Lost and Found

I’ve spent the last week watching the first season of Lost. I don’t remember much of went on during the week except for some mysterious set of numbers that are supposedly bad luck and all the different things the island could mean to the (now) 45 survivors (that’s the tally after the first season).

My roommate says that I spend every waking moment watching DVDs. Now I know that that’s not true; I’ve just spent around 23 or so hours out of the last 143 doing this. I’ve also worked around 40 hours and spent 42 sleeping and maybe 5 eating. That’s about half of the time I spent sleeping and three times the amount that I spend eating (though the eating time would overlap with watching since I usually eat supper or lunch while watching an episode).

Even if one were to consider that I’ve spend an inordinate amount of time watching DVDS this week, some would say that this is a naturally occurring thing, considering the show. Lost is so complex and well written that anyone could lose a week in it’s labyrinthine episodes (and that’s without touching the special features on the disc). It’s a huge hit that everyone loves.

And for that reason, I was wary of admitting that I like it. I have this notion that I’m an artsy kind of guy who likes more complicated and quirky movies. My DVD collection has many films that many people can’t stand or don’t understand. I like to think of myself as a man of refined tastes who may once in a while tolerate some lesser films.

But then reality sets in that it is possible for me to like something so popular as Lost. I look at the movies on my to-see list (Miami Vice, Snakes On A Plane, Prairie Home Companion, Pulse), the movies that I got from Netflix (Carnivale Season 2, Futurama Season 1, The Best of Christopher Walken from SNL) and movies I’ve borrowed from people (The Matrix Revolutions, Superstar) and I can’t keep up that snooty film air. I like popular things and truly enjoy them right alongside more artistic movies.

So when some friends tell me about a Lost Season 2 marathon that will kick off Season 3 (which begins in September), I won’t be sighing. I’ll be saying, “When?” “Where?” and “So what do you think that 3,4, 23,34, and 46 mean?”
-----------------------------
To read about what I should be doing instead of watching movies, read the lastest Son of a Beach.

Anatomy of A News Story

I was chomping down some sugar-coated cereal when I decided to catch up what was going on in the world.

I picked Good Morning America to help me do so for no other reason than someone I recognized from Chicago was now part of the morning team. Mike Barz, former morning sports anchor for WGN Channel 9 News, became the weather man for Good Morning America almost a year ago. Makes you wonder how talented someone has to be in order fill the shoes of the likes of Willard Scott.

There were the usual reports about the Mid-East crisis, some guy named Lance Bass coming out of the closet and tips on how to use dryer lint to fashion winter sweaters for dogs; all presented with equal importance.

Then came the feature portion of the show where the male anchor interviewed someone. This morning, it was Lehigh University student Greg Hogan, recently put on trial for robbing a bank in Allentown, PA. Hogan knocked over a Wachovia branch in order to cover gambling debts racked up online back in January. The reason why anyone should care about Hogan is that he was a class president at Lehigh and also the son of an eponymous Baptist minister.

Both Hogans appeared on GMA to tell their story. The younger Hogan explained that he had an online gambling addiction and that his parents had cut him off financially. Classmates had done the same after lending young Hogan money with no hope of a return. Robbing the bank, he said remorsefully, was a way to pay off his debts. He would stop after this.

I tried to think of why this was even a story. Hogan handed the unfortunate bank teller a note claiming he had a gun, though he never did. No shots were fired, no drama observed during the robbery. Pastor Hogan didn’t even say a word during the televised interview; he merely sat next to his son, a newly convicted felon, and looked stern and serious.

Why is this lumped together with Lance Bass and turmoil oversees? What makes this a ‘can’t miss’ news story?

Then I realized that a pastor’s son (or a university class president) robbing a bank is out of the ordinary.

I realized that Hogan was caught in the lurid world of online gambling that can make even the holy do something human. There’s an addiction that can be blamed.

I realized that the student was religiously repentant and may have thought, “What better way to truly repent than on national television?”

The long-suffering pastoral/parental/religious figure was willing to also be seen by millions, supporting the stereotypical rebellious pastor’s kid.

Monopolizing someone’s repentance, especially those religious people that maybe aren’t so righteous after all, makes for great television.

Hogan had yet to be sentenced when the show aired earlier this week. We didn’t get to hear if a pastor’s kid would serve any jail time. But we will remember long after GMA moved on to rising gas prices is that some crazy religious college kid robbed a bank to curb his online gambling addiction.

So I finish my Cheerios and then go back to hating the news. Until I feel the need connect with my world and see what ridiculous things become news.

___________________________________________________

To read about an MBI alumn who went to court on felony charges, check out The newest Son of A Beach.

A French Lesson

The last year and a half of my life I've suffered from boredom. I work my full-time job, go to church, hang out occasionally with friends grab a brew; the usual. But then I come home and have hours to spare. I occasionally write something but more often than not, I just find some way to pass the time. T.V. becomes the easiest time filler and then movies can fill in the rest. I've even come to the point of playing Solitaire on my computer. Nothing says boredom like the most basic card game designed for one.

I'’ve almost become bored with life. Sometimes I wish that some black hole would come along and swallow up where I live and take me to some other dimension. In this dimension, blending a freakin' Pomegranate Frappaccino would be exhilarating and laying out an appointment reminder card for a children'’s hospital would leave me speechless. And interrupting this would be some ace FBI agent who would need my help to solve some twisted homicide in Chicago. And only a veteran of the now defunct City News Service who toured the city and can hear the streets tell him what happened could help solve this case. I would be back in Chicago talking to neighbors and shaking down beat cops when Bryan Singer would drive up in a limo and ask me to screenplay his next movie.

But alas, I live in the everyday world where boredom can strike down the entire human population, where men like Milan and Manesquier, the two main characters of Man On the Train, can forge a friendship and each provide the other with an escape from the boredom that is their lives. If I sound a little like some faux French philosopher, it's probably from watching this 2003 French movie, directed by Patrice Leconte. There's not much action to the movie. Milan, played by French rock star Johnny Hallyday, arrives in a quiet French town to prepare for a bank robbery. He's old and has a headache, which leads him to a pharmacy where Manesquier is waiting for a prescription. Being a retired poetry teacher and having a faulty heart, Manesquier needs medicine for his ailing heart as well as some adventure from retirement. He invites Milan, clad in a black leather jacket, over for a glass of water, hoping for something out of the ordinary.

The movie continues to follow their friendship as Milan tries to teach the old professor how to shoot a gun. Manesquier teaches the bankrobber some French poetry and both bond through their consideration of what their life could have been. However, both are old, tired and resigned to whatever their fates will be when the end of the week rolls around. On this day, Milan reluctantly robs a bank and Manesquier has triple bypass surgery on his heart. The outcome for both men on that Saturday is somehow softened by the time they spend with each other. Their small friendship and sparse conversation throughout this subtle film provide each with the other's perspective of their own lives.

The only downsides to this movie are its subtitles and subtleness. While being a fine film, this is not the movie to watch if undercaffienated.

And while watching this movie cured my boredom for 90 minutes, it also spurred my mind on to consider my boredom itself. Why do I get bored? Should I even be bored? Do I really need T.V. or movies to cure my boredom? And then I realize how philosophically French I sound by asking all these questions and how boring it is to sit around and ask questions for too long.
----------
Find out the next big thing in Texas at Son of A Beach.

The New Coffee-Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless

So I'm at a different Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless down in Dallas and am adjusting fairly well.

A new store manager took over two months after the previous one was fired. Not sure why but I hear stories of him always eating pastries (from the case and after being put in the trash can, so they say), having emotional outbursts and not keeping the store stocked up. But the new one is pretty cool.

The drive-through store( a horrible idea) is located in a pretty shady neighborhood and is known for it's strip clubs all around. My first day on the drive through I got invited to a member's only sort of poker club. The middle-aged cocktail waitress (who paid with all ones and tried to make a joke about not working at one of those places in the neighborhood; I tried to laugh with her) who came through the drive through gave me a ghetto business card ( 'Sheila's Club' set in front of a black club) and wrote her name on the back of it. "You have to know someone in order to get in," she said. Haven't visited there yet.

Some repeat drive-through customers recognized me and told me they like flirting with me. One car in particular includes a corpulent, blonde woman (looking in her fifties and always sporting an oversized cowboy hat) riding with a young, skinny Asian girl, who likes to buy venti valencia mochas. The third time they came through, they said you should come see us sometime. "We work at Baby Dolls," she said. (I'll let you guess the reputation of a place called 'Baby Dolls' in the neighborhood. This is why I supressed a laugh when she said this.) There was a pause and then "We both wait tables there. We work the day shift." I chuckled and as legendarily (a company buzzword for great customer service) as I could tell them that a place like that wasn't my scene.

And one of the supervisors in the store is a Jehovah's Witness. He comes in frequently dressed to the tee (probably coming from some church service) and might be taking a leave to go on what would be equivalent to a mission trip to NYC to build houses. Everyone jokes around about all sorts of things, including this guy's 'virgin ears.' Then follows other jokes about him not having a girlfriend or not getting 'around'.

