There Will Be a Slight Delay in Our Program, or How a Clown and the Cubs Cured Writer's Block

Writing is like exercise. The more you do it, the easier it gets. It's a habit, and like all habits (good ones, anyways) if you get off your regular schedule, it gets tougher and tougher to start up again. I'd love to say that I had just been too busy to post over the last couple of weeks, but that isn't true. The truth is, I have been suffering from a big, nasty, scary case of writer's block.

I let it go the first week, thinking something would come to me. Nothing did. When week 2 came around and I was still worried about a decent topic I would be willing to self-immolate over, I still had nothing. All week long I have been sweating it because I still had nothing, and the WORST thing I could do is not have a post this week.

Stay in the habit, Kelly.

Pretty much everything I do has to be the hard way, though. So the more I searched for a good topic, the worse my block got. I was really stretching for something. Every day this week I have spent at least 20 minutes typing and erasing drafts. The auto-save feature captured some of them for me, and they are...Bad. Really bad. Like "stick a needle in my eye" bad. And you all know that I am probably the only person you are acquainted with who is qualified to make that statement with truth and accuracy.

Suddenly I was thinking about self-immolation and sticking needles into eyes, and other painful experiences, and I was inspired! Bolt-of-lightning-straight-from-heaven inspired.

I haven't explained my fascination with the Chicago Cubs.

(I'll pause for laughter...I'm waiting....)

I am not one of these Kris Bryant adoring, Kyle Schwarber worshiping Johnny-Come-Latelys. I am a long term, emotionally train wrecked Die Hard of the first order. I have paid my dues.

Check my Facebook. Ask my old friends. I have been a Cubs fan all my life.

When I was still in elementary school, my parents signed us up for this incredible invention called "cable TV". It had a bazillion channels, and the best part was, it came with a remote control so my days of getting up to change the station between NFL games on Sunday was over. One of the networks was called MTV, which stood for Music TV and they showed nothing but music videos. Weird, I know. Mom wisely put a block on that one. One of them had only sports programs 24 hours a day and it was called the Celestial Kingd...er...ESPN. But of all those channels, the one that got tuned into the most was WGN in Chicago.

When we were home from school during the summer, the first thing that came on in the morning was the Bozo the Clown show on WGN. Despite what my younger readers may think, this was NOT a predecessor to CNN coverage of politics. This was back in the day when clowns were neither politicians, nor scary.

I know it is tough to believe, but Bozo the Clown was HILARIOUS. He had his buddy Cookie the Clown and he hit him in the face with pies, and told awesome terrible jokes, drove tiny cars.. it was great. The best part was at the end of every show when they played Bozo's "Grand. Prize. Game." (You had to pause between each word when you said it to let the awesomeness sink in).

The gist of it was they would pick one kid from the studio audience to come down and toss pingpong balls into buckets that got progressively farther away. The further the bucket, the better the prize. It escalated from a coupon for free ice cream all the way up to ....wait for it....A BICYCLE!!!! A 10 speed bike, no less.

There was none of this, "every kid is a winner" BS either. If the klutzy kid they called down missed the first bucket, he went home with a case of mortified embarrassment and not one damn thing else.

As kids, we would get irritated with the contestants that couldn't get to at least the third bucket. What kind of dweeb couldnt drop a pingpong ball three feet away? We would take a golf ball and my mom's mop bucket out to the driveway and practice in the hopes that one day, we might happen to be in the neighborhood of Chicago and get a shot at Bozo's Grand. Prize. Game.

Now none of us kids had the faintest idea of just how far away Chicago was. We never considered the fact we had as much chance of going to the moon as we did the Bozo show. But if it happened you could be sure none of the Kelly kids would shame their heritage with naught but a two bucket win.

Bicycle or bust, baby.

But even if we had known that we would never be in Chicago, there was still hope! You see, before the start of every Grand. Prize. Game. Cookie the clown would go over to a big drum full of names and pull out the name of a kid watching somewhere in the U.S. on TV. That kid won whatever the kid playing the game won. Every day, we kids would watch; hoping, praying, that Cookie the clown would pull our names. It seems hilarious now, but we were all sure our chances were getting better and better every time someone else's name came out of the drum.

I swear to you by all that is holy, not one time, not for one single second did it occur to me that none of us had bothered to send our names in to WGN to get put in the drum. I mean, hell. Bozo knew we were watching, right? Surely he had dropped us into the drum as a reward for our loyal viewership.

I miss being a kid. Honestly. ALMOST as much as I miss the Bozo show.

Anyway, once Bozo got done handing out shaving cream pies to the face and bicycles to the kids, we had an hour or two to kill before Harry Caray and Steve Stone came on from Wrigley field to broadcast the beloved Cubbies.

To be fair, TBS in Atlanta broadcast the Braves every day, too. But they were owned by Ted Turner and as my Dad accurately told us, "Ted Turner is a jerk."

Even BYU hero and league MVP Dale Murphy was not enough to swing us to the Braves.

Cubs or nothing. Always was, always will be.

