This is fucking great. The Bears are going to the Super Bowl. Last week, during the AFC game I was talking to a friend of mine, and I told her that the Bears where going to the Super Bowl and there was something on the television that said "Chicago vs. Winner of this Game" and I teared up. And the city is amazing. I see Bears things everywhere. The Indian statues outside of Roosevelt University, on the LED display at the Spanish speaking auto shop down the street, scrawled boldly into the dirt of a white delivery van. Today I was driving home and the radio gave me a station identification, "Jack 105 FM. Go Bears." What kind of madness is that? What kind of madness is it that I, alone in my truck, pounded my chest twice and echoed, "Go Bears." This past weekend I convinced Margaret Nelson, at the end of her curtain speech (turn off your cell phones, don't take photos, etc) to say "Go Bears" and the crowd went up.

When the Sox were playing, that was good. That was good. But Chicago is a divided town when it comes to baseball. There is no victory that is not bittersweet. It is a hatred between siblings, and most of us know how vicious that can be. Miller Lite knows this. Months ago I was driving down the Kennedy and I saw the sign, "Man Law: Baseball will divide Chicago, but football will unite it." And while I have not drank a Miller Lite from that day to this, I agree. I feel a part of something. I see people wearing a hat, or a shirt, or a coat, and I know that they're my brothers and sisters. We could disagree about all kinds of things, what sort of things you put on a hotdog, the ability of homosexuals to marry, how many times I've slept with their mother, but during this magical moment in time, none of those things matter (Chris Wright, let us put the past behind us, come and watch the Super Bowl with me, cheer for the Bears). We are able, if just for this week, to put it aside and stand shoulder to shoulder and say, with one voice, "Go Bears!"

I suppose a touch of personal background won't hurt here (nor will it injure my huge ego). I am, of course, from the middle of Illinois. A town some people call Normal. In fact, you can find that shit on a map. Land that I typically say was "smoothed by God's own hand." Which implies, I suppose, that God has smooth hands. Which I can't say for sure, having never shook them, or seen them. I can't even say if God would have hands, caporal or not. Though I will assert that God's hands, if they exist, are delicate. Not to be confused with fragile, but gentle and able to do complex and detailed tasks.

I identify with Illinois. In the way that it's my home. It's the home of most of my friends. There's a certain amount of emotion associated with that. Hard to put my finger on, and somewhat embarrassing at times (and emboldening as well) because I didn't choose it. You cannot choose where you are from any more than you can choose your parents. Despite this obstacles I am comfortable with freely associating myself with them. A Flatlander (if you will), a Midwesterner. I associate these things with certain values. A toughness coming from cold winters, a simpler way of life and a hard work ethic, defense.

Which brings us to the point at hand. The Chicago Bears. Now I chose Chicago; I am here of my own free will. I have carved out a career here. I am, by the day, leaving what little remains of my youth here on these Chicago streets. Now we've all heard something to the effect of, "When I was a child I thought like a child, spoke like a child, believed like a child. But when I became a man I put away childish things." Which is true, to an extent.

However I would argue that not all that a child does is childish. Children learn and adults should learn. Children laugh and adults should laugh. Children like pie and I like pie. Growing up isn't a process of becoming one thing and the another and then another, leaving all that you have been behind, but learning to take with you what you should carry and dropping that which you should not. I have taken with me into my adult life my fandom of the Chicago Bears. I barely remember their last Super Bowl win, but there are shadows of memories. I remember when Walter Payton retired. Specifically. I remember sitting close to the television (something I have left behind in childhood) on my heels, bouncing up and down, at my grandparents house being filled with the feeling of 'say it ain't so' as well as tears. I cried all afternoon.

What is this? This sports worship? This hero worship? This athleticism and playing of a game being the ultimate expression of worth? I do not know, and I cannot fully rectify with the rest of my life. But I suppose, days away from this game, I need not. And I shall not. The orange C is a symbol. It is, for the most part, an empty vessel that I project my own values on. Values like a strong defense, a team game played by a team of people, without showboating super stars, without a flashy offense. A willingness to get dirty, the play all four quarters. To fight. To overcome adversity. To be the underdogs, even though you've done better. To show those fuckers.