No one at the store knows too much about me, yet. Moody Bible Institute means nothing to anyone in the store and I don't mind. But it's odd to hear someone else getting all the religious ribbing that I'm used to getting. I don't know what to think about this.

Superman? Yeah, Superman.

So my buddies and I came out of the movie theater, talking about what we just saw.

One friend said, “I couldn’t believe they would just rip off his suit. I mean, he was dodging bullets with that suit, so how could the doctors just cut it off? I was like, ‘Ahhhh.’ It had to be harder than that.”

“Well it wasn’t the suit that was stopping the bullets,” said my other friend piped in.

“The man makes the clothes,” I said in my faux philosophical tone, trying to turn that old saying and twist it around to make it new.

Director Bryan Singer did a similar twist by remaking Superman and creating a top-notch film that wows and inspires, all the while throwing image and reference after image and reference of Christ at the audience. The entire movie, as cliché as the franchise seems, could be a 2.5 hour long portrait of Christ.

Singer, a superstar director with such varied and intricate features under his belt as The Usual Suspects and X2: X-Men United, continues to use his films to communicate what could be taken as Christian themes. Previous films, specifically the aforementioned features, had bits of theology, some better than others. Usual Suspects explored the reality of the devil and X2 comically portrayed faith. Superman Returns is bathed in Christian imagery, with scene after scene making reference to Christ in either in dialogue or action.

The film is technically brilliant and done in an old-fashioned Hollywood
style. There’s action but not some final showdown or drag-out fight between Superman and Lex Luther, played by Kevin Spacey who somehow recreates Gene Hackman’s earlier Luther. There’s daring rescues at the last minute that you tell yourself you know will come. There’s not a complete swear word in the entire movie despite the earthquakes, plane crashes, and sinking ships that imperil everyone living in Metropolis. A struggling plane carrying Lois Lane, her fiancé Richard White (nephew of The Daily Planet Editor Perry White) and son, possibly fathered by Superman, soars off the end of a waterfall, heading straight for the ground. It disappears into the mist at the bottom of the falls and a second and half later, veers up and out of danger.

And, as already mentioned, Lois Lane is engaged and has a son when Superman returns from his five year hiatus, taken to see his home planet, Krypton, which astronomers discovered somewhere nearby. So things get a little messy for Clark Kent, as well, having to work with Lois, her fiancé, and see Lois' son running around the newsroom. And whether or not Lois Lane did “Spend the Night With Superman,” as one of her columns was titled, becomes a beautiful way illustrate the Father’s relationship with the Son. Marlon Brando’s original voice work is recycled from the old Superman films and used to help explain this throughout the movie.

I’d rather not spoil any more of the movie and let you figure out whether or not Superman actually has a son or if Lex Luther gets killed in the end. It was a beautiful and moving movie.

And if you’re looking for another take on the movie, check out my buddy’s review who watched the movie with me: http://trents.blogspot.com/ .

True Crime Series --- Belmont Avenue Eyeball

This was an actual story that ran at the newswire service I worked for. It could possibly not be for the faint of heart. This is an example of how oddities make the news and (since it is barely a news story) then disappear from existance; except for those who were grossed out enough by it that they may never forget reading the story. Us reporters stopped checking on whether or not it was a human eyeball after a few days and many long sighs from the Cook County Medical Examiner's Office workers when we asked about it.

____

An eyeball was found stuck to the bumper of a Toyota and authorities were trying to determine its source.

Police got the call about the discovery, which happened in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts at 3801 W. Belmont Av., at about 9 a.m. said a west side police officer who didn’t want to be named. Police did not know if the eyeball was human or if it belonged to an animal.

A citizen called police after finding the eyeball stuck to the bumper of a white Toyota Tercel. The Cook County medical examiner’s office was scheduled to examine the eyeball the next day to make a determination.

The police didn’t know how the eyeball ended up on the bumper and an employee at the Dunkin Donuts had not heard about the eyeball.

______

Check out the next big thing in Texas at the Son Of A Beach.

Crisis Averted

So the crisis was averted, yet again. It almost sounds like the ending of some clichéd movie, where the main character learns some great lesson. Since he was only painted in one broad, monochrome color, he only learned that he was merely selfish or that he should’ve known that his friends would come through. He was not that complicated and so his lesson learned wasn’t that amazing. He was only two dimensional.

I feel like that character because for the last week, I had some financial crisis that propelled me into the realm of disbelief. I didn’t believe that things were going to change. I thought I would never get that refund for self-publishing that journal or that freelance check that would pay my bills during the time in between paychecks. I became angry at individuals, corporations or anyone else that seemingly contributed to my misery.

My bank account went way into the negative digits, throwing an entire toolbox into the machinery of my life. What was in the account would have covered the deposit check given to an apartment complex in north Dallas that secured a pretty sweet two-bedroom, two-bath pad for my buddy and I. Luckily, that check hasn’t been cashed in yet.

My back went out as well, only compounding the situation. Maybe I swam too hard and pushed and pulled that restaurant booth the wrong way while moving it into the graphic design studio. I stretched, heated, iced and just lay on my back, trying to rest it. But it didn’t squeeze back into place until a week later. Makes me wonder if there’s some medical connection between my mental state and a crick in my back that twists a nerve a certain way? I wonder if depression could stem from merely one nerve in the spinal column being pinched the wrong way?

So the week goes on and I continue to go through the motions of my Christianity. I go to church and then grab lunch with the 20 somethings afterward. I went to a small group dinner and tried to contribute something as people discussed chapter seven of Don’t Waste Your Life, by John Piper. Could there be a more appropriate (or inappropriate) book for this week of my life?

In each of these times of spiritual discussion, I felt completely disconnected because I didn’t feel like I had any faith. I just had doubts about all of God’s characteristics that I knew. I felt like I was talking about someone else’s life when I tried to say something authentic. I felt two dimensional. That lesson learned came from someone else’s life, not mine. I wasn’t the person who figured out that wise idea on how to be authentic. I was someone who didn’t know if he had any faith. I was someone who didn’t walk in anyone’s ways or follow hard after anyone. I was just here, groping for some way out of a two-dimensional mess.

I began praying two days ago (one of the things that I remembered from that other person’s life) that God needed to show himself to me again. I knew that I didn’t quite believe that He would take care of me so I told him so. I said this, somehow knowing that he would do what I asked because that’s what He does. I couldn’t say that God would always defend his character and restore the faith of his sons and daughters. But that’s what I pretty much asked him to do in so many words.

And then today happens. I call my parents to check in (and eventually ask for whatever money they could spare). My mom figured out she could wire me some money and did so. While I was talking to her in my bedroom, an overnight UPS envelop came. My boss handed it to me after I went back into the office. Inside was a check for a freelance project that I did three and a half months ago. The amount would bring my bank account back into the positive digits. While depositing this check at the bank, my Mom called while I waited for the teller to deposit the check. “I just wired ***** dollars into your account.” I told her the good news and she was excited. I guess God will come through in situations like this, just like my Mom said in our initial conversation.

I get an email from a friend who’s raising support to work for Campus Crusade for Christ. He’s my age and just had his third child, making support raising all the more interesting. I’ve given him my pittance for the last two years ‘cause were buds and he has the cutest daughter who says, “Hey Beach!” whenever she see me. I emailed him and asked him to pray for my situation. He emailed me today to tell me that he just mailed me a check for $100. That’s unfathomable for me. But not for him. He works full-time on raising support and not in any other job. He lives on the belief that God will provide for his needs and has done so for the last nine months.

He says his mailman took his check to me but then left another letter in his daily mail. He opened a letter to find a check for $500 the same day he sent out a $100 for me.

My current boss also gave me an advance to pay for a small editing job he lassoed for me from one of his clients.

So the two dimensional character realizes that there’s an entire other dimension where things happen and people believe all sorts of things. And then the character starts to see his hand in full color and realize there’s depth to it all.

On Not Being Named Alumnus of the Year

Disappointment abounded this past year when I didn’t get to go up on stage during MBI’s Founder’s Week celebration. Someone else was nominated for alumnus of the year and their deeds were announced to all the eager attendees. People were awed at their ministry prowess and kingdom accomplishments. The recipient (whomever it may have been; I missed that session) surely teared up, said some kind words and thanked God for how gracious, loving and powerful He is.

Maybe next year, I thought.

Or on second thought, maybe never.

I realized this because in the three years since I’ve graduated, a lot has changed in my life, including how I view everything. I don’t have the same goals as when I graduated. Those first dreams and aspirations were crushed once I tried to get out and accomplish them. My beliefs have been put through a blender, leaving me with a glass of smoothie-like substance that I’d have to dig through in order to see what the original recipe was. Am I a Calvinist egalitarian or an ecumenical amillenialist? And can I even give the definition of any of those words to show off my Bible and theology prowess? After all, Bible was my middle name for four consecutive years.
One conclusion I’ve come to is that full-time ministry is not something that God has planned for me. So that, along with earning a black sheep degree in communications, will probably disqualify me for the Alum of the Year. I’m excited for my fellow graduates who have been called to be pastors, missionaries and educators at churches, in foreign countries and in schools, public or private. However, a no B.S. look at my abilities and talents has led me to believe that God has not gifted me with the interpersonal capabilities necessary for a major leadership role in any ministry.

