I don’t remember why we chose the aquarium in Norwalk, this far-away place that became the scene of a major personal victory after a long time spent taking Ls.
We didn’t plan as thoroughly then. Get in the car, pick a direction, and figure it out along the way. I love the romance of that, but we rarely wound up any place great. You make a feast out of whatever is in front of you when you’re poor as hell.
I’d been to that aquarium a bunch when I was a kid. My grandmother would take me there when I went to visit and it always made me feel loved to be the center of attention with her. No kid sister drawing her attention away, no bullying older cousins.
When we got there, the plan was that I’d rent a wheelchair. I was getting better, no longer bedridden or stuck using a walker, but still unable to walk far on my own. I was getting used to wheelchairs and electric scooters when I made my infrequent trips out of the house. Anything was better than canceling plans or letting life pass me by.
When we got to the front desk, however, there were no wheelchairs left. My choices were pretty simple: ask my wife to go ahead without me or ask her to take us home, suffering the embarrassment of ruining a day because of my limitations. And I tell you, I just didn’t want to do either of those things. So instead, I decided to walk. Slowly and unsteadily at times with plenty of breaks to sit down on a bench and let my legs recharge. The whole trip probably took two or three times as long as it would have on healthy legs, but I can’t ever quite sum up the elation of being able to do something as routine as walk next to my wife through a crowded aquarium. It was a most important day. One that set me on a path back to a version of me that I had lost a couple of years prior.
To be clear, that me has yet to return in full. The weight I gained from being on steroids has hung around and I lack the grace and physical dexterity that I had when I was younger. A lazy eye serves as another reminder — forever changing the face my wife fell in love with. I hate it. But I try not to see it. And I try not to feel any lingering limitations. I’m so far from that day at the aquarium when I was able to grab that small win. A decade or so. I’ve claimed so many additional ones since then, building a career and a life through hard work and determination. And I owe it all to denial.
Tomorrow marks two weeks since I got my second COVID shot. That’s the period of time I gave myself to get ready to begin minorly stepping back out into the world. As a high risk individual, I’ve avoided stores, large crowds, intimate gatherings… you name it. I’m still hazy on what the vaccine means for me with variants and recklessness still circulating. I’m going to feel it out and take it slow. Slower than I’d like, slower than might be warranted.
Soon, though, even my hesitancy will ebb and something like normality will return while, at the same time, tasking us all with the burden of trying to move on from this lost year. Something that’s likely impossible for those who lost too much to forget. I count myself lucky to not be in that group. But as someone who has lost more than a year of their life to illness before all of this, let me tell you, if you’re similarly lucky and you have the ability to, you should try your best to look ahead and never look back.
My wife gets mad at me sometimes because I have blocked out a lot of the worst parts of that time. And she’s right — for better or worse, it’s still a part of our story. But I don’t think I have the ability to pick and choose what I hold onto. And I’m not comfortable trying to linger for long in the past, lest I get stuck there. Writing this is, to be honest, a wholly uncomfortable experience and as far as I care to go in that direction. But this idea is something I keep coming back to. Especially in this unique moment. Because it’s hard to not draw parallels and inticing to offer one size fits all advice that fits you so well. Even when the advice isn’t really mine to give. Or healthy.
There’s a scene in Mad Men (above) that I cling to. I saw it long after I needed to see it, but it connects to my experience nevertheless.
Peggy Olsen is in a hospital bed and Don Draper looks at her. She’s devastated from a secret she’s trying to keep from the world and the fact that she’s been tossed aside as though she was broken. He tells her, with the unwavering sureness of someone who has been down and knows how to get back up…
“Peggy, listen to me. Get out of here and move forward. This never happened. It will shock you how much it never happened.”
It takes a lot to do that. To wall off a part of yourself. Obviously, Don is an immensely messed up person due, I think in part, to taking his own advice. So, in the end, I don’t know that it’s the healthiest way forward or the best advice. I’m colder because I’ve lived my life by those words (even before hearing them) in this situation and in others. But I’m also still here and every day I wake up and I don’t think about where I used to be and how horrifying it all was. I rarely ever think about that and how embarrassing and emasculating and humbling and hopeless I was or the pain of seeing my then 25-year-old wife become a nursemaid who had to walk over the wreckage of our broken dreams to wipe my ass… No. Instead, every day, I laugh easy. I walk, I hold her with arms I used to not be able to raise, and I love her and we dream. I move forward, save for those times I briefly look back and ponder how shocking it is, that thing that never happened.
