This is one of those very few times that Alan Shore might find himself in exactly the situation I'm writing about. I'm sure some lawyer is going to, anyway.
The death of Declan Sullivan has hit the Notre Dame community rather hard, as you would expect. A young man in the prime of his life lost that life in an absolutely senseless and ridiculous circumstance. He was on a portable scissor-lift platform videotaping football practice during high winds. A gust measured at over 50 miles per hour knocked over the platform, and Sullivan fell over 30 feet to his death, landing on a paved road.
This entire situation is ugly and pointless, as you would expect the death of a 20-year-old to be. Questions about who put him in such a dangerous situation will be asked and answered over the course of the various investigations into the accident. No doubt as some point there will be litigation on the matter, and even more and better answers may come out of that process.
The trouble with litigation, though, is oftentimes you get more answers than you really need or even want. That reality leads me to what will likely be an unpopular (and possibly illegal) opinion, but I'm going to write about it because not only is it something I would do were I a lawyer involved, I also think it's something Alan would do.
The only way this situation can get even more horrifying is if the video tape from that young man's machine becomes public property. Based on his well-publicized Twitter entry, he was filming for a good 20 minutes before the accident, and I would imagine the tape was running right up to (if not during) the wind gust that claimed his life. Even if the video does not contain the plummet to his death (which I would hope to God it does not), no doubt any audio on the tape would capture exclamations or other expressions of the fear he endured up on that platform in the minutes prior.
So what would I do if I were in ND's athletic or legal departments? If the fall didn't do it, I would ensure whatever video was captured by that camera was destroyed beyond recovery immediately. If the fall didn't do it, some combination of a hammer or magnet or scissors in my hand would.
Yes, the video may be considered probative by whatever legal entitles hold sway, and such an action might result in punishment. No, it's not at all my intention to allow the people responsible for Sullivan's death to escape justice -- all I want, to paraphrase Sally Brown, is what they have coming to them.
But as I can tell you from experience, the probative value can be far outweighed by the damage it may do to Declan's family. And that damage can last a long time. Four years ago, my aunt was killed in an automobile crash, and the knowledge that she saw the other car coming and reacted to it still haunts me to this day. It's one thing to wonder about the last moments of your loved one's life. It's quite another to have them thrown into sharp relief via a deposition or People's exhibit A, especially when the person likely can be convicted without it.
Yes, they'd probably throw me (or Alan or whoever else) in jail. But it'd be worth it to spare the Sullivan family a modicum more of pain than what they're probably already experiencing. As the father of two kids, I can't fathom having to bury one of them, and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Let's not make it worse.
Do the smart thing, guys. If you haven't already.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Not Phish Nuns
Trish is a couple months into her new gig with the Sisters of St. Joseph out in LaGrange. No, she's not cloistered, she's the financial director for their retreat center out there and helps the sisters with various money situations, some serious some not. And today, she got a reminder how necessary that help can be sometimes.
A little ways into the day, the center's HR director came into her office, looking nonplussed. "I guess we haven't been paying our taxes," she said. "The IRS sent us an email saying we need to get it sorted out."
Trish has been a CPA for quite a while now, so she knows to take our governmental friends seriously. But this didn't smell right to her. "Email?" she asked. "Why don't you forward those to me."
She took a look at the three emails the HR director had received. All looked to have come from the official IRS.gov website, listed specific account numbers, and explained in pretty tough language what would happen if the accounts weren't reconciled.
(editor's note -- as I heard the story this evening, my 20 years of IT experience told me exactly how it was going to end)
Official looking or not, my honey didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday. She called the IRS directly to sort it out, and was told in no uncertain terms that when the Federales want to get their hooks into you, they do so via snail mail, not electronics. They told her to forward the emails to their anti-phishing email address and get on with her life.
Overall, a relatively innocuous event, and it's not like any of our information is now in nefarious hands. But it pissed her off (which, after 15 years of marriage, I could have told them was a very bad idea). CC'ed on the email were a number of older nuns, some of whom might not be as savvy as Trish in dealing with communications of this type. She quickly fired off an email to the group at large, warning them not to respond to the email and that everything was being taken care of.