I breathed a sigh of relief when this thought came to me from either common sense or a blessing of wisdom from God. Ministry is rough, messy work that you have to be called to. I remember seeing classmates struggle with ministry because they wouldn’t entertain the idea that perhaps God had gifted them for something other than the typical ministry role.

An honest assessment of my talents led me to take a job as a reporter for the century-old City News Service of Chicago. I’ve always had a thing for writing. I wrote and then edited a newspaper during high school, where I wrote some article regarding spirituality or Christianity in every issue (as well as an investigation into the school selling way too many parking passes for a senior parking lot). I repeated this process while in college with more spiritual topics and a volatile investigation into why nearly a dozen Bible and theology professors left the school over two years. Success in writing on these levels led me to imitate other alumni that got their writing careers off to a great start at City News.

So for a year, I hung out at police stations throughout Chicago and covered the crime beat in city. I saw, heard and wrote about some things that I wish I never had. I became hardened, cynical and got twice the education that I received while in college. After a grating year of realizing more of my strengths, and more importantly, my weaknesses, I realized that I didn’t have what it took to be a reporter in Chicago. I didn’t have enough competitiveness, pluck and interpersonal savvy to make it in a city that is a destination for reporters across the country. I’m happy that another alumnus, Matt Wahlberg, rose through the ranks at City News, got a job at the Chicago Tribune and is now doing leg work for famed columnist John Kass. Walberg won’t get recognized at Founder’s Week either, because he’s just a damn good reporter who probably glorifies Christ through his hard work and skill. However, he was recently recognized and chided by Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley for doing his job and asking tough questions: Walberg

It’s a shame someone doing a great job at something that isn’t ministry can’t become the famed Alumni. You probably won’t see anyone recognized on stage that makes some great artistic accomplishment or someone who donates a large amount of money to support missionaries or some private school (The people who donate fortunes of money usually become trustees at MBI, though). It sucks that James Schapp or Bob Muzikowski weren’t alumni of Moody because both have achieved great things through their non-ministry-type vocations.

And it will continue to suck because of what kind of school my alma mater is. I remember that Moody Bible Institute is a training ground for students wanting to go into full-time ministry. Knowing this, I am sure that I will never be given an award for whatever achievements God gives me. This is because I know that I am not going to pursue some full-time ministry. Instead, I’m going to pursue a career in graphic design and continue to work on completing a novel. Maybe I’ll go to grad school and pursue a counseling degree.

But I’m surely going to use the artistic talents God has given me wherever they lead me. And if they don’t lead up the isle and into the bright lights of Founder’s Week, I’m cool with that.

For more random Texas experiences, read the lastest Son of a Beach.

Stuff to Chew On...

Here's a couple articles to contemplate while I get another real post ready.

The first is from Books and Culture magazine on spirituality in the suburbs and the other is the Chicago Sun-Times' religion columnist writing about Rob Bell from Mars Hill.

Suburban Spirituality
http://www.christianitytoday.com/bc/2006/003/15.24.html
Rob Bell-Mars Hill
http://www.suntimes.com/output/news/cst-nws-nooma04.html

The Son of a Beach is soon to have some birthday party pics. Check it out.

From Espresso to Graphic Design

So begins the journey of a graphic desinger. While still peddling espresso for the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless, I'm jumping into the world of graphic design. And so far, it's going fairly well. I created an inspired restaurant tri-fold brochure and it came together nicely. If only there was such a place as Joe's Highway Bistro.
Take a look.

13 Hours Later...

I know. It makes you want to throw up. But this is what my windshield looked like after driving from Chicago to Dallas in 13 hours. There's bug splatters aplenty but this is an anomaly.

The only guess I have is that it came from a bird. While driving through downstate Illinois, I was listening to the best of Prairie Home Companion as I drove through the endless miles of prairie. And then some black bird (indistinguishable at 80 m.p.h.) flew into my windshield.

I didn't notice the mess on the windshield until later. Was it a 1 pound mosquito? Something flicked onto the windshield by a car ahead of me that didn't see one the hundreds of indistinguishable roadkills on I-55? Who knows. But I can wait to get my car washed and let it dry in the 90-degree Texas heat.

For a playlist of my 13-hour drive see the newest edition of the Son of a Beach.

Gluttony

As I leave the city that has shaped me for the last seven years, I’d like to pass on some of the wisdom (grub joints) that has expanded my territory (waistline). This wisdom excludes the common sense (obviously gluttonous joints such as Fogo de Chao, Cold Stone Creamery, or Krispy Kreme Donuts) well known to the common Chicagoan. So here are the places you won’t hear about except through tough lessons learned (heartburn) and sage advice (people who told me about the great food).


My Hood- Lincoln Square

Café Descarte - Corner of Lincoln and Western Avenues - The Oatmeal Latte - Yeah, someone thought of steaming up oats, raisins, walnuts, and dates with milk and espresso. Not for wimpy cappuccino drinkers or those who’ve already had breakfast.


Café Selmare – 4700-ish N. Lincoln Avenue- Rum Balls - rich, chocolate cake soaked in rum and rolled in nuts or sprinkles - Bread Pudding - made with leftover croissants and drenched in caramel sauce-a changing variety of other European and American desserts. Perfect for putting yourself over the edge after eating across the street at…

Garcia’s Mexican Restaurant – 4700-ish N. Lincoln Avenue – The Chimichanga-one of Garcia’s as-thick-as-your calf burritos deep fried and smothered with guacamole and sour cream. Not for the wimpy taco eater.



My (old) Hood-The West Side

Margie’s Candies - Corner of Armitage and Western Avenues-Any sundae off the three-page dessert menu and at least 5 of the homemade turtles.

Feast - 1616 N. Milwaukee Avenue - Anything from the menu.


Work-related Wisdom (places I’ve learned of through jobs)

El Milagro - 3050 W. 26th St. –The Steak Tacos-Two of these will satisfy the buds-delicious steak laid over cabbage, lettuce, cheese, salsa and refried beans. Simple but ohhhhhh, so effective.

The Original Billy Goat Tavern - 430 N. Michigan Avenue (lower Michigan Avenue) - Double Cheese, Double Cheese, No fries – Don’t be scared away by the dismal looking surroundings. This is a must for anyone who knows anything about Chicago, journalism or the news.

Sam’s Grille- 300-ish N. Clark St. – The Philly Chicken Sandwich- a roll overflowing with grilled chicken, peppers, onions and cheese-great downtown greasy spoon that will load you down and have you loving the calories.

Frankie Z’s Clark Bar - 420 N. Clark St.- The Taco Salad- a huge (but not too filling) mix of lettuce, chicken or beef, cheese, salsa, guacamole, sour cream and beans in a fried tortilla shell.


Without Classification

Moody’s Pub - 5900-ish N. Clark St. – The Bleu Cheeseburger- Or any other cheeseburger. Intimate atmosphere with a perfect outdoor seating area.

Portillo’s (maybe this was an obvious one) - Corner of Clark and Ontario Streets - Bacon Cheese burger-This burger has the freshest toppings around and can’t be beat.


Coffee Experiences (always excluding the chain-that-shall-remain-nameless)

Filter - 1585 N. Milwaukee Ave. - By far one of the best atmospheres in the city (and now smokeless thanks to the city ban on smoking)-Low lights, retro furniture and a changing menu of staff drinks

Intelligentsia Café - 3123 N. Broadway – The best lattes or mochas and it shows in the foam. Another great atmosphere and hand-crafted goodness that can only be imitated by some chains.

Café Ballou - 939 N. Western Avenue - Russian tea with raspberry compote-Eastern European look and feel. Closes early.

The Perfect Cup – 4700 N. Damen Avenue – Another of the greatest atmospheres; quaint and simple with great artwork and photography.

Uncommon Grounds – Corner of Clark and Grace Streets. – Any oversized coffee desserts in a two-handed cup. Now has a bar/restaurant with a coffee shop and back room with live music every weekend night.

The Bourgeois Pig Café - 738 W. Fullerton Avenue. – Mexican Hot Chocolate or Grasshoper latte - Two levels of space that makes you want to read books; with one the largest tea selections I’ve seen.

Adios Chicago

The Beach Picayune is now counting down the days until it moves to Dallas (about a month) and planning out the last few issues. The editors wish to leave their wealth of knowledge about Chicago with those in the windy city through a few issues detailing the best spots in the city. So prepare for Gluttony and Adventure, two posts of places to stuff yourself and places to search out in the city. Gluttony and Adventure are two musts for anyone living in the city.
(And if anyone knows of Gluttony and Adventure in Dallas, leave a post.)

