In spite of what Norb says, Lemont, IL isn’t the best town for experiencing all that this world has to offer. Christian Vande Velde can’t peddle fast enough to escape the banalities of the village. Diablo Cody had to escape to Minneapolis to write like a teenager. Likewise, I couldn’t wait to leave my Podunk town for college in Milwaukee.
My only regret was the switch in sports coverage. Bears’ games were prematurely cut off in order to show Joe Buck tweezing his cock while mentioning Brett Favre’s name. Bernie Mac was the most important Brewer on TV. And the Bucks? Well, the Bucks were OK until Scott Skiles commandeered the Bulls. But who cares about these teams other than me?
Hockey took the biggest hit in my viewing schedule. I was reduced to chomping on ESPN’s teet for late Sunday afternoon Panthers – Thrashers suckfests and Wednesday Night Gary Thorne slobberfests, and FSN North for occasional Minnesota Wild broadcasts. Milwaukee is 90 miles from Chicago, whereas St. Paul lies twenty-thousand Menards away. Instead of watching Kyle Calder getting smashed in the corner night after night, I had to watch Marian Gaborik cherry-pick at the offensive blue line. What the hell, Milwaukee?
Now, two years after moving back home, changing jobs twice because of sports blogs, and developing a decided disinterest in commercialism, I’m moving again. This time, I’m heading south on the flattest piece of I-55 to St. Louis for grad school in philosophy, specifically aesthetics. Schopenhauer’s influence in this discipline helped with Bill Wirtz and Bob Pulford’s misdirection of the Blackhawks for over ten years. Fuck haircuts and daily hygiene. Ripping into Mike Keenan emancipates me from the Will.
Unfortunately, my relocation causes the same problems that I experienced in Scene 24 Paragraphs 2 and 3. Although Charter Communications shows WGN, I won’t be able to watch most Blackhawks games on regular television. I have to order Center Ice so that I may partake in Chicago’s Renaissance.
That said, I plan to watch the Blues when I’m not drooling over Jonathan Toews. St. Louis employs a Kelly who doesn’t make me want to stick pins in my ears. However, if I run into Ron Baechle if the Blues score against the Blackhawks, know that I will create a reenactment of Rene Magritte’s “The Lovers”, except I won’t be wearing a sheet over my face and snuggling with him.