cases, upper management seems to forget that in order to maintain or increase revenue, a desirable product must first be established. When the product is no longer desirable, sales go down. A newspaper is like a garden and the editorial staff cultivates a marketable product. The fewer gardeners tending to it, the more weeds. Weeds are things like national news filler or national photos where interesting local stories used to flourish.
Back to the dinosaur analogy, let’s look at the evolved “newspaper” of tomorrow. Because of the pursuit of the almighty dollar, advertising executives now exert all influence over the editorial board. Truth is buried because it may offend one particular advertiser. “News” now becomes stories suggested by the ad execs about things like new products sold by a participating advertiser or a business’s 11th anniversary. The newspaper is no longer a force for accountability, but a white elephant advertising-for-editorial swap meet.
The new creature dragging itself out of the muck bears the semblance of its former self. But underneath its skin it harbors a fatal flaw. It will only be a matter of time before it is picked off by something stronger and better equipped to stand the test of time.
Let’s hope whatever survives has the pursuit of truth in mind. That and that alone will ensure the newspaper's survival.
Megan Taylor is the former staff writer for The Town Meeting, a weekly newspaper of Elk Rapids, Michigan, which closed its doors on January 23, 2009 after more than 30 years of business.
Newspapers everywhere are dying.
Mass extinction has threatened their medium for some time, and those that live on may only do so by way of evolution into something else entirely. What will someday be classified as a “newspaper” may, by journalistic standards, be a “publication” at best.
It is widely speculated that dinosaurs died off as the result of some cataclysmic meteorite crash into the earth. Just like scientists argued over the cause of mass extinction, analysts have their different theories about what ails the newspaper industry today.
Most often, we hear the Internet threatens to dissolve print media. News done a la Internet is instantaneous. Readers can follow a story as it develops, and, for the most part, it’s free. Advertisers may no longer think about things like circulation when considering their best resource, but rather about Web hits, which typically outrank the circulation of even the best of pubs.
Threat initiated by the latest technological advancement is nothing new. Imagine the fear newspaper publishers must have felt when television producers began providing viewers with live news coverage. But newspapers have proven that they can ride out change, and this should again be the case as papers contend with the Internet. When marketed properly, a Web edition of a newspaper can help bring in more revenue and garner more exposure world wide. Many pubs use the Internet to build readership and promote their print editions. Indeed, the World Wide Web is not what afflicts newspapers today.
If newspapers (increasingly viewed as archaic and dated) are the dinosaurs, then greedy corporate America’s mismanagement, and not the Internet, will be the meteor directly linked to their demise.
In corporate culture, making money is more important than serving the public. Pressed by a limping economy (which gains its crippled status through the greed of other corporate enterprises), newspapers have seen a significant drop in revenue generated through advertising. Couple that with increasing print costs, and newspapers executives everywhere feel the pressure to crunch numbers.
Thus, the newspapers let accountant types and advertising clods run the show instead of editors. Devoid of all passion for truth and journalistic integrity, these number crunchers make cuts in the most illogical places while spending more money trying to sell ads. They can hire more people to sell, but if the product is compromised, who will want to buy it? It’s true a newspaper also is a business, but it can’t be run like any other business, because it is not.
In these cases, upper management seems to forget that in order to maintain or increase revenue, a desirable product must first be established. When the product is no longer desirable, sales go down. A newspaper is like a garden and the editorial staff cultivates a marketable product. The fewer gardeners tending to it, the more weeds. Weeds are things like national news filler or national photos where interesting local stories used to flourish.
Back to the dinosaur analogy, let’s look at the evolved “newspaper” of tomorrow. Because of the pursuit of the almighty dollar, advertising executives now exert all influence over the editorial board. Truth is buried because it may offend one particular advertiser. “News” now becomes stories suggested by the ad execs about things like new products sold by a participating advertiser or a business’s 11th anniversary. The newspaper is no longer a force for accountability, but a white elephant advertising-for-editorial swap meet.
The new creature dragging itself out of the muck bears the semblance of its former self. But underneath its skin it harbors a fatal flaw. It will only be a matter of time before it is picked off by something stronger and better equipped to stand the test of time.
Let’s hope whatever survives has the pursuit of truth in mind. That and that alone will ensure the newspaper's survival.
Megan Taylor is the former staff writer for The Town Meeting, a weekly newspaper of Elk Rapids, Michigan, which closed its doors on January 23, 2009 after more than 30 years of business.
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