We would watch until the 7th inning stretch, when Harry led us in a rousing, off key, out of tune rendition of "take me out to the ballgame" where we would "root, root, root for the cuuuubbbbies"

On the frequent occasions we were behind,at the finish of the song, we would all shout in unison with Harry for the team to "go get some runs!"

It was then my job to call my Dad at work, (his office was less than a mile from our house) and tell him it was time to come home for lunch. He would come watch the last 2 innings with us before going back to work. I spent nearly every summer day watching the Cubs, win or lose, rain or shine with my brothers, sisters, my Mom and Dad and good old Harry who was too drunk to drive, but not to broadcast.

It might be, it could be, it is! Holy Cow! and Cubs win, Cubs win, Cubs win!

Will Ferrell is funny, but he'll never do it justice.

Wrigley and it's bleachers are sacred ground. And no matter what Nena says, there's a reason my youngest is named Ivy.

Ryne Sandburg, Mark Grace (traitor!!!), Shawn Dunston, Jody Davis, Rick Sutcliff, Greg Maddox, Keith Moreland, and my personal favorite Andre the Hawk Dawson. We watched all of em. We even put up with long past-their-prime-retreads like Ron Cey and Goose Gossage.

You all remember Bill Buckner? I remember when he was a Cub. And 2 full years before he busted Boston, I watched Leon Durham out Buckner Bill Buckner. Game 5, up by one, grounder goes right through the old Five Hole, and it was so long, 1984 World Series. Tony Gwyn, Gary Templeton, Alan Wiggins...you and the Padres still suck.

I remember walking home from school as a freshman, listening to the Cubs play the Giants in the 1989 NLCS. Will Clark turns into Clark freaking Kent, and once again, we were sucking eggs. Giants...you suck, too.

I still can't talk about Steroid Sosa and that whole crummy era. I mean we had a juiced up slugger, Mark Prior AND Kerry Wood and still can't win. How come? Steve Bleeping Bartman, that's why. Never forget, never forgive. Jerk.

71 years since our last World Series. Nearly one and a quarter centuries since our last title. You'll pardon me if I show something of a cynical streak when it comes to my team. All that is left of my soul is scar tissue.

My brother in law (who is an ok dude, even if he is a Damn Dodger fan) says that every Cub fan has 5 little words they must memorize and recite. Say it 5 times with a different emphasis on each word, and it has five slightly different meanings. It's a Cubbies Catechism, if you will.

THEY will break your heart.
They WILL break your heart.
They will BREAK your heart.
They will break YOUR heart.
They will break your HEART!!!

As for me, the Cubs are why I believe in a diety. There is a God. He does care about sports. And He HATES the Chicago Cubs. There is no other explanation.

On the day that each of my sons were born, I waited until their mother fell asleep. I picked them up, snuggled them to my shoulder, and whispered an apology. "I'm sorry, my son", I said. "I have brought you in to this world and intend to turn you into a Cubs fan. This means that you will likely never see them win anything in your whole lifetime, and no child should come into this world with that kind of bad Juju hanging over them. But bear with me, my boy. Because if they ever overcome the ghost of Leon Durham, Will Clark, the goat, the dirt birds in St. Louis, Bleeping Bartman and Heaven everlasting itself; and we should win... we will be able to say we were there from the get go."

So should we reach the promised land this year, then Glory, Hallelujah! The Cubs finally got their names pulled by Cookie the clown, and are playing the Grand. Prize. Game. and I am playing along at home.

Don't be that dweeb who only gets to the second bucket, Chicago. Bicycle or bust, baby! At least we have a better chance than I ever did of getting on the Bozo show.

But should you blow it, just know that I will still be watching next year and wondering when you are going to start slinging pies.

Hey! Holy Cow! Looks like I'm over my writer's block! One more reason to say, Go, Cubs, go!

I'm Your Little Ebola Monkey, or Why the Cubs aren't the Only Things Making Me Sick

Well, this ought to get interesting. It's been a long week and today, instead of spending the day at work and then cranking out a post at my desk, I have been working the phones from home for reasons that will become aparent shortly. So I am trying to see if it is feasible to put out a post from my tablet. It takes a little getting used to, but I think it may work. I'm guessing I will have to edit sharply to avoid auto correct entertainment.

Since it is October, how about a horror story?

Last week, I mentioned that toddlers are the most destructive creatures in the universe. This week, I have proof. Maggie, my eldest daughter, has recently been employed at a day care facility. She didn't realize how much on the job training her mother and I had given her in preparation for this new gig. Being the oldest in a big family teaches you more than everything you ever wanted to know about the care and upkeep of small children.

Dirty diapers...meh. Screaming babies...been there, done that. Maggie is a natural, and dang good at her job, She is also thrilled she has found someone that will actually pay her to do what Nena and I have expected of her since she was about 12.

How is that a horror story? I hear you ask. We are getting there.

You may rightly assume that finding a job that pays you to do what you have always done is a dream. But as the fortune cookie oft notes, "be careful what you wish for". And the unintended "benefit" of working with so many runts is that you become little more than a carrier monkey. My daughter shall henceforth be known as Typhoid Maggie.

