The Rant: Losing subscribers, back pain, and a thief called time

It's November already... almost. What happened?

After 40, back pain just shows up at your door without notice and carrying warm beer. It’s a sign of gratitude from the universe for sticking around and staying alive, something that is harder to do than people think. I say this as a guy who has battled a cold for the past two days, has that annoying shoulder hair growth going on, and can already hear his small intestine threaten to go on strike if I eat too much Halloween candy tonight.

Thank goodness they put those things in small amounts, wrappers that you can jam into your coat pocket at least 25 times before needing a trash can. Snickers and peanut M&Ms, so easy to throw down before a minute can pass. Riding the rainbow with Skittles, candy so dangerous your stomach alerts you four minutes after consumption.

There are weaknesses in this world that you can’t deny; for me, it’s candy. I’m the guy whose wife has to buy an extra bag of assorted candy due to the fact that I infiltrate any hiding spot she tries to come up with. I’m like two Tom Cruises stacked on top of each other, bringing double the trouble of one Ethan Hunt. What can I say? Sugar has a piece of my soul, and that comes with a tax.

Would an alcohol addiction be better? What if I just sat down and ate American cheese slices all day, waiting to become a pure solid. My good friend P.J. used to take down a whole plate of bacon in the Busch Stadium press box. Before we would all broil in the getaway day (HEY, JOEL MEYERS!) heat, the breakfast spread for the employees was stacked. Full pans of eggs, biscuits, gravy, bacon, hash browns, and whatever else your morning hangry heart could desire.

Scoreboard guys were allowed in, somehow. I remember coming down to sign in, thinking we were going to be told to head back out. We were employees, but in a stretched-out manner. A group that could be told to get the fuck out. But we never were, and the rewards were priceless.

I got to talk Bernie Miklasz’s ear off for four minutes. Jack Buck and Mike Shannon would brush right past me. Any visiting celebrity would wade through that place, shaking hands and grabbing a quick bite. As they would say in gangster movies, I know where they hide the hot dogs and bratwursts. When the middle of the game had passed and the box would be near empty, a few scoreboard rats would storm the grill drawers, pulling as much as they could within 90 seconds.

Those hot dogs were wrapped like a guy named Steve made them. The brats would stay home until the final pitch of the game, and the hazards of pink lemonade hadn’t reached this younger writer just yet. The times were good, even great in flashes. The adulting requirements were low, a different life living miles ahead. Working the board for those eight seasons looks surreal today, like a vacation that went on and on.

I think about my late friends, Mike Meyer and Troy Siade. They loved baseball so much, it literally oozed out of Mike’s nose. Troy soaked all the life he could out of his gone-too-fucking-soon 38 years, bringing a unique energy to the board. I wish we would have bottled that shit before cancer took him away for good. Meyer told a sixteen minute story that pulled the sting out of a 10-2 defeat.

A long night on the scoreboard-baseball is a patient game-required guys like Mike and Troy. In life, you’ll never come off more greedy than with people you love and lost too soon. It’s a sickness that breeds and breeds, becoming overwhelming at times.

I’d be standing on a soapbox if I said losing subscribers felt overwhelming. Confused is the better word. Losing paid subscribers, one of the maybe 35-40 that share that label, is a different matter. The world has gotten pricey. It’s become way too expensive to live, and I’m not even getting into medical bills. The last thing that should enter my mind is demanding people send me money.

At this point, it’s good icing on an already fine cake. Becoming a paid subscriber is like saying you appreciate the time and effort it takes to compose these mad rambles. The only thing I charge right now to read are the Buffets, simply due to their unpredictability with regards to the contents. But if you’re on Facebook, I usually detail out what’s going to be inside. People don’t like clicking on things these days, fearing a threesome will suddenly appear on their screen while they wait at Starbucks.

Handing over an email is hard enough; paying me is a feat. But losing a regular subscriber means I touched a chord too close, or I became too much. I get it. You’re not dealing with a passive mind here. The mind is overactive up top, firing out ideas that my life doesn’t have time to flesh out at the moment. I’m a prisoner to my last workout, demanding it due to the way I like to take down candy and other assorted naughty foods. You don’t see a drive-through line wrapped around a wheatgrass smoothie shop, do you?

The price of being a conversation starter is people do eventually want to jump off the boat. I’d like to know why. It’s about time to bring this misguided, random rant to a close.

Here’s what I know. Give yourself something to look forward to each day, but don’t let that thing or event own you. Remember that a lot of shit can be stuffed into 24 hours, even if the calendar seems to move too quickly. A poll on Twitter today asked if you would rather receive $50 million or acquire Spider-Man powers. I said taking the money and running would be the idea.

Powers bring extra responsibility, as every entity of Peter Parker has discovered. It’s hard enough finishing every day with the chin up, bringing in a new ability would be like pouring drops of gasoline on a fire. The cash would help. I could buy all the Skittles I’d ever want.

Have a good night and happy Halloween.