Mister Faded Glory | www.misterfadedglory.com

Welcome back to Mr. Faded Glory.

Actually, I should phrase that differently. In fact, you should welcome me back to Mr. Faded Glory. I’m writing again, or at least I’m trying to write again.

I’ll spare you any gory details of my hiatus. It was busy. the painting is done. More stuff has come and gone. But I’ll spare you. After all, you don’t care. You’re not even reading.

Do you realize I’ve written at Mr. Faded Glory for more than 6 years? More than 6 years! And through that time I’ve barely grown from a personal web journal into whatever this thing is about today. Sure, I’ve had some traffic spikes after The Wire analysis or Keurig coffee rants. Believe it or not, I’ve even gained some Cubs followers from time to time.

But largely, Mr. Faded Glory remains undiscovered, or worse, a listless blog that’s not really about anything. That’s the most painful thing of all, actually: the listlessness and meaninglessness of this space. After all, in my normal, day job, I work in marketing. I actually function from time-to-time as the in-house copywriter or de facto creative directorfor a successful company. I can sell shit; or rather, I can package it and write about it and convince you to buy it. I’m good at it.

So why can’t I sell myself?

This blog is about nothing. There’s no wheelhouse. There’s no focus. It’s kind of like me. I don’t really care about anything. And, I simply write. I don’t lazily paint straw-man arguments, nor do I immediately react to each and every minuscule sporting news like the apocalypse is imminent.

Instead, Mister Faded Glory illustrates the frustrations found in idle, lazy passions of consumption– sports, culture and more – when all you’re really frustrated with is your own limitations. Of which there are many.

But, I hesitate to bore you with my internal struggle. (I know, why stop now?) Instead, Mr. Faded Glory will exist into the future as long as I feel it’s necessary to write.

And it’s necessary. Outside these pixels, it’s been quite a month and a year, for me, my family, my friends, and more. A boss once told me that “the 30s are the worst because it’s when life goes to shit.”

And I guess that’s sort of true – the 20s are a stilted period of wistful adolescence; and the 30s are, for better or worse, what happens when you realize who you are. Or who you aren’t. And I should know, I wrote a whole book about the wistful adolescence of 2osomethings. As you might have guessed, it ain’t selling, either.

But who I am is manifested here. I’m a talented writer who’s written a book at least as good as most of the crap out there (He’s modest, too!), but who remains undiscovered because I can’t distill anything about myself into an elevator pitch. I can’t even listen to my own advice. I can’t even change, for crying out loud.

But I’m still here. And I’ll write on. A talented, famous, established writer once told me, “assuming a baseline of talent, the success is largely dependent on perseverance.” And I think he’s right; but perseverance is, of course, the hardest part. Duh.

But my venting is now concluded, and I can move on to other, less melancholy, more futile pursuits. This was surely a roundabout way for me to announce that this fall, Mister Faded Glory becomes the leading Indianapolis Colts blog on the web. You know what? I’m not being fair to myself. I can change. I can announce seismic  shifts in our coverage in separate posts, rather than casually dropping a nugget into a personal odyssey.

Remember the halcyon days of, uh, Monday, when I wrote this tempered column, warning us Cub fans not to panic or become infuriated?

Even I didn’t foresee the worst three games of the season. Harden losing a no-hitter, then the game blown by a wild Marmol on Monday. Jeff Samardzija proving to be a massive head case/bust/douchebag on Tuesday, during a national media slobberfest over Pedro Martinez‘ return. And the predictable shellacking by Cliff Lee and Ryan Howard today (and semi-predictable meltdown of Ryan Dempster.).

Suddenly the Cubs are dead team walking; never mind that the Cardinals play the sisters of the poor for the next two weeks. A scorching September might still be enough for the postseason, but really, without Zambrano, Lilly, and/or Ramirez, the Cubs are toast.

All over the web, you can find Cubs fans demanding the team blow up the roster and start all over as soon as 2010. Poppycock. Bad luck and injuries hit this year, but through the last three seasons, this collection of talent has been pretty good, albeit unlucky in October’s crapshoot. Next year we’ll have a few contract years and additions and et cetera, and maybe Soriano will bring a lighter bat and we’ll turn out OK.