And that’s what I’m gonna do with all of this: lie to myself, ignore my pain, and hope that it never catches up to me.
Heading into the new year with a side project where I revisit 21 of John Cusack’s best films to see if they match my memory of how I felt about them when they came out. There’s no real reason for this besides liking a lot of these, wanting to write about them, and regarding Cusack as a somewhat underrated icon with a body of work spanning more than 30 years and multiple genres. Hoping to take on a few things like this for the fun of it.
The Idea: Directed by Mike Newell (Four Weddings And A Funeral) and written by legendary Cheers writers Glen and Les Charles, the film stars Cusack as Nick “The Zone” Falzone, a king-shit air traffic controller whose life is upended by the arrival of Billy Bob Thornton’s Russell Bell, a no fucks given, cool as ice rival controller. Angelina Jolie and Cate Blanchett are also appear as Mary and Connie, the Thornton and Cusack character’s respective wives.
How I Remembered It: Cusack was a late ’90s vision of cerebral cool in the film, regularly rocking sunglasses and a trenchcoat while blending rapid-fire quips and mischievous charm with the certain kind of confidence that comes from being very good at a very dangerous job. It all felt very much in his lane and of a period where that felt like his desired brand. The ensemble came together around him and there was a band of brothers feel with the air traffic controllers that didn’t seem forced or inauthentic. It’s not a laugh out loud comedy, per se, but it’s smartly written and glides along.
Revisitation Notes: The above is still very true, but a few specific things stick out upon re-watch.
I’ll start with the good. I love the oil and water rivalry between the Cusack and Thornton characters — they’re a great match as they try to one-up each other through a series of territorial pissings. But I really love that the first 4/5s of this film really goes in on the hazards and fragility of the male ego. Cusack’s character is sketched as this ultra-cool rockstar within the ecosystem of the TRACON building where he works, but he’s so territorial and scared of a challenge that he literally starts to lose his mind to paranoia and obsession, getting reckless at work and in his home life to the point that he basically loses everything. A fan of fucked up endings, I actually would have been quite content with the film ending on that note. But I understand that the filmmakers needed to show that Nick found his way to good with a more complete arc instead of making this all feel like a cautionary tale. Nice and tidy. But tidy is not exactly what we got. Instead, it feels like Newell and the Charles brothers pulled the ripcord at the end, having Nick seek out Russell for advice and an exercise in the art of losing control.
In Grosse Pointe Blank there’s a memorable moment where Minnie Driver’s character tell’s Cusack’s Martin Blank about something that represents a spiritual kick to the head. It’s never referenced again but it essentially comes to being throughout the third act of the film as Martin realizes what he wants and what he needs to run away from. But in Pushing Tin, they just sort of visualize the exact effort to force that kind of clarity, resulting in a dumb, effects laden shot with Thornton and Cusack spinning through the air after getting blown off the ground by the turbulence of a plane landing. And then he’s fine. Like he got a shot or took a pill. All better. No need to show him working through his shit, just a fast forward where he can be back at work and on the cusp of getting his wife back with a little sweet talk while essentially holding a plane hostage from the ground. How sweet. And that they do that moments after showing Connie (Blanchett) telling complete strangers about her plan to start fresh and stand on her own is such a disservice to that character, who had to deal with the twin devastations of finding out her father died and that her husband had cheated on her.
It’s hard to excuse the misuse of Blanchett’s talents in this film. She’s a doormat caricature of a doting suburban wife that isn’t given much of a personality of her own. Angelina Jolie is also poorly drawn as Russell’s young wife who drowns her angst in vodka tonics while spending too much time around the morally dubious Nick. At least we learn a little trivia about her while Nick sloppily woos her over dinner, but like Blanchett’s character, Mary is really just there as a prize for Nick to steal from Russell. Same as Connie is a prize to be kept in her little box by Nick. All credit to Blanchett and Jolie, who add some color to these surface characters but, the writing failed to give them adequate dimension to make this worth their time and talent.
Final Verdict: Pushing Tin remains an easy to watch and capable ’90s film for Cusack fans in pursuit of some of his best work, but the ending and characters outside of Nick “The Zone” Falzone make for a somewhat bumpy experience overall.