There are times I weep for the state of America -- fast food on every corner, and a Kardashian on every channel. The talentless performing for the tasteless. If they ever played a Lady Gaga song on an episode of Jersey Shore, it might create a cultural singularity whose event horizon would swiftly (and mercifully) destroy us all.
But those irritants pale in comparison to the sheer evil of trying to fleece nuns of what little money they have. God forbid the scrotal chancres who attempted this larceny spend half that much energy contributing to the welfare of the universe, rather than the ill-gotten pursuits that, if there's any justice in the universe, will fast-track them to one of Dante's more interesting levels.
Sometimes people suck.
A little ways into the day, the center's HR director came into her office, looking nonplussed. "I guess we haven't been paying our taxes," she said. "The IRS sent us an email saying we need to get it sorted out."
Trish has been a CPA for quite a while now, so she knows to take our governmental friends seriously. But this didn't smell right to her. "Email?" she asked. "Why don't you forward those to me."
She took a look at the three emails the HR director had received. All looked to have come from the official IRS.gov website, listed specific account numbers, and explained in pretty tough language what would happen if the accounts weren't reconciled.
(editor's note -- as I heard the story this evening, my 20 years of IT experience told me exactly how it was going to end)
Official looking or not, my honey didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday. She called the IRS directly to sort it out, and was told in no uncertain terms that when the Federales want to get their hooks into you, they do so via snail mail, not electronics. They told her to forward the emails to their anti-phishing email address and get on with her life.
Overall, a relatively innocuous event, and it's not like any of our information is now in nefarious hands. But it pissed her off (which, after 15 years of marriage, I could have told them was a very bad idea). CC'ed on the email were a number of older nuns, some of whom might not be as savvy as Trish in dealing with communications of this type. She quickly fired off an email to the group at large, warning them not to respond to the email and that everything was being taken care of.
There are times I weep for the state of America -- fast food on every corner, and a Kardashian on every channel. The talentless performing for the tasteless. If they ever played a Lady Gaga song on an episode of Jersey Shore, it might create a cultural singularity whose event horizon would swiftly (and mercifully) destroy us all.
But those irritants pale in comparison to the sheer evil of trying to fleece nuns of what little money they have. God forbid the scrotal chancres who attempted this larceny spend half that much energy contributing to the welfare of the universe, rather than the ill-gotten pursuits that, if there's any justice in the universe, will fast-track them to one of Dante's more interesting levels.
Sometimes people suck.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Not Get the Pre-Roads
Among my many psychological conditions, one minor one I've always been susceptible to is something my family calls "the pre-road downs". The pre-roads are a period of depression and annoyance that precede a vacation or any other event requiring non-minor travel, during which the sufferer debates the wisdom of taking the trip and regrets ever scheduling it.
You could be embarking on the most fun trip to the coolest place in the world for a jaunt to which you've been looking forward for weeks -- Tahiti, Aspen, Aruba, etc. And yet about 48-72 hours before you leave, you wonder what the hell you were thinking. There's still so much shit to do, you haven't packed, you forgot to stop the paper delivery, things are going to go wrong with work, airplane travel is a hassle.....
The pre-roads are much worse for me when I'm traveling alone. If Trish and the kids are in tow, or at least are meeting me at my destination, my bout is usually very minor. But for solo trips, they can be maddening. Five years ago on my trip from Chicago to LA to watch the Fighting Irish take on the Bruins in hoops, I almost decided not to board the plane. Common sense prevailed, of course, but that's how severe a case can be when I'm mobile without la familia.
They're also enhanced when the trip involves air travel. I am a confirmed aerophobe who does not see the wisdom of catapulting oneself though the air in a pressurized metal sausage casing at upwards of 500 miles per hour, and can't help but question why just because it's the pilot's time to die it has to be mine too. It wasn't always this way, but after a hellacious flight from Chicago to Dallas to attend the 1988 Cotton Bowl, I've been a "nervous flyer" ever since.
Since achieving my majority, I've endured these kinds of trips by using specialized medicinal herbs and liquids, colloquially referred to as "gin and tonics". But over the last couple months, encompassing a family trip home from San Diego and a business trip to Charlotte, I resolved to eschew the firewater and attack the evils of travel like a man ... a resolve that was sorely tested on the flight home from Charlotte during which we flew through two thunderstorms.
