Not News: "This Guy Swears He's a Blackhawks Fan"

CHICAGO, IL - Sitting in an Old Town bar during the Blackhawks game, California native Aden Williams makes sure to tell everyone that he's "like a huge Blackhawks fan." Donning a brand new Patrick Sharp jersey, he insists on sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of Blackhawks history that he learned through Wikipedia and ESPN over the past couple weeks. "Did you know this is the first Stanley Cup Finals between two Original Six teams since 1979? Crazy." Additionally he only refers to players by their hockey nicknames. "Everyone's favorite is probably Tazer or Kaner. But I love Sharpie the most. Or Crow. Or Dunc. Or The Rat, you know, Bolland." In his truest display of fandom, he criticizes all the "poser, fair-weather fans" sitting next to him. "I mean who do these people think they are? They think they can just try to escape the monotonous drudgery of their lives by waltzing into a Hawks bar and taking part in the exciting camaraderie of cheering for a championship sports team?  They have to pay their dues.  Like me, man."  Fred Jones, another "fan" who has been watching the Blackhawks his whole life and remembers watching as a kid when they won the Cup in 1961, could not be reached for comment as he was too busy  "watching the fucking game.”

Not News: "Unemployed Man Sick of Telemarketers Getting His Hopes Up"

CHICAGO, IL – A  local 28-year old man has been unemployed for the past 6 months since getting laid off at Kinko’s. Zack Tucker has applied to over a 100 jobs in the area, but continues to wait for an offer, which is why he gets so annoyed every time a telemarketer calls. “Each time that phone rings from an unknown number, I just get giddy thinking that someone from Jamba Juice is finally going to offer me a job. Instead, it’s Steve from Comcast telling me about their latest stupid deals. It’s almost as if they’re doing it on purpose.” In fact, telemarketers are doing it on purpose. Steve from Comcast explains, “We love the unemployed. First, we know they’re home, especially during the day. Second, they’re desperate for human contact so they’re definitely going to pick up the phone. And third, they’re clearly terrible with financial planning so they’re more likely to buy shit they don’t need.” To prove it, Steve sold Zack an additional 100 channels so he has something to do while he “parks his fast ass on the couch.” When reached for comment, Mrs. Tucker was surprised to hear that her son is unemployed and that his phone is, in fact, working. 

Kellogg For Life

There are very few permanent things in life. Just in my own time, I’ve seen buildings crumble, relationships fall apart, careers ended, reputations destroyed, and reigns dismantled. It’s very difficult to say which things will truly last and which will soon meet their demise. Some of the greatest sadness we feel is when good things come to a sudden, unexpected halt. Which is why, as I close out my Kellogg career, I am actually surprised to feel a certain sense of joyous calm. Sure, the past two years have flickered by at an unimaginable speed, and I will be saddened to say goodbye to the friends and lifestyle I’ve so greatly enjoyed. But I am leaving with a prideful certainty of one very important fact—I will forever be a Kellogg alum*.

You see, I was going to go to Booth. I was sure of it. After investigating some other schools, I finally settled on staying in Chicago with Booth #1 and Kellogg #2. In my mind, I could differentiate myself at Booth by being an outspoken, outgoing leader amongst a sea of calculating introverts. I poured all my energy and focus into my Booth application, and once I was done and took a breath, I applied to Kellogg. I remember Tegan telling me that my Kellogg essays, while much quicker to write, sounded more natural and like they came from the heart. In the end, I think the Booth admissions board smelled the desperation and the Kellogg board saw one of their own. Kellogg had already taught me an important lesson: stay true to yourself and the right people will welcome you with open arms.

Another lesson I’ve learned, visible only through the sharp lens of hindsight, is that Kellogg presents an incredibly vast set of opportunities for each and every student. We all start on the same wobbly foot by playing drunken dizzy bat at CIM, but from there we embark on a trip so unique that no two Kellogg experiences are exactly alike. Every student hurtles through their own chaotic path like a plinko chip bouncing through a wall of infinite plastic pegs, with each spike representing a class or club or party on which they can either leave their mark or pass on through. I charted my own course through entrepreneurship and finance classes; PE/VC conferences; FinD group meetings; Fall Balls and trollies; KWEST, ski, and golf trips; and countless hours of loud studying. And perhaps most importantly, it was Special K! and everyone involved with those productions that gave my Kellogg voyage its true meaning. Those experiences shaped me into the individual and (soon to be) graduate I am today.