I was looking for worthless things to ask for for a secret Santa thing and I came upon a director’s chair which sparked a memory. And since it felt like something worth more than a couple hundreds characters, here we are…
I’m kinda fat. There’s no real way of masking this especially in this Zoom call filled reality. Bless the normies who aren’t used to working remotely and who peer pressure everyone else into being cameras on when we could be, at any time, quietly eating cereal at our desks. Anyway, fat! I’ve been this way most of my life so I’m used to it. Doesn’t mean I’m happy with it, but moving around a bit as a kid with a little extra junk in my trunk certainly helped me learn to accept it and not let it define me. Which kinda weirds people out sometimes. Which I sort of love. Anyway, I don’t know how to really turn me off so I’m self-deprecating about it. The literal elephant in the room.
Back to the story: I’m at the Roxy Hotel a few years ago during Tribeca and I’m about to walk into an interview with Matt Smith, the former Doctor Who and The Crown star who was promoting his turn in a Robert Mapplethorpe biopic. It was going to be a quick one but I had composed my thoughts and I was ready to go. When they lead me into the room, though, I was confronted with a fat person’s worst nightmare — an obviously breakable chair. In this case, a cloth director’s chair. Now, I am always aware of where I’m about to plant my great big ass. What’s it made of? What does it look like it can hold? This is the internal calculus at play before I take a leap of faith and lower myself down. And while I’ll sometimes roll the dice, this wasn’t one of those times.
This all may sound like an awkward moment, and If I’d overthought it, I suppose it would have been, but the mouth ran all stop lights and after saying the word “hello” the following statement rolled out of my face: “Oh I will absolutely destroy that chair.” And I would have, possibly causing me to fall on and flatten Matt Smith, a treasure to audiences on at least two continents. But here’s the point: the publicist sort of froze for a split second and Matt Smith, the goddamn Doctor, sprung from his seat and looked around the room telling me he’d find me a suitable chair. In the midst of a press tour and a parade of impersonal half conversations, Matt Smith demonstrated a touch of class and empathy for a fat guy just looking to first do no harm to a seat. Anyway, seeing a cloth director’s chair on a gift guide sparked this. And though I’ve lost about 30 pounds since that day, I’m not gonna roll the dice on this one either.
Remember the Wondrous Boat Ride scene in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory when they’re on the boat and the passengers are offering a mix of glee and terror in response to the flashing lights and flashing nightmares in the tunnel?
“There’s no earthly way of knowing, which direction we are going…”
It’s an amazing, horrifying scene that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Specifically how eeriness builds into a scream as the torture of not knowing their destination is pierced by the terrifying possibilities laid out by Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka — who is loving every minute of it.
“Not a speck of light is showing. So the danger must be growing. Are the fires of Hell a-glowing? Is the grisly Reaper mowing?”
Pundits have opinions emanating from their gut, their best interests, or a collection of numbers from a process that has been proven wobbly as we head into this election and the resulting days and maybe weeks of tense coverage over the results. What do we, the captive audience, have? An obvious and exploitable need to seek certainty ahead of when it’s actually available. And for that weakness, we’re going to be subjected to the dissection of every microscopic data point as network and cable news pundits (and everyone on Twitter) happily race to assign apocalyptic meaning to things that, in the light of the final tally, may not mean a whole lot.
In the best of times, these habits cheapen and rush a delicate and solemn thing, turning it into a spectacle that can be packaged as a jump-scare laden horror film. But, to state the obvious, these aren’t the best of times. And when underdeveloped happenings are breathlessly reported on and around election day, these things will grease the skids for a dramatic narrative that’ll be good for ratings but terrible for our collective blood pressure and the temperature of a country on edge. Something that may feed the baseless screams of a supposedly rigged election and devious cries to stop the count before every vote is logged. Something which may incite violence. Because we’re not exactly not playing with dynamite here. And yet, knowing this and even stating it doesn’t mean we won’t watch.
The only alternative to this festival of phony foreknowledge and politics-as-sport pregaming isn’t really an alternative at all. It demands that we deny that we are slaves to the FOMO and to the hit of absorbing and reacting to the bullshit. And we can’t deny those things. I certainly can’t. We do this because we think it insulates us from the drip, drop torture of not knowing while acting as a guard against truly shocking results. But it’s a fallacy. I promise you, no amount or prep or pre-thinking is going to prepare any of us for what comes next — be it a nightmare resolution to this whole “what we can do vs. what they can do to us” thing or a cathartic victory.
As they say, elections have consequences and this next seemingly interminable period of media-fueled anxiety (made worse by the chaos of these times) is one of them. Because despite the confident assurances, there’s no earthly way of knowing, which direction we are going.