John Woo on the Dan Ryan Pt. 2

So I'm writing down details as fast as possible and as legibly as numbed-by-the-cold-fingers can manage while standing in the northbound lanes of the Dan Ryan expressway around 45th Street.

The cutting wind is numbing my face at 3:30 a.m. as the mess that has blocked off the northbound local lanes of highway is explained.

About an hour before, the silver Pontiac-looking car was seen driving "suspiciously" around 50th and Clark Streets ("suspiciously" is one of those vague words that police use to say as little as possible when talking to reporters). When a squad car tried to pull the vehicle over, it sped off toward 47th Street and the entrance to the Dan Ryan Expressway. The squad car "pursued" the silver vehicle onto the expressway ("pursued" is the preferred term used by police instead of "chase," which is way too sensational).

The silver car sped into the express lanes of the Dan Ryan, trying to escape police, who followed it closely. The silver car, being in the far left lane of the express lane, attempted to cross all four of these lanes to enter get back into the two local lanes. The speeding car didn’t quite make it but instead crashed through four yellow sand barrels near the entrance to the local lanes in order to enter them. The silver car lost control as it entered the local lanes, sideswiping the driver’s side cab of a semi-tractor trailer in those lanes.

The car then sped ahead of the truck and then flipped over onto the on-ramp for 43rd Street. It settled right-side up and the passengers fled, obviously dazed. One sizeable passenger wearing a puffy, yellow coat exited the car and stumbled around.

The "pursuing" police officers did not follow the silver car’s drastic moves but instead pulled over to the shoulder of the express lanes across from where the silver car came to rest. The officer hopped over the cement barrier separating the express from the local lanes and drew his weapon. He saw the large, staggering man get out of the silver car and the others run up the on-ramp (The officer by now had already called for backup, who were on their way to the location of the accident).

The puffy-coated man dropped a small, silver revolver on the ground near the wrecked vehicle, prompting the officer (who was crossing the local lanes to apprehend the man) to put his gun away. The officer, seeing the largess of the man, got out his yellow stun gun and ordered the man put his hands over his head. The massive man instead reached into his coat to pull out a silver-colored, semi-automatic assault rifle (the aforementioned silver pencil box with a clip and a barrel shoved into it) and began firing at the officer.

Seeing that the stun gun may not be as effective against this semi-automatic, the officer threw it down, got out his gun and returned fire. The gun battle moved from the expressway to the grassy embankment of the 43rd Street on-ramp, where (by this time) backup had arrived. These officers joined in the firefight from the top of the ramp and fatally shot the large man.

After receiving the explanation from the director of Police News Affairs (who was the authority whenever police fired their weapons), I was led through the crime scene with the freelance videographers. I saw the shells littering the local lanes, the revolver, the stun gun and the shiny semi-automatic. And then there was the yellow, and now red, puffy coat formerly worn by the man shot by police.

During the gun battle, the puffy-coated man was the only person to be shot. Unlike movies like Face Off of Hard Target, people in the heat of a firefight don’t necessarily take time to aim (least of all an untrained man who may have bough the gun off the street). Officers are trained to do so but (without assuming that the man shot was one) gang members are not.

I took in the entire scene and realized that not too many people would be able to say they surveyed a crime scene in the middle of one of the busiest interstates in the country. This was one memory of my City News Days that I won’t soon forget.


Editor's Note: To find out what would happen if a fire alarm went off while swimming at a gym, check out the latest Sonofa3.

Memories of Clark Pt. 3

Clark Allen Stacy

Clark made me feel like one of the guys. Though we only spoke to each other occasionally, he made me feel like a friend.

My first real interaction with Clark was at one of the aforementioned fight nights. I'd just transferred into Moody in the heart of winter and it was difficult to get to know people in the middle of the school year.

Honestly, though, I found that a bunch of guys going at it with boxing gloves and little else to be a little crazy. But Clark's driving encouragement brought a unique atmosphere that drew me in. He danced around the fighting pair, cheering them on and making sure that the flowing testosterone didn't lead to a real fight. It felt a little safer with him watching over it all.

Soon the guys were looking for another victim amongst the new guys on the floor, and they found me. I assured them that I didn't know how to box, but they didn't think that was an issue. Clark assured me that the other guy who'd volunteered didn't know how to box either (he was wrong). So I removed my glasses, put on the gloves and stood there while the other guy repeatedly hit me full force in the face. I don't think I really even hit the other guy once, and I totally lost count of how many times he nailed me. I was glad Clark had bought training gloves.

I walked away with a bloody nose and chipped tooth, but I didn't regret the event. It was good to just let go, to feel the comradeship of the guys behind me, and to hear the empathetic groans. It was a painful initiation to a great floor and a time of healing for me —-from more than just the nose.

Throughout the rest of that semester, I looked up to Clark as a peer. I admired the way he interacted with everyone. He made you feel like a friend even when you didn't really know him well. In many ways, he had it together.

Looking back, I still admire how much of it Clark had together. He had his inner struggles, but his outward life was one that reached out to others that faced similar struggles. He never disappeared into the background but was always stepping forward to take leadership, or to just help out. That smile and that voice cut deep into the darkness. Talking to and being around Clark pushed the oppression of a dark winter away.

Perhaps that is why it was so hard to loose all of that when Clark didn't return. His life meant so much to the whole atmosphere of Moody that the lack of his face left a huge void in the mosaic of the crowd, but I remain thankful for that face that still crosses my memories. There, in the memory of the past, Clark still pushes the darkness away, and makes me feel at home. I can picture him organizing fight nights right now that will initiate me into his world again--hopefully without the bloody nose.

Daniel Morgan

Memories of Clark Stacy Pt. 2

My memories of Clark are brief. And you may be reading this saying, "Lana - Clark didn't even like Lana." I say that because I really don't know what Clark's perceptions of our brief friendship were. So for what it's worth, these are my memories. I met him in the summer of 2003 and didn't have much contact with him after that to be honest. We met during the Moody summer church history tour through Europe. We both gravitated toward the Quiggle family and ended up sharing many meals with them and walking through museums alongside them. I think we found Mary, Greg and the kids to be a stabilizing presence. It was a nice little nitch of family while rolling through Europe and sleeping in a different bed every three nights.

I have lots of pictures with Clark and the kids. One with all of us climbing on the lions in Trafalgar Square. Clark was trying to convince me that I could just leap up on the big slippery back of one of the lions (in the dark, by the way) like it was so easy, after he had already pushed the kids up onto it. I knew there was no way. So I think I am just standing next to it leaning on its back in the picture.

I have pictures of us in Pizza Hut with the Quiggles, laughing. That was one of my best memories of the trip. The picture is priceless, Clark and I holding out our pizza with looks of excitement and hilarity. It took two takes because I couldn't keep a straight face. Why'd we even take the picture? There was something just so pure and joyful about it.

I also ended up sharing a train car with the Quiggles and Clark. You would think that it would have been awkward. But it wasn't. It just seemed like the way it should have been. Me, Clark and the Quiggles. Looking back on it, I think we both needed that stability, that joy of family life while we were both battling darkness. I definitely can see that now, knowing after the fact that Clark struggled with such deep darkness and knowing what I was going through at the time.

Clark and I spent some time walking around alone together too, in different towns. I remember one walk in London, in particular, which led us to a pub. There was that touch of irony, sharing a beer while on a Moody trip. And I can't honestly remember if it was a big deal to him or not.

What I remember from my conversations with Clark was a certain understanding. Conversation didn't necessarily flow the most easily. It wasn't like we became best friends, obviously, because we never hung out after the trip. We did have a few squabbles. But what I remember was walking around London and feeling like there was no need to conjure up something to say if there wasn't. And there was no need to sugar-coat my comments.

I remember a certain grittiness that results when people are real. I remember being uncomfortable at moments and saying things that pissed Clark off a few times. But I remember that even in those moments, thinking, Clark was someone who wasn't going to judge me for not pulling off the "Moody" look or tone. I didn't feel like I needed to try to be something. There was an understanding that we could enjoy 'being' in the presence of the other and appreciate that person without necessarily having anything in common or planning to become best friends. It was peaceful.

But I do remember that even in the quiet we shared that he was anxious about the future and it seemed like the things he was thinking about - the future, what he was studying, relationships, etc. were all one big question mark for him. I remember thinking that there was a lot going on in his head that needed to be sorted out. I was thinking grad school, an internship or some other broadening experience like that would be formative and help sort things out. That's what I was hoping for both of us. I had just graduated and I was thinking, "he only has a couple years left - he'll make it and find himself on the other side."

But I guess I can take heart that he chose to make me a part of his summer and that at least for those 3 weeks I know we shared moments of real happiness and security with the Quiggles - a foretaste of that for which he could not wait.

Lana Wood

Memories of Clark Stacy Pt. 1

Clark Allen Stacy

The best memories that I have of Clark always involve him doing things, getting people riled up about something and staying physically active. He was always a mobilizing force for anyone around him.