That's not going to work this time, though. I stand on the cusp of my guys' weekend in Vegas with about a dozen Southwest Airlines drink tickets that will be expiring at the end of the year. When Devaney, Sampson and I get to the airport, there likely will be debate as to which of us is sober enough to drive to the Mirage -- a debate I likely will win since I'll be able to point out that I wasn't the one who rented the car. And going to Vegas with these guys without tying a couple on beforehand is like running a marathon without stretching ... or training.
Yes, I will get a buzz going at 35k feet for the better part of four hours. I do it for America and in the interest of not becoming dead at some point this weekend. If there's wifi on the flight, perhaps you can be witness to the slow devolution. Until then, true believers, it's Miller time.
You could be embarking on the most fun trip to the coolest place in the world for a jaunt to which you've been looking forward for weeks -- Tahiti, Aspen, Aruba, etc. And yet about 48-72 hours before you leave, you wonder what the hell you were thinking. There's still so much shit to do, you haven't packed, you forgot to stop the paper delivery, things are going to go wrong with work, airplane travel is a hassle.....
The pre-roads are much worse for me when I'm traveling alone. If Trish and the kids are in tow, or at least are meeting me at my destination, my bout is usually very minor. But for solo trips, they can be maddening. Five years ago on my trip from Chicago to LA to watch the Fighting Irish take on the Bruins in hoops, I almost decided not to board the plane. Common sense prevailed, of course, but that's how severe a case can be when I'm mobile without la familia.
They're also enhanced when the trip involves air travel. I am a confirmed aerophobe who does not see the wisdom of catapulting oneself though the air in a pressurized metal sausage casing at upwards of 500 miles per hour, and can't help but question why just because it's the pilot's time to die it has to be mine too. It wasn't always this way, but after a hellacious flight from Chicago to Dallas to attend the 1988 Cotton Bowl, I've been a "nervous flyer" ever since.
Since achieving my majority, I've endured these kinds of trips by using specialized medicinal herbs and liquids, colloquially referred to as "gin and tonics". But over the last couple months, encompassing a family trip home from San Diego and a business trip to Charlotte, I resolved to eschew the firewater and attack the evils of travel like a man ... a resolve that was sorely tested on the flight home from Charlotte during which we flew through two thunderstorms.
That's not going to work this time, though. I stand on the cusp of my guys' weekend in Vegas with about a dozen Southwest Airlines drink tickets that will be expiring at the end of the year. When Devaney, Sampson and I get to the airport, there likely will be debate as to which of us is sober enough to drive to the Mirage -- a debate I likely will win since I'll be able to point out that I wasn't the one who rented the car. And going to Vegas with these guys without tying a couple on beforehand is like running a marathon without stretching ... or training.
Yes, I will get a buzz going at 35k feet for the better part of four hours. I do it for America and in the interest of not becoming dead at some point this weekend. If there's wifi on the flight, perhaps you can be witness to the slow devolution. Until then, true believers, it's Miller time.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Not Watch Star Trek
Unlike Boston Legal and The West Wing, Star Trek is a show my friends have no problem whatsoever understanding why I like it. The original series was a little before my time, but TNG hit right in the sweet spot of my college years, and I gobbled it up along with its first two successors. The usual schedule of violating parietal rules in Farley Hall my wife's senior year involved watching the latest TNG by candlelight, with wine and Papa John's pizza. By the time Enterprise came along, I was a little burned out on the concept, although Jolene Blalock was usually enough to ensure a pause if I cycled past an episode on the remote.
But while I was into TNG, I wasn't Into TNG, so I managed to avoid some of the phobias and manias that affected other members of the fanbase ... most particularly, the antipathy towards the character of Wesley Crusher, played by Hwil Hweaton. Given that Wheaton is about my age, he was the character with which I could identify most closely, so I didn't have (or perhaps unintentionally overlooked) any problems with the way the character was written.
Given that I'm not the go-to-conventions type, my fandom was limited to the occasional syndicated viewing. So it wasn't until I got into social media a little more that I stumbled across Wheaton's blog. After reading a couple entries, I was amazed how much in common we had. We both were rudimentary web programmers. We both enjoyed RPGs. Heck, via a recent Twitter post, I came to realize he's also a Dr. Who fan. If I'd taken that 5th grade role of Winthrop further.... So I set up a feed from his blog into my Google reader and enjoyed the occasional update.