Ron Howard’s The Paper is a fairytale of days gone by when the frenzy of being up to date on every minuscule development fell to a select few who distilled it all for mass consumption in daily increments. The world would occur during normal-ish business hours, they would witness it, report on what happened, and add context. And then they’d do it all over again, confident that everyone — from the newsmakers to their daily readers — would play their role in the process. It was as if the world ran on tracks with a schedule and a balance to maintain. And now the future is here and it feels like flying cars are smashing into each other everywhere, always. We’re captivated by the flames and the bent metal and the blood and the screams. Mad from a lack of rest, reflection, and the notion that if we look away we’ll miss the unmissable and fall out of the conversation and relevancy. Everything is deluxe and catastrophic now. And by extension, everything is nothing now with things that would stun moving passed us so quickly that it feels like we’re in a dream. Or a nightmare.
This article about The Paper is not a eulogy for the zombified and soul-gutted state of the news and how we receive it. I’m just framing the lost quaint world that serves as a stage for what is a still-relevant tale about our relationship to work and each other. One that hits me square in the chest after showing the film — one of my personal favorites — to my wife, Michella, for the first time.
As Henry Hackett, Michael Keaton brings electricity, intensity, and playfulness to the role. Henry goes non-stop as the metro editor of the fictional New York Sun, which is described as a “cute” paper by the editor of a New York Times analog (played by Spalding Gray — everyone is in this movie). The Sun is a tabloid, akin to the New York Daily News and New York Post — the kind of journalism that used to fit the model of quick and dirty, and a little smug. You know the type. We’re all swimming in it now. I grew up on these newspapers. I read them back to front every morning from my 10th year to my 27th when I got laid off from my job, got sick, and receded into a more digital existence that I still occupy for work and information. To be honest, I miss the ritual of those mornings on a school bus, in a car, on a train, or in a breakroom. A bagel, Mike Lupica, ink smudged fingers, and the feeling of fullness you got when you read a paper. Like, you knew things were continuing to spin and develop, but you didn’t feel a constant need to dig and refresh. Everything in the world wasn’t happening to you. I should point out, there will be tangents. Again, this is not a eulogy for the news circa 1994… but it might feel like it at times.
Henry is in the midst of a particularly eventful 24 hours. A period that, as his wife, Marty (Marissa Tomei) warns, could change their life for the better or worse. In that moment, Marty is talking about Henry’s big job interview with The Sentinel, something that represents hope for a more stable life of 9 to 5 bean-counting that Henry detests but which he’s pursuing with the idea that he needs to be a grown-up and be there for the child he and Marty are imminently expecting.
As Marty, Tomei is pitch-perfect. She’s on maternity leave from her own job as a reporter at The Sun and highly stressed about the idea that she might become irrelevant or a footnote in Henry’s life. She sees a future with her individuality and identity fading as she becomes nothing more than a wife and mother. This holds no appeal to her and yet feels inescapable throughout the day as she brunches with a super bitter friend (Catherine O’Hara, again, everyone is in this movie) and struggles to get Henry’s focus or commitment to make the same level of sacrifice that she’s making. But Marty also gets it. She’s afflicted with the same drive that Henry has. When he’s working on a story, she’s more than happy to flex her investigative reporter muscles for the cause despite being 8 1/2 months pregnant. More than happy to get a small taste of the rush. But for her, it’s a more controlled addiction. Not because she wants it to be, but because she feels like she needs it to be.
Henry and Marty’s relationship is handled with nuance. No one is a hero, a villain, or a victim, per se (though, I may be biased slightly for reasons I’m slowly working toward). The film, even 26 years later, feels grounded and relatable. A tug of war between love, obsession, ambition, obligation, have to, and want to. You feel for both halves of this relationship. You root for them to figure it out but you’re not sure what happiness is for each of them. At least not in a way that achieves any real balance for both as individuals and as a whole.
The world of the newsroom at The Sun is no more settled or simple than Henry’s personal life. It’s loud, hectic, and filled with people that posses a driving need to unload their inane problems on Henry’s doorstep. Often at the same time and often as Henry is desperate to dispatch them so he can focus on his own swirl of troubles. At one point, during a newsroom scene, I turned to my wife and said, “God, I wish could experience that.” A digital newsroom by way of a Slack channel doesn’t quite compare.