Clark transferred into to Moody and was placed onto Culbertson Five, the floor to which I was a Resident Assistant. He helped to start boxing night on the floor by buying some pairs of gloves and egging people into 1-minute matches against someone else. I couldn’t say no to the cheers of all the guys on the floor, spurred on by Clark, of course. He knew the value of camaraderie, the need for a healthy dose of competition and the value of releasing some pent-up anger. I’m sure some of this idea came from the infamous but genius movie Fight Club, which he always lent out to guys who were uninitiated in the ways of Tyler Durden.

If there was any kind of event that was organized, it was often made or broken depending on whether Clark was behind it. If he was, you could be sure that it would be top-notch and well-organized. Such was a floor open house, where all put their efforts into a sketch show of different musical performances. And what put the icing in the cake of that evening was Clark’s no-holding back act as a lost pig that was lamented in song by its farmer (played by Kansas great Will Regier). To prepare, Clark found some ratty pink clothes, a pink pipe cleaner as a tail, and lots of pink paint to transform himself into the best souuuiiieeee this side of the Mason-Dixie Line. Being bald, Clark found it easy to coat his head, not to mention any skin not covered by his small shirt and skirt, with the pink paint. It was an incredible transformation that turned the event from pretty good to perfect.

After I graduated, Clark and I kept in contact by going out to eat with his half-price restaurant coupons (which he got from the internet) and watching great movies, one of which was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

As time went by, Clark and I would only run into each other at Moody’s gym. He would work out after chapel and catch me right after I woke up (I was working a second shift as a crime reporter at the time and wouldn’t be able to get up until about 10a.m.). Clark had an idea of maybe enlisting in the Marines after he graduated and wanted to prepare as much as he could for it. And so he, and I as his workout partner, reaped the benefits. There were seemingly endless sit-ups, push-ups and leg lifts he put me through; though I never felt better than when I finished working out with Clark.

During those times in the gym, we talked about all kinds of things, one of which being our spiritual lives. He told me of breaking up with his girlfriend and how hard it was on him. We talked of him struggling with depression and other things. We got onto the topic of knowing what to do with all the theology and information that you learned at a Bible school like Moody. Having been out of school for two years already, I had learned a thing or two about real life and how your spirituality changes for the better or worse.

I told him that nothing I learned while at Moody made any sense until I was out. It wasn’t until after the fact that some aspect of God’s character, say his sovereignty, would seem to play out.

And it now being a year after Clark took his own life, I still haven’t made any sense of anything. I'd like to think that sometime in the future it may make sense. But then it might not, either. And I think I'm okay with that.

Eric Beach
4848 N. Rockwell St. #3
Chicago, IL 60625
312-217-0976


Clark Allen Stacy

This is to the memory of my friend Clark. I thank God for allowing me to have a friend like Clark with whom I was able to grow, share, pray, laugh, and just have fun with. And I miss him so much.

The following took place one fall evening in downtown Chicago. Matt Troyer and I went out on the town with Clark many times and this was a memorable one for me. This gives you a taste of how three guy friends communicate with each other.

Clark: Hey guys look (then pointed to a sign that read "CASS"). I can't believe it, those are my initials.

*Matt and Barry give a confused look to each other*

Matt (sarcastically): Yeah, Clark Allen Stacy Stupid!!!

Clark: Uh........ Shut up Matt.

Barry: Hey look my initials are everywhere. BMW there, BMW there.......

Clark: I hate you guys.

There are so many memories that I have with Clark. He was one of my best friends and one of the most difficult roommates I've ever had. I loved the guy and this is harder than I thought because all of my memories are still very fresh in my mind; as I'm sure yours are as well. I will do my best to share some of them with you.

Clark came to Moody when I was a junior and my roommate Matt was a senior. Right away, Matt and I became great friends with Clark. The three of us seemed to be together whenever we could (that is when Matt wasn't out on a date). We did a lot of fun and crazy stuff, but one serious thing we did was we had cave time together. Cave time was a time when Matt and Clark would jump into my bed while I was sleeping or just about to and we would pray together. This was a great time because we were able share how our lives were going and talk about everything and then pray for each other.

Clark and I went on a lot of road trips together. One Thanksgiving, we went to Minnesota with about 10 other close friends. On this trip, Clark walked on a frozen pond for the first time. We all thought it was pretty weird how he was so amazed about walking on a frozen pond. Another trip we took was to Kentucky for Easter to meet up with some friends of ours. We drove with Suzanne Beyer and I thought she and Clark were going to kill each other by the time the trip was through. Another time, we went to Cleveland and some other places that I can't remember right now.

The summer of 2003, Clark and I thought it would be a good idea for him to live with me at my parents’ house in Spokane. Looking back on it, we had a lot of great times. We were able to work together for a roofing company and went to the lake a lot. We worked at a camp for junior high kids as counselors, we were able to spend a lot of time talking and that was the first time he opened up to me about his depression. I remember one talk we had and he actually told me that he had thought about suicide. That really took me by surprise, but I never thought much about it because he told me he knew that was not an option. My favorite memories of our time in Spokane together were when we drove to Seattle and Grad Coulee. In Seattle, we went to a couple of Seattle Mariner games and stayed with my family. In Grand Coulee, he met the Native American side of my family and we went out boating with our friend Joe Hedrick.

I hope this gives you a picture of things that I remember about Clark. There are many more like boxing nights in our dorm, working at Moody Press together, eating meal after meal in the student dinning hall, running along Lake Michigan together, and on and on. But what I will always remember is how Clark challenged me to live out my faith in God day to day. He had a passion for believers to be real and not mock God by pretending their faith is strong and living a lie. And I'll remember his bald shiny head and his big smile that said "I love you man."

I sure miss him.

Now that I have a child, I wonder what he would have said or if he would have been there when he was born? I don't know, and I think the hard part now is that all of the memories I make in life will be without him.

God bless all of you that have read this. Thank you for putting up with my rambling.

With love,
Barry Warren

Tiffany, Barry, and Silas Warren
1670 N. Davis
Cornelius OR, 97113
(503) 992-0316

In Memory of Clark Stacy

The Picayune will pause its normal service to remember Clark Stacy, a friend who is no longer with us, during the next week. Beginning on Sat. the 18th, The Picayune will feature memories of Clark by those who knew him.

John Woo on the Dan Ryan Pt. 2 will run after the memorial ends.

John Woo on the Dan Ryan (Another in the True Crime Series)

That’s what I first thought when I saw a long stretch of the Dan Ryan Expressway (otherwise known as 90-94) blocked off at around three in the morning last winter. Did they just film some over-the-top action sequence from some overblown project by the high brow director John Woo, famous for such masterpieces as Hard Target and Mission Impossible II? Or was this just another night of crime that will fade with time and only be remembered on some reporter’s notepad?

I was working the night shift again at the New City News Service in Chicago when I heard of the police-involved shooting and car chase on the expressway.

I parked my car on a parallel street and walked down a steep embankment to the northbound local lanes of the expressway. These slower lanes, where semi-tractor trailer trucks were always forced to drive, were closed off beginning around 47th Street and off limits until around 35th Street. Squad cars blocked off the entrances to the local lanes while police tape billowed in the wind across the two lanes at least one hundred feet in front of and behind the crime scene.

I took a moment to take in the scene. There was a semi parked on the shoulder of the local lanes with the driver’s side cab smashed in. Ahead of that on the on-ramp to 43rd Street, a silver Pontiac Sunfire-looking sports car lie upside down, looking like someone had just rolled it like a die. Another squad car was parked on the right shoulder of the express lanes, directly across from the crumpled car on the on ramp.

Bunches of numbered cards were being placed all over the expressway, near the car and in the grass between the on ramp and the expressway. Cards were placed near spent ammunition casings, near a revolver that lie next to the silver car, near a semi-automatic Mac10 assault rifle (those guns that look like a pencil box with a barrel sticking out of one end and an ammunition clip shoved into the bottom), next to a puffy, yellow coat that had blood on it and near other bits of stuff that I couldn’t make out.

It happened to be about ten degrees out that crisp morning. I had on some bulky gloves that made it impossible to write with and was also completely bundled up. Past experiences in the bitter cold and piercing wind of Chicago taught me to have a pencil handy during such times. During such extreme cold, the ink in ball point pens freezes up, making it useless. And the only thing that can you can speedily scribble illegible notes with is a good, old fashioned pencil.

I learned this from one of the freelance videographers, who ruled the night shift in capturing the news. Well, that is if us City Newsers didn’t get there first. But more often than not, they would beat us to it. These videographers would call us up and give us tips from the scene and we would even exchange info at the scene (They helped out in the Sheridan Road Serial Killer).

These guys would film the police spokesman as he told us a version of the events while standing on the piercing wind on the Dan Ryan Expressway. They would catch on tape the man explaining the chase, the shootout between a man with the Mac10 from the silver car and other police and how no cops were shot in the gun battle.