Don't worry, as promised last time, this relates to the blog's genesis. This is one of those "I'm telling you that story so I can tell you this one" moments.
On the Thursday following my Alan Shore moment at the Hammes, I had a same-day business trip to Charlotte on the docket. As you'll probably learn more about next time, I absolutely loathe flying. I'm willing to take the occasional voyage on SWA or UAL, but it's always a means to an end I embrace reluctantly. So I'm always interested in things I can do to distract myself from my aerophobia, and one of the healthier distractions I employ is a new book. Two 90-minute flights in one day was going to require quite a distraction, so I cast about looking for something new for my Kindle.
That's when I found out Wheaton and I have something else in common -- we're published authors. I came across a reference to his autobiography, Just A Geek, and figured this would do the trick for my North Carolina jaunt. It more than did the job, especially the flight home when we spent the first 20 minutes playing chicken with Isaac Newton due to multiple thunderstorms in the area.
But it did something more than that -- it solidified in my head the idea for this blog.
Wheaton pulls no punches in his book, least of all those directed at himself. He made the decision to leave TNG just as it was hitting its stride popularity-wise, and he's watched his co-stars create lucrative careers for themselves via the show and its subsequent movies, while his acting career -- recent appearances on The Guild and Eureka (another fave) notwithstanding -- stalled out. He's very candid about his efforts to get beyond the Crusher character, and how when acting seemed to be failing him, he used other interests like his blog to keep his name out there and keep his career alive. Far from a puff piece or self-congratulatory paen, JaG is the story of a man willing to admit to his mistakes, foibles and weaknesses so he can own all of them and get past them.
Needless to say, I was emotionally poleaxed. It really takes a lot of balls, I thought as I sat in a pressurized tube 35k feet over Indiana cornfields, to put yourself out there in permanent print like Wheaton did, refusing to gloss over your fuck-ups and giving an incredibly honest self-portrayal. This is a guy comfortable enough in his own skin to do something that will benefit him in the long run while risking the slings and arrows in the short.
WWASD was born on the ride home from O'Hare. I needed a writing outlet. It probably wouldn't be pretty shaking the rust off (and might not get prettier after that), but private expression is not a useful exercise for someone trying to get a style back. I had to be willing to risk public failure if I was going to make success possible. Wil Wheaton did it. Why couldn't I?
So that's how we got here. I promise I'll get less narcissistic in the coming weeks and maybe try and approach some current events. Also, the NDN blog is finally up and running, and with basketball season approaching, I'll be making contributions there as well.
But while I was into TNG, I wasn't Into TNG, so I managed to avoid some of the phobias and manias that affected other members of the fanbase ... most particularly, the antipathy towards the character of Wesley Crusher, played by Hwil Hweaton. Given that Wheaton is about my age, he was the character with which I could identify most closely, so I didn't have (or perhaps unintentionally overlooked) any problems with the way the character was written.
Given that I'm not the go-to-conventions type, my fandom was limited to the occasional syndicated viewing. So it wasn't until I got into social media a little more that I stumbled across Wheaton's blog. After reading a couple entries, I was amazed how much in common we had. We both were rudimentary web programmers. We both enjoyed RPGs. Heck, via a recent Twitter post, I came to realize he's also a Dr. Who fan. If I'd taken that 5th grade role of Winthrop further.... So I set up a feed from his blog into my Google reader and enjoyed the occasional update.
Don't worry, as promised last time, this relates to the blog's genesis. This is one of those "I'm telling you that story so I can tell you this one" moments.
On the Thursday following my Alan Shore moment at the Hammes, I had a same-day business trip to Charlotte on the docket. As you'll probably learn more about next time, I absolutely loathe flying. I'm willing to take the occasional voyage on SWA or UAL, but it's always a means to an end I embrace reluctantly. So I'm always interested in things I can do to distract myself from my aerophobia, and one of the healthier distractions I employ is a new book. Two 90-minute flights in one day was going to require quite a distraction, so I cast about looking for something new for my Kindle.
That's when I found out Wheaton and I have something else in common -- we're published authors. I came across a reference to his autobiography, Just A Geek, and figured this would do the trick for my North Carolina jaunt. It more than did the job, especially the flight home when we spent the first 20 minutes playing chicken with Isaac Newton due to multiple thunderstorms in the area.