I know that no other student did exactly what I did over these past two years, but I also know that all of us grew in tandem, supporting each other along the way—our paths were unique but our journey was shared. While we were distracted by all the activities, homework, and brave thinking, an education snuck up on us until we look back at the fall of 2011 and barely recognize ourselves. All of us are now better prepared and more inspired to tackle our futures that will diverge ever wider and ever more unique.

But we will always have Kellogg. No one can ever take that away from us. So before we take that first step after graduation, I’d like to thank every student, professor, administrator, and faculty member for an unforgettably permanent experience. And a special thank you to the Class of 2013—I can’t think of a better group of people to spend forever with.

*And a Wisconsin alum. Go Badgers!

Dear Roger

Dear Roger,

Thank you. Thank you so very much.

I first met you through my mother. She would love to watch you and your beloved friend Gene Siskel battle it out on “At the Movies.” When I was around 10 years old I was invited to join, and I couldn’t have been happier. I had loved movies from a very young age, but listening to you and Gene discuss these pieces of entertainment with such great passion and intellect opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at movies. Loving film could be an identity. It could be a part of my life.

Starting with those nights with my mom and continuing until now, you inspired me to learn about film as much as I could. And you, as you will remain to be, were my greatest teacher. First, you taught me that a film cannot be judged on a singular scale, but on a measure of intent—a measure of potential. You could give 4-stars to a movie like Almost Famous and to The Godfather without any inclination of equity. According to you, these movies are critically different in scope and scale, yet perfectly accomplished what they were each trying to do. This is what made you so incredibly popular. You never looked down your nose at movies and deemed them inadequate in and of themselves. For movies deserving bad reviews, you looked at that particular story, those particular actors, and that particular director and said, “You could have done better.” Your negative press was almost a call to action, which arose from a deeply seeded belief and hope that movies can be great.

Secondly, you taught me, and the world, that film criticism itself can be a beautiful form of entertainment.  Now, I have not come close to reading all 10,000 of your reviews. But I can say with almost certainty that if I saw a movie, and you wrote a review, I’ve most definitely read it. With the amazing power of internet archives, I’ve gone back and read 100s if not 1,000s of your reviews. And I’ve never gone to see a movie without reading your review either before or after. You were my cinematic guiding light. Hell, the number of your reviews I’ve read of movies I’ve never even seen might exceed those that I have seen. But I didn’t read them just to hear your opinion about the movie itself. I read them to listen to your unique, insightful, and often funny voice. While I know you disdain lists and favorites, two gems of yours that immediately come to mind are your Great Movies review of E.T. and your hilariously disdainful review of North. Because of your ability to make criticism an entertaining enrichment to great film, your reviews will forever accompany my favorite cinematic memories.

Thirdly, you taught me is that it’s OK to love movies. Critics have a desire to appear impartial in giving an intellectual assessment of a film. But you were completely, and unabashedly certain that we will never be able to fully remove our personal and emotional lens when watching film. That’s actually what movies are there to do—they are there to evoke an emotional response from its viewers. A perfect recent example of this is your 4-star review of Secretariat. The general consensus was that this was a decent-at-best Disney movie. I myself hated it. But your love of your friend Bill Nack, the author who wrote the book Secretariat, came through while you watched it. Half of your review was actually about Bill and your memories with him. Your love for Bill and love of the story itself affected your love of the film. And you would argue, “so what?” As with many things in life, our love has nothing to do with rational valuation, and it’s OK let a movie touch us and then defend those sometimes solitary feelings to the very end.

And lastly, you taught me that a love of the movies is actually a love of life. When you underwent surgery in 2006 to remove cancerous tissue near your jaw, you lost your ability to speak—a terrible prognosis made especially terrible for someone who talked endlessly about movies for a living. But that did not stop you from writing. You took to the blogosphere with Roger Ebert’s Journal to write about literally everything and anything. Since then, it has been a daily check of mine to look for any new additions. You were awarded Webby awards and garnered a massive following of people like me who knew that you were not just a great critic; you were a great writer. Your innate love of story, of characters, of beauty, and of truth in movies was really a love of everything worth watching in life.

Last night, I forwarded your latest blog post to Tegan, as I often do, with the header, “We’re not going to have him much longer.” By this morning you were no longer with us. In it, you celebrated 46 years as a film critic at the Chicago Sun-Times and revealed you would be taking a “leave of presence.” That little crack in your leg bone was actually your cancer that never really left. But you assured us you would still be here, working on reviews of “only the movies I want to review” and the roll-out of Ebert Digital. But I think you knew. And you said good-bye in the only way you knew how—by telling us that we shouldn't worry and ending with “I’ll see you at the movies.”

Roger, we won’t see you at the movies anymore. But I promise—you will always be with us.

Your gracious fan,

Tommy