But it’s never easy; it won’t ever be easy, and our hate boils for another offseason. Thanks for playing, Rich Harden, Reed Johnson, Kevin Gregg, and other soon-to-be-departeds. Thanks for nothing, cadre-of-suck-at-second-base.

Maybe next year, the perfect storm of injury and slump (See, e.g. Soriano, Alfonso, and Soto, Geovany) will have passed, and we can get back to business as usual.

Until then, we’ll turn to the Colts, who prep for their first preseason game tonight, and have no similar injury concerns as … uh … what?

Sigh.

Well, that didn’t work.

I stand corrected. What’s most disappointing is not showing up, from the beginning.

And if this is the start of a trend for Oklahoma, rather than a white-hot aberration, they’ll win the title.

For the Orange, hopefully – hopefully - everyone’s back next year, because a good new class comes in. Jimmy B will start the year with win No. 800, and we’ll see what happens from there.

You’re always prepared for the disappointing ending to a college season – each team but one finishes with a loss – but you’d like to think your favorite team would go down swinging. Plagued by a horrific start, poor shooting, and bad decisions, Syracuse never gave themselves a chance – irrespective of Oklahoma’s fantastic night.

Permit us just a little melancholy at the apparent end of Marvin Harrison’s career in Indianapolis.

It’s too bad his last few seasons provided a window into perhaps a troubled soul or perhaps the supreme arrogance of Harrison – for more than a decade he laid claim to the arguable title of second-greatest receiver of all time. Before you quickly remind anyone that Harrison benefited solely from Peyton Manning’s brilliance, please be aware that Harrison led a crappy 1996 Lindy Infante Colts team to the playoffs as a rookie. Manning’s short learning curve in the NFL was aided by Harrison’s prowess.

Do not forget his MVP-worthy record-breaking season in 2002, nor his ascension up the ranks of the all-time greats. He’ll find another home, he’ll perhaps even return to Indianapolis at some point. And to Mister Faded Glory, he will always be one of Triplets, one of the greatest, a Super Bowl champ, and an astonishing athlete – with only Jerry Rice a superior receiver.

All the best, Marvin.

When an entire game swivels on a phantom illegal contact penalty, it’s not your year.

When their fumbles always go out of bounds, are always uncalled, are never recovered, it’s not your year.

When the drops bounce into opposing D-backs, it’s not your year.

When third-downs are improbably converted against you, and weirdly fail for you, it’s not your year.

When Kyle Orton and Kerry Collins look like fucking Pro Bowlers, it’s not your year.

When the offense absolutely cannot stay on the field, it’s not your year.

When failure strangely keeps occurring, where success used to happen, maybe it’s not your year.

When a team clad in ghastly all-pale blue defeats you, with a final score making the game look like a rout (for the third time in four losses), it’s not your year.

And maybe, the injuries, the timing, the staccato lack of repetitions, and the lack of continuity prevents it from being your year.

Maybe it’s all the games adding up, maybe it’s a schedule with few breaks, maybe it’s a bye week improbably in Week 3, maybe it’s just luck, maybe it’s poor execution.

But it’s not your year, and though it’s never quite over, you already know.  It’s just not your year.

That’s why there’s next year. Or next week. I guess.

Perhaps most sadly, for three quarters, the Colts, up until a third-down stop was negated by a phantom penalty called on Marlin Jackson (Don’t worry, your crack MNF crew failed to mention this), played their best game of the year. From that point on, the offense failed to execute, and soon all was lost, and soon the score looked ridiculous. The Titans have a great O-Line, but they’re not exactly a juggernaut. A frustrating game for the Colts to drop, in a year full of frustrations. In a year which isn’t theirs, for whatever reason.

And finally, no one on Earth is as incompetent in their job as Mike Tirico, Ron Jaworski and Tony Kornheiser are at theirs. No one.

Last night during the Democratic National Convention (Oh, save it. You know I wasn’t watching, and I know you know that) onetime presidential candidate Hillary Clinton gained the stage and urged her supposed legions of ardent supporters to vote for Barack Obama.