But it did something more than that -- it solidified in my head the idea for this blog.
Wheaton pulls no punches in his book, least of all those directed at himself. He made the decision to leave TNG just as it was hitting its stride popularity-wise, and he's watched his co-stars create lucrative careers for themselves via the show and its subsequent movies, while his acting career -- recent appearances on The Guild and Eureka (another fave) notwithstanding -- stalled out. He's very candid about his efforts to get beyond the Crusher character, and how when acting seemed to be failing him, he used other interests like his blog to keep his name out there and keep his career alive. Far from a puff piece or self-congratulatory paen, JaG is the story of a man willing to admit to his mistakes, foibles and weaknesses so he can own all of them and get past them.
Needless to say, I was emotionally poleaxed. It really takes a lot of balls, I thought as I sat in a pressurized tube 35k feet over Indiana cornfields, to put yourself out there in permanent print like Wheaton did, refusing to gloss over your fuck-ups and giving an incredibly honest self-portrayal. This is a guy comfortable enough in his own skin to do something that will benefit him in the long run while risking the slings and arrows in the short.
WWASD was born on the ride home from O'Hare. I needed a writing outlet. It probably wouldn't be pretty shaking the rust off (and might not get prettier after that), but private expression is not a useful exercise for someone trying to get a style back. I had to be willing to risk public failure if I was going to make success possible. Wil Wheaton did it. Why couldn't I?
So that's how we got here. I promise I'll get less narcissistic in the coming weeks and maybe try and approach some current events. Also, the NDN blog is finally up and running, and with basketball season approaching, I'll be making contributions there as well.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Get a Better Book Deal
Yesterday, I talked about my natural aversion to confrontation and how it's a facet of my personality I'd like, at the very least, to modify. 10 days ago, I took a first step in that direction, and it started by asking myself what Alan Shore would do in my situation.
I also mentioned my book contract yesterday, and it's there that my tale begins.
When I originally contracted to write Echoes on the Hardwood, the publisher, Diamond Communications, was a small outfit that had published a number of ND- and sports-related books. As it happens, the owner had season tickets for ND men's basketball, and when I contacted her about the project, she was over the moon about it. Even though I didn't have an official contract, she had sufficiently expressed interest such that I started doing interviews, hired a tape transcriber, etc.
Early in the process, I eschewed hiring an agent. I was working well with Diamond directly, I had direct access to an audience for the book via NDNation, and was sure I could count on help from the ND alumni association. Diamond, unlike most of the other houses, didn't require an agent's involvement. I figured I didn't need to shell out 15 percent of the revenue when I'd already done most of the heavy lifting.
Foolish decision, as it turns out.
When I had a first draft of the manuscript ready, it was time to get under contract. But in the meantime, Diamond had been purchased by Rowman and Littlefield, a much larger group with whom I didn't have nearly the same rapport as I'd had with Diamond. To her credit, Diamond's former owner (now a R&L employee) championed my book and was authorized to sign a contract.
But as it turns out, that's where it ended with R&L. I was offered a meager advance, which I decided to trade for the ability to acquire books for resale at a lower price. R&L, as I found out shortly after the book hit shelves, had budgeted approximately squadouche for marketing purposes, meaning if I wanted to do any book signings or other events, I had to plan and pay for them myself. Some of the ND alumni clubs proved much more interested in fundraising for their scholarships than helping an alum sell a book about the school. As the final straw, Diamond's former owner left R&L three weeks before my publishing date, meaning I no longer had anyone there I knew was enthused about my project.
Sales were OK, all things considered. I believe there are over 2,000 copies in circulation right now. But if I'd been better at negotiating (or more willing to mix it up), or at least had been willing to hire someone who was to act on my behalf, I believe I would have seen much better efforts from R&L because they would have been contractually obligated to provide said effort. The whole situation reeked of poor decision-making on my part, which had left a bad taste in my mouth for quite a while.
My kiddos spend a week with my in-laws in Ohio every summer, and ND is usually our hand-off point since it's a place we all like to be. Dropping them off for their 2010 trip is what led me to be in the Notre Dame bookstore on the morning of July 31st, which is where my epiphany occurred.