My new nickname for the daycare is the CDC. As in the "Connection for Disease and Contagion". Everything those destroying angels come down with winds up coming home with Typhoid Maggie. Colds, flu, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, shingles, dengue fever, Malaria, whooping cough, measles, mumps AND rubella....pretty much everything this side of mad cow disease. And on Saturday, Maggie brought them all home at once to share.

Saturday, she started saying she wasn't feeling well and by Sunday afternoon, she was a veritable expert in the fine art of the technicolor yawn. Naturally, I felt horrible for her. But it was football.....err...conference sunday, and I felt fine. BYU won, the Broncos won, and the Cubbies had not yet revealed how they are going to break my heart THIS year. Oh, and I did get a spiritual boost from LDS general conference.

By Monday, It. Was. On.

Maren got all barfy and passed the morning acting like she had spent the night before on the corner seat at the wooden leg saloon. She said her head hurt, and her stomach hurt and bluphhhrrghh... off she ran to the bathroom, hands over her mouth and her cheeks puffing out like a squirrel in September. She was feverish and miserable, but I went to work. She stayed home from school, and by the time I got home Monday night, she was turning fitfully in her room.

See, the nice thing about when bigger kids get sick is that they generally have a good idea of when it is time to bow down at the foot of the porcelain idol, and for the most part, should they miss, they clean up after themselves. Maggie and Moe could be as sick as they wanted, Not. My. Problem.

Tuesday morning, she managed to exit the crypt and got to school in time to compete with the band out at Bingham high. I admit, passing over those haunted, hated environs was enough to make ME want to puke. (All West Jordan wrestlers have an instinctive hatred of Bingham.)

Maren still looked a little pale and ghostly, but she mumbled something about "If I can get to act 2 the King will stab me to death and it will all be over..." and she went out and performed like a champ. Greater flu game than Michael Jordan. I'm telling you, the kid has skill.

Wednesday, She was fine. Looked like a 48 hour bug and we were all in the clear, right?

C'mon guys. You know me better than that. That wouldn't be much of a horror story at all.

Tuesday night, wee little Will came down to my bedroom with a creaky, simpering voice and mumbled "I don't feel well."

Tough nuggies, says Dad.

"Climb up here and snuggle with me", says mom.

See, Nena has one weak point, one soft spot in her mom armor. She is a sucker for sad little boys.

"If he caught Maggie's cholera/tuberculosis superbug, he is nothing but a teddy bear full of rabies" I said. "Have you even watched 'Outbreak'?"

"I'm his mom", Nena said, "and he is sad and needs to be snuggled."

"Do what you want", I said. "I'm going to sleep in the bathtub."

That turned out to be a really bad idea, as within minutes, Will was a foot and a half from my head, tossing his cookies. And dinner. And breakfast from the day before. And something that may or may not have been a cowboy boot.

"Huh. Don't remember eating that." I heard him mumble as he washed his mouth out with listerine and went back to steal my spot in the bed.

I reached up and turned on the hot water full blast without bothering to get out of my pajamas.

It didn't work.

By 6 in the a.m. on Wednesday, I was on the highway to Hell. My eyes were red, swollen and scratchy. For me, this is a bad thing. Ever since my cornea transplant, I have had an early warning indicator for when I am about to get sick.

You see, when my immune system starts ramping up to fight whatever nasty parasites Typhoid Maggie has brought home from the CDC, the first thing it does is attack my transplant; kind of like an undercard bout on the fight card. Every time my eyes start acting up, I know I am in for a crummy couple of days.

By 6:15 on Thursday I was suffering nausea, headache, coughing, watery eyes, and what they call in Chinese, "hot stomach". It was awful. To my suprise, Maggie, Maren and Will were unmoved.

"Get up, Old man. You gotta go to work." said Maggie. I downed a bottle of pink liquid and wondered if tigers got sick after they ate their young.

I went to work and got a few things done before my merciful coworkers banished me. Guess they weren't interested in sharing the fun. I came home and tried to sleep it off. I was up every 20 minutes, writhing in pain and trying to keep my pancreas from escaping through my mouth.

It is funny how much more sympathy my sweet, sad little Ivy was able to elicit from me when she came down last night and barfed all over my bed without saying a word.

"Cmon, tiny", I said gently, carrying her pasty, limp body to the tub for a nice warm bath before shoving the soiled bedclothes in the wash. Frankly, barfing seemed like a really good idea to me, too.

"What happened to 'carrier monkeys full of famine and pestilence'?" Nena asked me.

"That was different", I said. "Now I'm the one that wants to be snuggled."

"Uh-huh." Nena stated flatly. And then she added with a note of sarcasm, "Do what you want. Go sleep in the tub."

Apparently her sympathy for pathetic boys has some limits after all. And I deserved the sarcasm.

So anyway, to recap, five sick kids in five days and enough projectile barfing to turn my house into a scene out of
"The Exorcist."

And as I type, Sean just started looking pale and making gurgling noises. Looks like we are gonna keep our 100% after all. Jeez, can't we all just get sick at once and get it over with?

Enough for now. I gotta go because the Cubs playoff game is starting in a few. And if that doesn't make me wanna be sick, nothing will.

Talk about a horror story. Ugh.

See you all next week.