Sure, the speech was fine, I guess. Sure, some of her supporters back McCain out of ridiculous spite.

But this media-created zeitgeist of Clinton and Obama splitting the Democratic ticket and handing the election to a GOP opponent (First Huckabee. Then Romney. Now McCain.) began as fractured supposition, and dubiously continues today – As example, see here, here and everywhere else. You don’t have to look hard. The popular notion in March was a protracted Democratic primary battle irreparably bruising one candidate or the other. The underpinning worry in May swirled around Obama‘s inability to carry swing states – Ohio, Pennsylvania, etc. — that Clinton won.

And beginning in February, record voter turnout at state primaries or caucuses supposedly suggested each preliminary candidate carried an army of supporters loyal to the death, who would obfuscate the other completely by November, when, like spurned Cub fans watching the NL champion Cardinals, one side would vote the opposite: unable to root for the best of his/her league.

And pardon me, but this logic always has been specious at best. I don’t buy it. The record turnout, interest in the campaign, and continual support of both candidates – entirely similar, mind you – is actually a positive.

Let’s say your company’s begun to cut costs, and it’s begun in the cafeteria. The cafeteria no longer can support two choices of coffee – Sanka and Folger’s. In the most democratic way possible, Cafeteria seeks to eliminate the least popular choice.

Faced with the ballot, you vote for Sanka without hesitation. Hopefully, they will keep your brand of coffee, you think. The next morning, you discover Folger’s gained the most support. Your company now decides to quit serving Sanka in the cafeteria. What do you do?

Well, you don’t switch to drinking tea just because there’s no more Sanka. You switch to Folger’s. You may complain. You may whine. You may hate Folger’s stupid commercials about “the best part of waking up,” but you switch. You need the caffeine, the taste, and you’re not too important to give up coffee. And even though you backed Sanka, Folger’s is similar; and it’s still better than fucking tea.

That’s the Democratic Party right now. Maybe a few misguided, self-righteous supporters feel spurned, but they’re likely the example, not the rule. Most people interested earlier in the year remain interested now – they actually cared what’s best for the country.

With legions of media locked and loaded in Denver, legions more media continually harping this zeitgeist all year, it isn’t going away, not now, not even after Clinton endorsed her opponent. Still, wait till November, but the guess here is few Clinton supporters will actually rise up and suddenly switch to tea.

“Read the page, it’s cold and dead, and take me home.”

Alice In Chains

For the last five years, we’ve poured ourselves into writing our debut novel.

Easily the hardest thing we’ve ever done. Easily some of the most fun we’ve ever had.

Each time weve reached a seminal “stopping point,” a point in the alternately arduous, uplifting, despondent and thrilling process which could be called a finish – it’s never felt like elation. It’s never felt like relief. It’s never been particularly satisfying.

Not in August 2006, when the first 400-something-page draft was finally complete. Not in December 2006, when we removed passive voice and finalized characters. Not in June 2007, when we eliminated two major characters, nor in September 2007, when we resolved to cut nearly 100 pages. And we got there. In January 2008, we finally let some trusted advisers read it, and now, in April 2008, we’ve finally added and subtracted our final few pieces. Right now, the thing is done. Here we are – with a tale of three friends, kicking and screaming and resisting adulthood, as their lives separate for the last time.

That’s it. Simple, really. It’s done. Maybe we don’t allow elation simply because at each stopping point – there’s been much more, to do. This time’s different. We think it’s complete. Quite predictably, we think it’s rather good.

We still read through it, poring over passages, thinking “I fucking wrote that? Good god, that’s contrived.” Conversely, our greatest sense of accomplishment arrives when we re-read a passage, and really think it’s good (“Wow, I wrote that? That’s fucking fantastic.”). Or when a friend admires or enjoyed a certain portion – maybe even with a result unintended by us. Or when we step back, and realize that maybe we’ve put something together that’s fairly cool, fairly worthwhile, and maybe even a little intelligent. (Like Reinhold Weege after creating Night Court, we suspect.)

But it’s not relief, nor happiness, nor fulfillment. It is, however, done, and the next chapter (cough, predictable metaphor, cough) awaits.

More updates soon.