For those of you who have seen the Hammes, in its vestibule on the first floor is a large circular table, on which are piled the Notre Dame-related books of the day, so to speak. This time of year, a lot of them have to do with the sports teams, because with the Purdue game right around the corner, the folks at the Bookstore are prepping for the crowds and their wallets and know what side of the bread the butter's on.
As I usually do, I walked around the table to see if there was anything new to be found. There were a couple -- Monk's book had about six stacks. But most were the old stand-bys like Era of Ara, Shake Down the Thunder, Talking Irish, and other tomes that sit on my bookshelf today and have for years.
What I didn't see was EotH. Muffet's book was there. All three of Digger's books were there, two of which are just as old (if not older) than mine. But not mine.
I spent the next five to 10 minutes walking around the table, with two or three wanders part way over to the Book Information desk, debating on my next course of action. The don't-make-waves hemisphere was going full blast, as I wavered as to what to do. As the minutes ticked by, I started getting more and more frustrated with myself. I knew if I didn't do anything, I'd be in a foul humor the rest of the day, which wouldn't make for a fun drive home for either Trish or me. But I couldn't get past the inner excuse-making.
Then all at once, everything cleared. I remembered the BL episodes I'd been watching on DVD some weeks prior, and asked myself, "What would Alan Shore do if he were in this situation? Would he be wandering aimlessly around the lobby of this place? No, he'd make sure if he left the building dissatisfied, it wouldn't be due to a lack of effort on his part. So dammit, do the same thing."
I walked up to the Book Information desk, introduced myself politely, and inquired as to why EotH wasn't included on the outside table. 15 minutes of genial conversation later, not only was a stack sitting on that table but I was told the Bookstore will make sure they have plenty on hand for the upcoming season. I drove home later that day a happy person.
So far, wondering what Alan Shore would do has stood me in good stead, and I'm going to continue to do so. But that still didn't get me as far as starting this blog. I needed inspiration from another person ... a real human being this time ... who took a risk to tell his story and move past bad decisions. More about him next time.
I also mentioned my book contract yesterday, and it's there that my tale begins.
When I originally contracted to write Echoes on the Hardwood, the publisher, Diamond Communications, was a small outfit that had published a number of ND- and sports-related books. As it happens, the owner had season tickets for ND men's basketball, and when I contacted her about the project, she was over the moon about it. Even though I didn't have an official contract, she had sufficiently expressed interest such that I started doing interviews, hired a tape transcriber, etc.
Early in the process, I eschewed hiring an agent. I was working well with Diamond directly, I had direct access to an audience for the book via NDNation, and was sure I could count on help from the ND alumni association. Diamond, unlike most of the other houses, didn't require an agent's involvement. I figured I didn't need to shell out 15 percent of the revenue when I'd already done most of the heavy lifting.
Foolish decision, as it turns out.
When I had a first draft of the manuscript ready, it was time to get under contract. But in the meantime, Diamond had been purchased by Rowman and Littlefield, a much larger group with whom I didn't have nearly the same rapport as I'd had with Diamond. To her credit, Diamond's former owner (now a R&L employee) championed my book and was authorized to sign a contract.
But as it turns out, that's where it ended with R&L. I was offered a meager advance, which I decided to trade for the ability to acquire books for resale at a lower price. R&L, as I found out shortly after the book hit shelves, had budgeted approximately squadouche for marketing purposes, meaning if I wanted to do any book signings or other events, I had to plan and pay for them myself. Some of the ND alumni clubs proved much more interested in fundraising for their scholarships than helping an alum sell a book about the school. As the final straw, Diamond's former owner left R&L three weeks before my publishing date, meaning I no longer had anyone there I knew was enthused about my project.
Sales were OK, all things considered. I believe there are over 2,000 copies in circulation right now. But if I'd been better at negotiating (or more willing to mix it up), or at least had been willing to hire someone who was to act on my behalf, I believe I would have seen much better efforts from R&L because they would have been contractually obligated to provide said effort. The whole situation reeked of poor decision-making on my part, which had left a bad taste in my mouth for quite a while.
My kiddos spend a week with my in-laws in Ohio every summer, and ND is usually our hand-off point since it's a place we all like to be. Dropping them off for their 2010 trip is what led me to be in the Notre Dame bookstore on the morning of July 31st, which is where my epiphany occurred.