And the explanation is just as thrilling as a John Woo movie. Which, since this blog is already too long, will be concluded in our next issue.


Editor’s note: The editorial staff at the Picayune apologizes for the delay between issues. Due to recent events, the home office of the Picayune will be moving to Dallas, TX in June. Much reorganization for the moves has tied up our editorial staff. We regret the lapse in service.

Book Makes Reader Blue In the Face

After many friend’s urgings and hearing about how Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller, is the book to read, I finally submitted. While reading it and carrying it around on the el to and from work, I felt like I was part of some club. I felt a little chic, a little part of some ‘in’ crowd, a little like I was part of some group blessed with the special knowledge that comes from reading one man’s attempt at putting his spirituality into book form.

Now all book snobbery set aside, I enjoyed parts of Jazz although I can’t tell you one thing I remember from it. Miller uses and abuses the stream of consciousness writing style where different events in his life lead to reflections on whatever subjects those events deal with. I remember certain anecdotes and things he did, like live in the mountains with some kind of leftover hippie Christians and then returning to the world at large and then speak to the issues that ensue. But I couldn’t tell you any well-put arguments or ideas about faith in the world today and I can’t remember any kind of theme from the book.

Miller gets kudos for pursuing honesty and transparency in his faith and addressing the shortcomings of Christianity, or possibly more accurately, evangelicalism. This honesty is surely what makes this book such a popular read. Anyone who can speak to the hurts, frustrations and disappointments that come with being a Christian today is surely to gain a following since it is becoming rare to find someone who will do so.

But being an aspiring writing, reading the book was in some parts like listening to someone scrape their fingernails down a chalkboard. My beef with Miller, oddly enough, would be his writing style. Looked at as a whole, the book, subtitled Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality, seemed to do exactly what Miller railed against.

One chapter in the book has Miller going to see some “Christian” author of books on spirituality at a Borders-like bookstore. Miller has liked the author but at the current book promo, he listens to the author and is upset to hear the author ‘use’ Mohammedisms and other eastern religious terms to help sell his Christian beliefs. Miller is incensed that the author would need to re-market his books using something that would be more easily accepted by the world at large. I took a step back and thought about this. I thought about Miller’s subtitle, Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality, and thought I saw some similarities. Miller shares the author’s need to re-market his own spirituality to gain wider acceptance.

Now, being an author who has yet to publish, I don’t know the pressure from publishers to market a book a certain way. I don’t know that perhaps authors have to write books with a selling point in mind and have to think of some thirty second tag to sell the book to distributors or book buyers at the Christian Booksellers Association convention. I do not know the evils of the marketing machine that is Christian book publishing. So these criticisms may be thrown at you from the armchair that I’ve been sitting in since I decided to write. But other of Miller’s books, namely, Prayer and the Art of Volkswagen Maintenance, seems to be a complete rip off of the classic volume on philosophy Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Persiq. Maybe it’s just me but that seems to be trying to again to re-market work for a certain audience.

But Miller’s style still grates on my writing sensibilities. He tries too hard to be ‘random’ like Anne Lamont or Annie Dillard. I hated the two cartoons that were included in the book. I couldn’t stand his obsession with having to make his faith seem exotic and cool. Hence this passage:

“Some of my friends have left their churches and gone Greek Orthodox. I think that sounds cool. Greek Orthodox. Unless you’re are Greek. Then it sounds like that is where you are supposed to go, as though you are a conformist. If I were Greek, I would never go to a Greek Orthodox church. If I were Greek, I would go to a Baptist church. Everybody there would think I was exotic and cool.”

But as I finished the book, Miller addressed some issues that had been piling up through my read. Miller seems like he could be a nomadic-type Christian who isn’t so keen on being part of a local body of believers. He could be a traveling speaker with no real affiliation or be supported by some smaller Body of Christ. I have issue with that, having felt those nomadic longings but then have realized the need for involvement in the smaller Body of Christ at a local church. Miller addresses issues arising out of a nomadic lifestyle in the last three chapters. I was impressed with how he tackled loving other members of the body of Christ and the need for community. Kudos to Miller to wrapping up his book this way but not for making me read through 200 pages to get there.

Coming Soon...

A Review of Blue Like Jazz is soon to to come.

In the mean time, check out some other True Crime stories in the Archives: Under the Radar, originally posted on Tuesday Feb. 15, 2005; Man Shot 9 Times in Good Condition, originally published on Feb. 1, 2005; Crouching What?, originally published on Tues. March 8, 2005; and True or False?, originally published on Wed. Jan. 12, 2005.

Check Our the Picayune's Contributing Writers

In order to better serve our readers ( and give props to fellow bloggers) the Picayune Editorial Board would like to take a moment to recognize (plug) our contributing writers.

A Table For One-Master of Creativity and generous blog creator from Boston but living in Chi-town.

backdrop- Smart, grad student in Chi-area (I'll let you figure out where)

dia blogue-Master of a self-run design company who will kill if you mess with Texas

Lesniewicz Weekly-Polish native heading to Uganda but currently interning at the Beach Picayune and doing some other stuff in Chicago

Nelmezzo-Master of Theology (or soon to be) in Chi-town

Pathos From the Mind's Eye-One of many alias for my roommie

Redemption-Produced by Jameson(not the whiskey) but headed for Perth, Australia

seadonkey21-Sweating over espresso in Minneapolis (ask about the name)

Skofinopolis Recorder- Master Yank in King Charles' court

Touchstone-A great magazine

Two Luther's Collide-Yet another alias

In The Throes of The Winter Blues

It hit me hard last week. In spite of the mild winter in Chicago with 40 degree days at least twice a week and intermittent hours of sunlight. In spite of all that I’ve learned over the last four years about this time of year.

I got depressed and I blamed it on the winter blues. The shorter days and shorter hours of actual sunlight and shorter amount of exposure to natural light which produces melatonin in the brain. With less melatonin, the chemicals in the brain can become unbalanced and make a person more susceptible to depression.

So there I was with the realization that I’d been depressed for a few days. I swore in my head and tried to figure out what to do with it. Go to a tanning bed, said a friend of mine. Tanning is one solution to not getting enough natural sunlight. I haven’t read anything official to say that it is medically proven but I’ve heard people swear by it and others who aren’t so sure. Even black people do this in the winter to help out, said that same friend.

I didn’t have the cash to shell out for this and I leaned more on the skeptical side as to whether or not the bulbs of a tanning bed could be equal to the rays of the sun when it comes to melatonin.

So I did what anyone else in my situation is left with doing: figure out what is screwing up your brain and try to fix it. Although it’s not always easy to get to this point while under the blanket of the winter blues, it is the most effective way to throw off that blanket. What am I thinking that is keeping me from getting up and moving on? Do I feel like there’s some kind of situation that I can’t do anything to change? Is there some person to whom I can’t express how much of an ass they are?

There’s a million questions to ask yourself. There’s also actions that can help out. Put all your strength or effort into getting out and doing something physical. Go work out, swim, run or play ball. Do something to get your blood flowing faster than it normally does. Somehow, a quicker pulse can help out the brain and all the chemicals that are inside. Maybe it adds more oxygen or more chemicals or circulates something else besides blood through your stagnant gray matter. Somehow, it works.

And then I try to do something with God. My relationship with Christ is one of the best ways to get my mind moving again. I intake a little bit of the Bible and stimulate my brain to think of the theology behind a verse or think through why God saved me. I then remember that all who have been saved from themselves by God’s gracious gift were bought so that they could testify to what God has done in their lives. The idea that God is bringing someone through the winter blues or any other hardship or depression so He can show off His power over even psychological ills is one that is encouraging and sobering. I get a little bit of hope from that thought.

And that little bit of hope is what can help me to wake up the next morning and go for a swim or try to tackle my seemingly unconquerable thoughts.



Publisher's Note: For more on Winter Blues, check out Sonofa3

Also, Thanks to Chris K. for all the work of stealing someone else's template and redesigning The Beach Picayune. Check out Chris at A Table For One.

New Look Amazes All

Thanks for your patience while waiting for our construction to finish. The new Beach Picayune will be revealed shortly. Meanwhile, die-hard readers can get their fix at www.xanga.com/sonofa3 by reading, "A Coffee-Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless Moment."
The Beach Picayune Editorial Board

Sheridan Road Pt. 2

So I’m walking towards the groups of detectives at around 1 a.m. outside a building where a serial killer may have struck twice. And it is because of this that there isn’t a single squad car light flashing or police tape around any section of the building.

I just put my press pass around my neck in plan view of CPD’s finest, hoping that they would be willing to talk to a wet-nosed reporter trying to confirm that someone was murdered in an apartment one floor above another murder scene that was barely a month old.

Such things can be expected when working for a 24-hour newswire service in Chicago. After the 10 o’clock news broadcasts, myself and other City News reporters had free reign to any mayhem that took place until about 4 a.m., when the day began again and other reporters began competing with us again.