With his interview at The Sentinel hours away, Henry is feeling the pressure to not mess up so that he and Marty can step into a more calm and stable future together with their child. He’s also observing the conveniently stark examples of both roads that he could take.
Bernie, played by Robert Duvall, is a crusted over veteran newspaperman and editor. A general, respected and warmly regarded by his troops after spending decades in the game. But there is, of course, a cost; a long list of regrets that are more top of mind than usual as he deals with a health scare. As Bernie points out when Henry seeks his advice, he’s got two ex-wives and an estranged daughter who, unbeknownst to him, went off and had herself a life while he was holding court with his reporters being absorbed by the day to day of his job.
On the other side, Alicia, played by Glenn Close, is a reviled middle manager who shed her journalistic integrity to fixate on the bottom line and keep everyone on task. It’s a thankless job but one that she approaches with zeel owing to her ambition to keep climbing the ladder and earn enough to finance the status she’s chasing. Neither of these end results seem appealing, by the way. Both feel like a nightmare of what Henry’s life might become (same as Catherine O’Hara’s character provides a similarly scary glimpse at a possible future for Marty). But it’s clear from his actions (blowing his Sentinel interview to steal some intel off of their editor’s desk) that he’d much prefer to turn out like Bernie. He’d just figure out a way to game the system and have both a family life and the ability to approach his job with the same unrelenting, obsessive, and unhealthy level of speed and devotion as he always has. It’s that simple. Because it always is.
As I mentioned, I work around a digital newsroom/Slack channel. Occasionally, I write, but it’s more often interviews or planned out features — things I can construct at my own pace and outside of my work on the business side of things. I enjoy that work, the challenge of it, and the aspect of helping a media company keep the lights on and build. I am also good at it. And being good at something you never thought you would have to be good at makes it easy to enjoy doing that thing.
Mostly, I write at night. Anytime after 6 but often quite late. It’s quiet then. There are no Slack pings or emails to address. I can focus. But it comes at a cost that I’m tremendous at ignoring. I should point out that no one mandates that I do this or even that I write. It’s my choice. It’s my identity and what I’ve wanted to do since I was that kid with the smudgy ink-covered fingers.
It’s her look, accepting but wistful. She doesn’t want to stop me, she just wants me to stop myself every once in awhile. I see her eyes and I feel the pull of staying in bed and not going to my office or sitting on the couch to write or watch a movie that I can maybe write about. I wonder how many times I don’t see them. The times she looks over and I’m head down on something or looking at Twitter or reading something. Those times when she doesn’t need anything specific from me, just a connection and to feel like I’m really there. But I’m not. She knows how much writing means to me. How I’d feel incomplete without it. But right now I’m a little worried that I haven’t done a great job of communicating to her how much she means to me and how utterly incomplete I’d be without her. How there’s no comparing writing to her. How she wins in a one to one contest. But even if I said that more, I don’t know that it would do the trick.
Should I write less? I’ve got ambitions to do things like write a book. How does that fit into the equation? I don’t know if I should bury my phone, laptop, and tablet under a rock when I’m not working. Should I just accept that I’ve become a workaholic? This thing I saw my father weep over becoming when I was a teenager. This thing I swore I’d never be when I was working mindless service jobs, well before I knew I might someday get the chance to actually do something cool and fun and challenging. Maybe I can steer clear of the consequences? Am I at least a functioning workaholic? I don’t have ready answers to these questions. Some of them aren’t for me to answer.
So… The Paper. In the third act, Henry pushes beyond the bounds of the ticking clock and his boss’ (Alica) edict that he run a story he knows is false to save a few (thousand) bucks. He puts everything on the line to exonerate two innocent teens who have been accused of a murder that could start a race war. But in reality, it’s not really about those teenagers or the larger story. It’s about him proving his worth as a newspaperman and that there is a righteousness to the work and his decision to stay in a job that might just harm his relationship. I’m not saying Henry is conscious of this, but it feels like the reality of his actions.
Marty, on the other hand, seems utterly terrified that her husband is showing, more and more, that he can’t grow with her or live up to his responsibilities as it pertains to their family and future. There’s a great scene when everything comes to a head. Henry’s parents are sat in a restaurant, he’s been late to meet them and Marty, he’s still running trying to get the right story filed, and McDougal, Randy Quaid’s disheveled and wild columnist character, is speeding down the street in a vintage car to pick him up. Henry has just told Marty that he blew The Sentinel interview and their easiest chance at a break in the chaos that might allow him to be a real partner to her. Tomei is brilliant here, shell shocked and yet unsurprised by the selfishness and compulsion. Keaton is wide-eyed, like a kid who just confessed to doing something wrong without quite grasping the enormity of it. He can’t see it or her, not because he doesn’t want to, but because she’s obscured by how much he loves to do this thing and how much easier it is to take her for granted. The news is gone in an instant, after all, and she’ll always be there, right?