For those of you who have seen the Hammes, in its vestibule on the first floor is a large circular table, on which are piled the Notre Dame-related books of the day, so to speak. This time of year, a lot of them have to do with the sports teams, because with the Purdue game right around the corner, the folks at the Bookstore are prepping for the crowds and their wallets and know what side of the bread the butter's on.
As I usually do, I walked around the table to see if there was anything new to be found. There were a couple -- Monk's book had about six stacks. But most were the old stand-bys like Era of Ara, Shake Down the Thunder, Talking Irish, and other tomes that sit on my bookshelf today and have for years.
What I didn't see was EotH. Muffet's book was there. All three of Digger's books were there, two of which are just as old (if not older) than mine. But not mine.
I spent the next five to 10 minutes walking around the table, with two or three wanders part way over to the Book Information desk, debating on my next course of action. The don't-make-waves hemisphere was going full blast, as I wavered as to what to do. As the minutes ticked by, I started getting more and more frustrated with myself. I knew if I didn't do anything, I'd be in a foul humor the rest of the day, which wouldn't make for a fun drive home for either Trish or me. But I couldn't get past the inner excuse-making.
Then all at once, everything cleared. I remembered the BL episodes I'd been watching on DVD some weeks prior, and asked myself, "What would Alan Shore do if he were in this situation? Would he be wandering aimlessly around the lobby of this place? No, he'd make sure if he left the building dissatisfied, it wouldn't be due to a lack of effort on his part. So dammit, do the same thing."
I walked up to the Book Information desk, introduced myself politely, and inquired as to why EotH wasn't included on the outside table. 15 minutes of genial conversation later, not only was a stack sitting on that table but I was told the Bookstore will make sure they have plenty on hand for the upcoming season. I drove home later that day a happy person.
So far, wondering what Alan Shore would do has stood me in good stead, and I'm going to continue to do so. But that still didn't get me as far as starting this blog. I needed inspiration from another person ... a real human being this time ... who took a risk to tell his story and move past bad decisions. More about him next time.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Already Know Who He Is
Some of you may not, though, so we may as well start things off with a catch-up.
Alan Shore is a character from the television show Boston Legal, which ran for five increasingly-odd seasons on ABC, played with typical acerbic wit by actor James Spader. Spader portrays Alan as a hard-charging litigator who, while he doesn't always comply with the rules, always operates with his clients' best interest in mind and isn't afraid to push the envelope to get what he wants.
As to why I'd name this blog after him, that story's a bit more complicated.
Boston Legal, like The West Wing, is one of those shows my friends can't understand why I like. They know me to be conservative both by nature and politics, and shows like BL and TWW make no secret of their liberal leanings. My response is usually to remind them I don't take my political direction from the television set, and I'm able to take the things I like about the show and enjoy them while filtering out the political positions with which I disagree. Sure, by the fifth season, the over-the-top nature of BL got tiresome and my political filter eventually got overwhelmed by Alan's endless pontificating. But the show ended before it got walk-away bad, so I can still harbor good memories of a show I enjoyed watching. Besides, Tara Summers just does it for me.
Beyond my enjoyment of the show in general, Spader's characterization of Shore appealed to me in particular. I've never been a confrontational person by nature ... indeed, my life is peppered with situations in which I've gone out of my way to avoid conflict. Overall, I don't consider this a positive trait in my repertoire, particularly since it carries some disadvantageous by-products: I'm a crappy negotiator (e.g. buying cars, my book deal, starting salaries), I was an easy target for bullies in my youth, etc. I think I spend too much time worrying about what other people think of me, even those I'll only know for a short time.
As I'm not thrilled with that aspect of my personality, I'm always impressed by people (both real and made-up) who can display assertiveness while still retaining an aspect of non-assholish humanity. Alan Shore is archetypical of the breed. He has a very low bullshit tolerance, and even though he's an end-justifies-the-means guy, it's done out of how much he cares for his fellow people. He's got gravitas, is relentless in pursuing his goals, and can stand up to people both big and little with equal aplomb. He's consistent in how he treats people, and gives folks the respect they've earned after ample opportunity to earn it.
So when I asked myself a week ago what Alan Shore would do and then did it, I figured I had the title for the new blog. Why did I ask myself that question? That'll have to wait until next time.