One detective sees me coming and lets the others know. All look in my direction and they try to casually disperse. I identify myself (standard procedure) but each one ignores me. They walk back to their hibernating squad cars and then drive off, one by one.

No other cops talk to me but then I spot another guy just standing near the building. He’s not huddled up with anyone and I guess that he’s somehow involved with the building. He’s the landlord/handyman. He’s upset because now people will move out and no one will want to live in the building. I eventually ask him about what happened in the apartment the CSIs are looking through with flashlights.

I’ve seen people covered in what look like surgical gowns, along with shoe covers, coming in and out of the building. Make me wonder what it looks like inside there if everyone has to suit up like that.

Yes, the landlord/handyman says. Somebody was killed. His name was this. I didn’t know him too well. He was in apartment 3D or something like that. Yes, about a month ago someone else was killed in 2D.

Bingo. That makes it a story. I get the handyman’s name, thank him for his time and try to empathize with him, in spite of my excitement that I was able to turn a tip into a pretty good news story.

And months later, I was talking to the people at the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office and they mentioned in passing that serial killer on Sheridan.

“The one on the 7300 block of Sheridan?” I asked, astonished and excited.

“Yeah. Oh wait,” they said.

True Crime Series

Instead of leaving all the wonderful stories of serial killers, dramatic shootings of high school students, or police chases that would put John Woo to shame in the pages of my notebooks from my City News Days, these stories will become part of the Picayune beginning today.

Sheridan Road Serial Killer

I was nearing the end of my mid-shift coverage of the North Side while camped out at Area 3 headquarters (also known as the 19th District of the Chicago Police Department) at the corner of Belmont and Western.

The overnight editor paged me, and I called him back to hear, “You better not screw this up. We got a tip from the ME’s (Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office) that there’s a death investigation in the apartment building where someone else was killed only a month earlier.”

This was an actual tip that a creative reporter had to weed out of people to make a story out of. I couldn’t just show up at some address with my pen, tablet and digital recorder in hand. I had to corroborate the tip through beating the street and shooting the shit with cops who were working that night. This is where I figured out how good a reporter I was.

The apartment building was around 7000 N. Sheridan Rd., placing the crime scene in the Rogers Park District (24). Luckily, a grandpa-like captain was working that night that I had a good relationship with. He would tell me anything that he had in front of him and he always made my job easier. So I call him up and act like I’m making a routine check on his neck of the woods for the typical murder and mayhem that night.

“So what’s going on tonight?” I ask after the usual introductions and pleasantries. “Any robberies, any…investigations?” Investigation was the key word, as homicides are often classified as death investigations until it can be determined that they are suspicious.

“Well, yeah,” said the captain. “They got a death investigation up on Sheridan. And looks like they sent a crime lab van up there.” I could tell he was reading to me right off the paper in front of him.

"Oh yeah?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement. “Where’s that at?” And then the captain confirmed the address.

Bingo.

That was what I needed: confirmation of the address and that something suspicious enough to need a crime lab van had happened there. So my editor sent me to the scene around 1 a.m.

I parked behind a building near the scene, not knowing that it was the building in question, and that cops were already wandering around inside with flashlights. I came around the corner of the building onto Sheridan Road and then realized that it might be smart to wear my press badge. It would probably prevent me from being arrested for appearing out of nowhere at the scene of the crime in the middle of the night.

A group of men I guessed to be detectives were standing in a group near the entrance of the building. As I approached, I noticed that there were three squad cars, two unmarked police cars and the crime scene van at the scene. The odd thing was that not a single light from any of the cars was flashing. There was no police tape roping off the area, no onlookers gawking at the scene, no noise other than the normal silence of the night. People didn’t seem to know that a serial killer had struck the same building twice in a month’s time and the police wanted to keep it that way.

…

Due to a shortage of column space on the page and people’s need to not spend all day reading blogs, the rest of the story will be continued next week.

Adaptation

“The high for today will be about 42 degrees. It’s currently 41 and you’re listening to…” broadcast the radio station at around 4:15 a.m a few days ago. This was the beginning of January for Chicagoans; a mild streak of weather in what can often be the harshest season for this Midwest giant of a city. Business this week was back to booming at the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain nameless. More people were out and braving the Icelandic 40 degree temperatures and even buying frozen and iced drinks (much to the chagrin of my co-workers). People were enjoying the atypical weather.

But not two weeks earlier the city was crippled during the even rush hour by a furious snow storm that unceremoniously dumped at least 8 inches of powder in about four hours. From about 4 p.m. on, blustery winds and blinding snow delayed commuters on their way home. Some driving home on the Eisenhower Expressway reported a four-hour commute that night. I drove downtown to pick up something from my store that night but ended up staying downtown because of the traffic and storm.

Like all who live in this great city, I had to adapt and change my plans for that night. I had planned on going back to my apartment on the northwest side and accomplishing some things that night. But an estimated three-hour tour home on LSD convinced me to stick it out where I was. So I decided to call some friends who were close by and catch a movie. It’s not like I would be going anywhere soon so I adapted to the situation.

Adaptation seems essential to anyone’s life, since nothing ever goes as planned (And even if it does, one must still adapt to things going better than planned). Your checking account is overdrawn; you have to adjust your spending and finagle a plan to correct your account. You figure out that the profession you studied in school is not necessarily what you can succeed at doing. God deals you some kind of malady that cripples your body, mind or confidence. So what do you do? You learn to adapt.

Why? I adapt because I’ve seen what happens to those who can’t. Some revert back to some remedial stage of life and take some dead end job that has not hint of challenging them. Or they give up on using the gifts that God has endowed them with and accept something lesser. Or sometimes they feel it better to take their own life. And while I can understand how someone could get to such a place in life, I am enraged when I see such a situation. I am enraged at God for letting such a thing happen and I am enraged for whatever other reason I can assign for a suicide. Even if I know that these reasons are nothing more than me grasping at straws to try understand something that is incomprehensible.

So many people I know get used to some kind of support system and rely completely on that system, whether they know it or not. And then when they graduate from that stage of life and move out of a certain environment, they feel like they’re drowning because they don’t know how to sustain themselves without that old environment. Sometimes the solution is to just keep treading water. Eventually, the person may be able to see their situation and learn a stroke that will help them to swim on to the next stage of life.

But sometimes the best adaptation to a situation is to stop treading water. Some people need to be brought to the end of their own ability and begin sinking down into the water. Getting to such a point leaves a person one option: hope that something outside of themselves can help save their life. As they sink further under the surface and the water seems to get darker, a person can look to God and pray for some miracle. And then the person begins to feel a strange sensation on the sides of their neck, much like Harry Potter while in an underwater game in the most current installment of that series.

Something begins growing out of their neck and they can’t help but suck in the water that is pressing all around them. Gills appear on their neck and then they open wide their mouths against all their instincts and fill their lungs with water. They slowly begin sucking in water and their lungs somehow grab the oxygen out of the water and keep it flowing through their veins.

An astounding adaptation has occurred that leaves the person in awe that they can breathe under water and in awe of how inventive God can be.

New Startup Publication Peaks After a Year

So it's already been a year that the Beach Picayune has been in circulation. And thanks to the solid readership and advertisers who kept the Pic going during a time when the printed page seems to be on the out.

A new year brings new offerings and outlets for the Pic. A plan is in the works for readers to subscribe to the Picayune and receive new issues via email. Keep reading for details. And a new look is also under construction by the New Look Development Department.

Future issues that will satiate the insatiable appetites of the Pic readers include:Adaptations, a review of the book Blue Like Jazz, Reflections on Qtting Journalism, City News Days and further flashy, but never, never trashy, content on the Pic's younger sibling publication: www.xanga.com/Sonofa3.

SAVE CITY NEWS

Chicago will have to expunge a word from it's dictionary at 12:01 a.m. on Jan. 1, 2006: Scrappiness.

And yes, that is a word. And, yes, it is 12:01 a.m. not 12:01 p.m.

The idea of scrappiness originates from the New City News Service, an institution in Chicago journalism for the last century. And this idea will disappear when the service, formerly known as City News Service, electronically sends out it's last story on it's news wire sometime late that Saturday night. The service will be halted because the Chicago Tribune, who owns the City News Service (CNS), is cutting back on some jobs. There was something about CNS providing too much competition with the Trib's internet news services.

City News will define scrappiness for another 12 days but then after that, it will be hard to find some other source to take up that title. CNS has been an historic (yes, it's 'an' rather than 'a') training ground for journalists for decades. Mike Royko, Seymour Hirsch and Kurt Vonnegut were all alum and can credit CNS with catapalting their careers as a columnist, investigative reporter and novelist, respectively. Maybe catapalting would be too yellow a term for these journalists but they can at least say, "Yeah, City News taught me a few things." One of those things would be the importance of checking and rechecking facts. A CNS motto that emobies this principle is, "If your mother says she loves you, kick her in the shins and and tell her to prove it."