I believe. And belief is a powerful thing. Faith is a necessary part of the human experience. I am, right now, wearing a Bears hat that I obtained in the spirit of the season. A hat that I cannot wear outside of my house for fear of loosing my ears in the frigid temperatures but the moment I come home I put it upon my head and let my over-long hair stick out over my ears. I look ridiculous, and I consider this part of my faith.

My faith is not completely blind. I know we have (at best) a unpredictable quarterback. I know that we had trouble with teams that we should not have had trouble with. But I feel confident in my proof that Chicago means Defense and Defense wins Championships. I know the Colts have an offense my greater than ours but I think that our boys will get to Manning, will shake him up just enough. Our special teams will tip the balance and our running game will find the holes that we need. I know it will be a good game. I know I will be drunk.

And I want this thing. And I support this thing. And I am for this thing. I am comfortable with the amount of thought and emotion that I have put into this. I want a lot of things in life, I want world peace, I want to look back at my life as an old man and believe that it has been worth while, I want life long friendships. These things, though, cannot be distilled to a single day, a single moment when you feel the tide turning and know that what is good will happen. Some of the greatest victories in life are hard to savor because of the time needed to enact them. The Super Bowl is not that. The Super Bowl is the time to get up and cheer. To tip over a car.

Unity. Faith. Defense.

Go Bears!

Other things of note:
1. Another line has appeared on my screen.
2. I got some crap on my pants, and I only brought one pair of pants.
3. Lyndsey really likes the Stephen Kellogg CD I burned for her.

The flight was somewhat on the long end, clocking in around four and a half hours. Only serious difficulty being the soreness in the legs towards the end. The desire to use them, dammit. Then Lyndesy put me on a bus to Union Station, which took at least an hour all told, with the waiting for the bus and the amount of time the bus took getting to its location. Then a train, the red line (tee-hee) which I failed to correctly read the signs and got on the train to the wrong place. Which was great, so I took it back two stops, got on the correct line and finally came above ground at 'Universal City.' Was picked up, had some wine, then went out to dinner at a place called Thye BBQ. Had a bit more wine and a long chat. Lyndsey has been here in LA for about three years now, which I don't think could be true, unless I've been in Chicago for four years (which seems incorrect). It's one of those long-distance friendships that rely heavily on memory and nostalgia due to a lack of current stimuli. When current information is supplied, it needs to fit in, somehow, with the nostalgia. It is easy for people to grow apart and not notice and not realize. It's when that becomes clear, and the picture in your mind doesn't line up with the person across the table and you believe you're looking at a stranger that things become awkward, at best. (the previous diatribe brought to you by Things Avoided)

The new information about Lyndsey is that she does love LA. It's obvious, though, that she feels comfortable here, that this is her place. Some of the anxiety, the overwhelming but held-in-check anxiety that I used to feel from her is gone. And, honestly, didn't know I had noticed these things until their absence put them in sharp relief. He place is amazingly home-y. Comfortable. there is a couch and a television and a couple of book shelves. Books almost everywhere. Framed art as well. All tastefully done. None of the adolescent mess and disorganization that I feel infuses myself and my own living space. A couple of other things about a boy and other personal issues, but, in regard that this may at sometime be online, I will refrain from saying them straight up, but merely hit at them for those that are 'in the know.' She claims that she is broken or somewhat displeased with herself. A fair statement, I suppose, but somehow filled with a bit of terror that I do not know how to address. I think the boldness of her moving to Los Angeles to peruse a dream should calm her. But she is not calm, she feels that she has lost sight of her dreams. Which may be true, but I think the greater truth of the matter is that her dreams are shifting. To what, though, she does not know. There, I think, is where the terror is.

New information about me is that I'm an asshole.

Yesterday, while lost, I wondered though Universal City, which reminded me of the Pier. Made my way to Hollywood (where Lyndsey works) to eat with her at some of her co-workers at a culturally enlightening location (Wendy's). Then I was dropped off at the Arclight, which is a movie theatre that comes highly recommended and I caught The Good Shepard which is a three hour film with a very stoic main character. Interesting, I would say. Would have liked to have seen it with Emily Jane. Tisk. Lyndsey picked me up, and we went to a friend's house (Deardra). I fell like I have misspelled her name. And without the internet to save me, I am lost. She's a stage manager here (theatre theatre) and was a very fine person. Ate some pizza, played with her cat and drank some of her wine. I have been drinking a bit of wine. It's been a while. Reminds me of some people. Some person that I miss.

This Bears joke brought to you by Monica Foskett.