Alan Shore is a character from the television show Boston Legal, which ran for five increasingly-odd seasons on ABC, played with typical acerbic wit by actor James Spader. Spader portrays Alan as a hard-charging litigator who, while he doesn't always comply with the rules, always operates with his clients' best interest in mind and isn't afraid to push the envelope to get what he wants.
As to why I'd name this blog after him, that story's a bit more complicated.
Boston Legal, like The West Wing, is one of those shows my friends can't understand why I like. They know me to be conservative both by nature and politics, and shows like BL and TWW make no secret of their liberal leanings. My response is usually to remind them I don't take my political direction from the television set, and I'm able to take the things I like about the show and enjoy them while filtering out the political positions with which I disagree. Sure, by the fifth season, the over-the-top nature of BL got tiresome and my political filter eventually got overwhelmed by Alan's endless pontificating. But the show ended before it got walk-away bad, so I can still harbor good memories of a show I enjoyed watching. Besides, Tara Summers just does it for me.
Beyond my enjoyment of the show in general, Spader's characterization of Shore appealed to me in particular. I've never been a confrontational person by nature ... indeed, my life is peppered with situations in which I've gone out of my way to avoid conflict. Overall, I don't consider this a positive trait in my repertoire, particularly since it carries some disadvantageous by-products: I'm a crappy negotiator (e.g. buying cars, my book deal, starting salaries), I was an easy target for bullies in my youth, etc. I think I spend too much time worrying about what other people think of me, even those I'll only know for a short time.
As I'm not thrilled with that aspect of my personality, I'm always impressed by people (both real and made-up) who can display assertiveness while still retaining an aspect of non-assholish humanity. Alan Shore is archetypical of the breed. He has a very low bullshit tolerance, and even though he's an end-justifies-the-means guy, it's done out of how much he cares for his fellow people. He's got gravitas, is relentless in pursuing his goals, and can stand up to people both big and little with equal aplomb. He's consistent in how he treats people, and gives folks the respect they've earned after ample opportunity to earn it.
So when I asked myself a week ago what Alan Shore would do and then did it, I figured I had the title for the new blog. Why did I ask myself that question? That'll have to wait until next time.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Be Part of the Solution
"If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem."That's the old saying ... one I haven't been heeding of late.
Back in 2005 when Echoes on the Hardwood was published, my writing had quite a bit of momentum. In addition to the new published work, I was turning out basketball articles for NDNation, had contributed to ND's 100 Seasons book, and had been offered (and declined) a position at Blue & Gold Illustrated. Difficult as it had been, I had thoroughly enjoyed putting EotH together, and was anxious to put the lessons I'd learned the hard way into practice for the second book. Charlie Weis was new to the ND campus, and I thought a comprehensive look behind the scenes at the things that went into putting on a Notre Dame football game from multiple perspectives (team, school, band, cheerleaders, media, etc.) would be my natural next step.
But I never took that step, and over the six months that followed, my writing regressed. While I continued to blog for NDNation, it seemed more of a chore than it ever had before. I turned in my home game credentials to the ND Sports Information office and stopped doing in-game coverage. Even the annual Christmas newsletter fell by the wayside, as I felt more burned out than anything else.
Time away, I thought to myself. That's what I need. I won't force it, and when it's ready to come back, it will.
Months turned into years, and "it" remained elusive. Other than the NDN contributions, I wasn't putting much on paper for anybody. And I started to get frustrated. What happened to the guy who was going to have three books to his credit by the start of the next decade? Where was the fire, the need to put into practice the corrections of mistakes that had been made in the original effort?
Why wasn't I writing?
Then last weekend, it came to me. If I wanted to write, I needed to write. Whining about it wasn't getting anything done. And whining is certainly not something Alan Shore would do. So I decided to start WWASD in an effort to kick-start the frontal lobe and scrape the rust off my fingertips whilst engaging in some linguistic legerdemain.
OK, that was over the top. Should have stretched first.
So watch this space in the coming weeks as I get back into typographic shape and feel out which way this is going to go. Some of it's bound to be boring, and some undoubtedly in bad taste. Some of it will talk about current events, some will talk about topics that interest me, some will refer to the people in my life. Eventually, I may talk about the inspiration behind the name of this blog.
Regardless, it'll be me. And that's bound to have its interesting moments.
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