That's scrappiness.

And so would City Newsers racing around the city, beating five other newspapers, four t.v. news crews and a 24-hour radio news station to the scenes of breaking stories. Fires, police-involved shootings, bad car accidents, press conferences, etc. One legend has it that one reporter was passed on a tip from the Cook County Medical Examiner's Office that someone was murdered in an apartment building on the northern tip of Sheridan Road where only a month earlier someone else was found murdered a floor below. That reporter called up the kind, grandpa-like Rogers Park District (24) captain who told him that there was a crime scene investigation van sent to that Sheridan Road apartment building. Well to make a long story short, that reporter got to the apartment building before even the freelance videographer with multiple police and fire scanners in his car could (Check future editions of the Picayune for the full story).

Times like that were how CNS, a not-for-profit organization since it's restructuring in 1999 when it was revived by the Tribune, educated it's reporters in the old school methods of fact-finding. City Newsers wouldn't Google some address of a fire, they would know the general area after studying their official city street guide and be able to tell you the right way to get there. City Newswers wouldn't call up a random detective from Area 3 , which emcompasses the Rogers Park neighborhood, and ask about another murder in the aforementioned apartment building. They would shoot the shit with the 24th District captain and then bait him with, "Any investigations going on?"

The Tribune will be losing out on a great source of scrappy reporters who truly know the city when CNS stops broadcasting. All other news outlets will also be without the nitty-gritty, just-the-facts-maam, everyday dolldrums of reporting that followed the smaller crimes and kept track of bigger criminals all the way through the judicial process. All will be losing very cheap labor that does all the dirty work of hanging out in police stations and bond court hearings at 26th and California to know what's going on.

My 11 months there, though ill-fated, were some of the most formative and education of my life. I don't regret them at all.

It's too bad some other news agency, say Medill News Service or some other institution, can't pick up the work of CNS. If this newswire was saved, people would still be able to trace knowledge and scrappy reporters back to their home at CNS.

Afraid of the Dark Pt. 2

I was reminded again of how much a person's dark side can define them and help make them real.

I got an education over Thanksgiving of one of the most unpretentious but popular musicians after viewing Walk the Line. I came to see why Johnny Cash earned the name of the Man in Black. He was a normal man whose journey through the dark side began when he and some buddies tried to cut a record. The studio owner, who listened to Cash and friends play an old gospel song, stopped them halfway through the song.

He told Cash that their song was just another version of a gospel hit that everyone else has already sung. Cash asked if the owner was opposed to them singing a gospel song. The owner tried to explain what he meant but then asked Cash this: "If you were lying in a ditch somewhere with five minutes left to live, what would you say to God and anyone else who would listen?"

Cash paused and then began playing, a slow, dirge-like song called "Cry, Cry, Cry," one of the first hits that launched his career. The record owner knew that sometimes rehashed gospel songs wouldn't connect with any but a small group of listeners because they had the tendency to ring hollow. What gospel songs said about God was great but what they sometimes left out was the humanity, the pain, the darkness that so many people could identify with.

The owner didn't want Cash to be afraid of the dark. And to the benefit of the world, Cash didn't shy away anymore. Walk The Line show Cash's journey into drug abuse early on in his career and Cash's later music completes the portrait of the Man in Black, a man who lived in darkness but was still able to be redeemed. Some of Cash's greatest music were his four American Recordings, which were pointedly dark.

Cash was a better man for having ventured down the darker pathways and even into his own dark soul. He knew sin in his heart like a father knows his son and he was all the better a believer because of it.

COMING SOON

Due to a sprained ankle suffered while chasing down and apprehending some young punk who stole tips from the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless, The Beach Picayune was unable to be published for the last month. The editorial board regrets this lapse in coverage but pledges to return the thankless work of publishing the Picayune.

The Editorial Board of the Beach Picayune

Afraid of the Dark Pt.1

(This may seem like it was written in fast forward mode.)

I was scrubbing my dirty bathtub with Clorox bleach cleaner on Saturday. I had a good start to my day with two cups of Arabian Mocha Sanani and my compartmentalized time with God.

I had a rock station playing while I scrubbed. A dark, pulsating industrial tune began playing and I recognized it as "No. 1 Fan" by Garbage. " I would die for you...I would cry for you...I would crawl on hands and feet until I bleed." The words were acidic, gothic and disturbing but the music was entrancing.

I remembered then how much I like darker music like Garbage, Linkin Park or any other secular band that honestly devles into the darkness of this life. I can't get enough of this darker music. I confess that most of my regular digest of music now is not produced by someone who follows Christ. And I'm okay with that.

Naturally, there are dangers to such a diet at this. The constant hopeless messages or depressing conclusions could easily begin to convert one's ways of thinking. A friend of mine realized this and is fasting from secular music for his health (see Trent's blog on the list of links further down the page).

But there is a tendency in Christian music to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of those honest but dangerous expeditions into the treacherous land of human emotion and experience. Sadly, there are followers of Christ who have adopted the ancient idea that the spiritual life should be more important the physical or human life. The messy, the torturous , the mindfield that is our God-given emotions are ignored or suppressed with zeal. And much to the detriment of a person's entire being.

I know this lifestyle all too well, having zealously pursued it for a period of time. But thankfully, I matured in my understanding of theology, humanity and where and how those two things intersect. I am thankful for a high school english teacher, with his long hippie hair and his own rock band, for getting me hooked onto Led Zeppelin. I am thankful for those trepidations first steps of buying a Moby CD and a Radiohead album. I am thankful for the realization that my human emotions need to be included in my spiritual life and should be explored in order to benefit my spiritual maturity.

And not all of my bridges from the world of Christian music have been burned; only about 81% percent of them. Those 81% were bridges that led me away from music that simplified too much; that formulaized too much; that was too afraid to venture out into the unknown territory of emotions. The remaining passages still receive traffic when a band can creatively or honestly sing of the spiritual life and man's eternal crusade to be redeemed.

Christian music that isn't afraid of the dark sits right beside other musicians, like Ben Folds or Ray Lamontagne, who aren't either.

Angst-Fueled Thoughts Lead to Spiritual Revelation

So it was 11:30 p.m. on some weeknight and I was restless. I had an aching to be out doing something late at night again. Being a reporter during the graveyard shift had left me with the need to be up when only a small percentage of the population still is. To be out and conscious while the rest of the city sleeps.

I realized that this sort of restlessness, this angst, is the perfect subject for a blog. It would be a great intro to catch a reader's attention. It's a vague feeling that surely someone else has had and can relate to but, like me, is not quite sure how to put it into words.

So I ask a friend if she knows a coffeehouse that's open all night besides the well-known anchor of Old Town at Piper's Alley, the collossus of coffee, the ever-present espresso pedler, the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless. This fell0w night-dweller knew of a place: the Pick Me Up Cafe on Clark. I drove there only to discover a line of people waiting to be seated in the not-so-reflection-inducing, sit-down restaraunt atmosphere. I felt a little out of place walking in with a black leather journal, a legal notepad for blog ideas and The Shipping News, by E. Annie Proulx; the materials necessary for reflection and digestion.

This is a good illustration of angst-driven restlessness, that need for reflection and connection with God. People can relate to this common experience.

So I settled on the haven that vampires, homeless men, chess players and procrastinating students can all agree on: the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain. I drove another few miles and parked up the street, only to find that on this night, it was closed. Apparently, a power-washing crew was super-scrubbing the floors to remove the grime that builds up on a continual basis on the floor.

This was a realistic portrayal of a struggle or a Pilgrim's Progress-like journey that readers can be drawn in to. Will the faithful (but Angst-filled) Christian find that much-needed time of reflection and contemplation? Will he be able to not settle for that coffee-chain-that-shall? Will there be some resolution or spiritual revelation?

I was out of options and I've already driven all around town. I gave up and headed back to my apartment. A Burger King with an open-late drive thru got my business that night. I ate my pre-fab Hershey's Pie on my back porch that night and just enjoyed the night sky.

And then I realized that I could have some spiritual revelation on my back porch. I could come to the conclusion that the only place to sooth my restlessness was in fellowship with Christ. Or I could remember that I didn't need a pre-fab atmosphere, or as some would call it the "Third Place," in order to sort through thoughts and see how my faith fits into my present life.

And soon enough, I'll have written enought to satisfy my readers with more angst-fueled thoughts that lead to a spiritual revelation.

Donnie Darko enthusiastts-Start drooling

I've done some research on a very well-made but confusing movie. Here's a buddy of Eberts' take on it and a writer from Christianity Today's Books and Culture Magazine.


http://us.f1.yahoofs.com/bc/3f838842_1414c/bc/essays/Donnie+Darko+essay.doc?bf71AUDBC1Y83Ghx


http://us.f1.yahoofs.com/bc/3f838842_1414c/bc/essays/DonnieandtheBunnyman[2].doc?bf71AUDBd5ItWXhn

These are great if you're a fan or wanting to just figure out what the movie was about.