Amidst all of this, Marty makes a loud and profound point. What would Henry do if someone burst into their apartment and put a gun to her head, telling him they’d kill her or blow up the building that houses the paper. His choice. Which one goes? Henry explodes at the ridiculousness of the question, but the point is that life is not a series of big all or nothing choices like that, it’s microtransactions that can push us toward or away from the people in our lives that we love. People we’d never consciously hurt through inattention or selfishness, but who our behavior can often punish as a side effect of how we live and try to juggle our priorities.
After getting hit in the chest with Marty’s observation, Henry hops in the car with McDougal to go save the reputation of two kids, The Sun, and deliver an epic fuck you to the establishment. Marty goes back inside. A few hours later, she suffers a near miscarriage.
In the light of the morning after, Henry goes to Marty’s hospital room. She shows him the day’s paper with the right story in place. It’s inexplicable to Henry after all he endured between then and the last time he had seen his wife in front of that restaurant — a fight with Alicia, getting fired, and planting a seed of doubt in her head about what she was doing by killing the story. Henry looks at the copy of The Sun with pride, Marty looks at him with forgiveness, he tosses the paper aside, and all seems right. Almost losing her and seeing his son for the first time fixed Henry and his and Marty’s relationship, causing him to reorder his priorities. But I’m inclined to look beyond the obvious.
Yes, when the alarm clock goes off, Henry briefly rises to make us think he’s going right back to work before laying back down and holding Marty. But what happens the next day and the day after that?
The idea that these characters might not be fully settled holds appeal to me. Big happy endings and full-on resolutions, when earned, do the same thing to me that they do to you, but they’re doled out at a level that is frustratingly off-balance with reality. Minor bits of progress feel more right and, in a way, affirming because it’s often the only kind of progress that’s truly in reach in the marathon that is our own stories.
My final verdict is that Henry and Marty are okay, for now, but he still has work to do and a reason to hang on to the lessons learned on this day that absolutely changed their lives. He has choices to make. Every single day. Because, to go back to what Marty said, life is about how you prioritize and handle those little moments that constantly present themselves to you.
As for me and my workaholic nature, I don’t know. This rewatch of The Paper has me thinking. Writing this was a part of processing that. On the other hand, to do this, I got up, went to my office, and spent two hours on a Saturday writing almost 3,000 words for my own vanity website because I really, really wanted to. All while my wife sat and went through photo albums, putting things aside for me to look at someday when I have the time. Maybe typing this all out makes it easier for me to “see” myself and the decisions I make, I don’t know. Again, it’s about finding a balance. I probably should have done a better job this time, but maybe realizing that helps me do better next time.
I have no good and solid reason for why I wanted to sink some free time into building a digital testament to myself but here we are. On the front page, there are lovely words about myself written by myself. That’s not weird at all. Then there’s a link to my Authory page which houses shy of 2,000 articles that I’ve written on Uproxx, Comic Book Resources, Den Of Geek, Screen Rant, Starburst Magazine (what up UK!), and I think that’s it. Granted, I’ve seen a few sites go under and take another 1,000 or so articles of mine with them. Depressing! At some point, I’ll break my Authory page down into categories like interviews and oral histories, etc. But that will take a bunch of time. The dream would be to have some kind of archive on this site instead of linking out to Authory but that will also take a bit of time.
As you may have noticed, there’s an embed for a podcast that I’m presently working on where I talk with people (writers, actors, comic, athletes, etc) about baseball and whatever else comes up. I’ve been away from podcasting for the last few years but I truly enjoy… aspects of it. Recording! Not so much editing. Episodes will be in-frequent to start because of that. At least until I decide to pay someone else to edit it. Future podcast projects are likely. That is not a threat.
Lastly, there’s this space where thoughts that are unfit for publication elsewhere go to live and die. I know I’m making the “blog” sound super appetizing, but it’s the truth. Random thoughts and half-formed ideas that are too big for Twitter and too small or weird for Uproxx are pretty much all that I’ll park in this space.