"I don't want to have to be like a Scarlett Johansson — who I have nothing against," Megan Fox tells June's Esquire, "but I don't want to have to go on talk shows and pull out every single SAT word I've ever learned to prove, like, 'Take me seriously, I am intelligent, I can speak.' I don't want to have to do that. I resent having to prove that I'm not a retard — but I do. And part of it is my own fault."

 
My parents are from Germany so they weren’t fans of baseball or football (the real kind) until I started playing those sports when I was a kid. I remember asking my dad to play catch when I was young and I noticed that he couldn’t really throw the ball. I was somewhat embarrassed by this considering most of the other dads in the neighborhood could really play the sport. It wasn’t until later that I realized that the reason my dad couldn’t throw that well is because he never played baseball as a kid. Heck, the first time he played catch with me was probably one of only a handful of times that he picked up a baseball. After about 10 minutes of errant throws he would say, “Do you want to work on catching some ground balls?” We would then spend the rest of the time on infield practice. Of course, I was a catcher and really didn’t need to work on catching ground balls, but I enjoyed the time we spent together playing baseball. I practiced fielding grounders so often that I should have been Derek Jeter considering how much time I allotted to the practice, but I never saw much improvement with my fielding prowess. I appreciated the time my dad spent with me on a sport that he had little interest in, and quite frankly, sucked at playing. My dad did play soccer when he was younger and occasionally he would try to get me to kick the ball around but I had no interest in playing. I used to say, “I’m an American Boy (Take me on a trip I’d like to go someday. Take me to New York I’d love to see L.A.)!” Yes, I was a brat. So my father put up with my disdain for playing a sport that he enjoyed and continued to encourage me to keep playing sports that he never played.  That was, until one winter I expressed an interest in learning how to ice skate. My dad knew how to skate so he seized on this opportunity and immediately took me to the store to get me a brand new pair of ice skates. Every few days we would walk up to the park where there was a skating rink and he’d teach me how to skate and at the end of that winter I became a decent enough skater to go by myself.  The following winter, I took my skates and went to the rink alone and proceeded to get made fun of because I had figure skates and not hockey skates. I went home yelling angrily, “How could you send me out there with these figure skates? I look like a girl!” That same afternoon we went to Don’s World of Sports and my mom bought me my first pair of hockey skates. I also coerced her into buying me a stick, tape, and a few pucks. I was no longer a Figure Skater and officially a Hockey Player. My dad would then take me out skating and when he felt like I had progressed enough, he took me to one of the local ponds to play some pick up hockey with a group of other children. Sometimes my dad would stay and watch, but most times he would just drop me off and come back to pick me up a couple of hours later. One year, we were playing on the pond in the late winter and one of the kids fell into the not completely frozen ice. Of course, nobody was twittering yet so this guy had to walk home completely wet in the 30 degree weather. I never did see that kid again, but I trust that he survived. Later, when I told my mom about what happened, she had visions of me being a young George Bailey and going deaf in one ear after falling through the ice. (Now she probably wishes her son was deaf in one year but had a Savings and Loan business instead of 2 good ears and a struggling podcasting career) The next year, with visions of arms flailing in the freezing water still fresh in our minds, my neighbor and I convinced our parents to build a hockey rink in between our houses. And even though it was a ton of work for our parents, I think my dad enjoyed it because playing hockey on the rink was something he was good at doing and something we could do together. Unfortunately, the rink stood at the bottom of a little hill, so whenever the ice melted, our basement would invariably get flooded. But this was a small price to pay (until they try to sell that house) for the bonding experience of being out on that rink together. So growing up I always played hockey and enjoyed watching it on TV. That was until sometime in the early 90’s. As I got older, the time I spent on the ice decreased quite a bit, but I still enjoyed watching the sport on TV. But, by then, the Hawks started putting out teams that never made the playoffs and my interest in watching the sport also waned. I remember one year reading the paper and saying to myself, “When did Columbus get a team?” So when the Hawks started playing well again last year my natural instinct was to become interested in the team again.  I’ve been hesitant to write about the Hawks playoff run this year for fear of jinxing them. I’m not one of those guys who you really want to hitch your wagon to in the luck department. For example, just yesterday I bought a new pair of running shoes and today I stepped in a pile of dog poop. But I will forge on and publicly express my interest in rooting for the Hawks. I’m such a knowledgeable fan now that I can recognize most of the core players (Kane, Toews, Sharp, Havlat, Keith, Campbell) and when pressed, might even be able to tell the difference between a Bolland and a Brouwer. Yesterday's game was about

as an exciting finish as you could imagine and I’m looking forward to watching game 5 on Saturday night. 

This Sunday is Mother’s Day and I was thinking about heading over to my parent's house on Saturday night to watch the game with my dad.  I’m going to bring my baseball mitt too, so on Sunday I can ask, “Hey, Dad, do wanna throw some grounders?”
 

I’m not much of a joiner. And yet, I reluctantly registered (read: was duped) to compete in the most recent Shamrock Shuffle. This decision was based largely on the fact that I am a fan of shuffling, be it on an iPod, or when it’s performed by the 1985 Bears. Thankfully, the luck of the Irish smiled upon me and the rest of my apprehensive ilk by dumping a bunch of snow on the ground the morning of race day. And I decided to, in the grand Cubs tradition, wait until next year. 
 

The thing is, I should be a joiner because I do have a strong competitive streak and I enjoy playing games of all kinds. I think the reason I don’t join things is because, frankly, I’m not what you would call an extrovert. Due to this penchant for reclusive behavior, I also spend a lot of time looking down, which is odd considering I don’t like to look at feet very much. Mostly, I do this to avoid small talk with neighbors, seeing as, well, I’m not very good at small talk with the neighbors. 
 

Over the course of three years in my building, I’ve mastered the art of the “casual look away,” the “have to bend down to tie my shoe” and the “I forgot to grab something in my backpack” maneuvers, so as to look busy and therefore not have to engage in a superfluous conversation with someone I don’t know. And yes, I understand that this type of aloof behavior makes me seem like a jerk. But it’s really because I feel that I don’t have much to offer in the type of situation that only affords a few minutes of conversation. 
 

Usually when I meet someone, I tend to resemble Billy Bob Thornton in a Canadian radio interview, not because of disinterest, but because of shyness. Of course, this type of behavior is usually met with disdain and as a result, I am initially disliked by most people. But, when I’m given the opportunity, I tend to blossom over the course of six months to a year, and eventually come out of my shell. And when that happens, people generally like me. Well, appreciate me. Well, endure me. 
 

Sure, most people don’t want to spend a year trying to cultivate a friendship, but when that happens, it is magical. This is the reason why I don’t think I would be a very effective speed dater. Plus, the humiliation of being rejected by 20 women over the course of an hour isn’t very appealing.  
 

So anyway, the building that I live in is populated by people who seem to thrive on the interactive nature of living like a normal human. My neighbors are always having parties and events that encourage getting to know other people in the building. There have been meet-and-greets of every kind, from holiday cookie crawls to monthly Happy Hours, all held in the effort to help to the neighbors get to know each other. 
 

And I suppose this is a good thing, because in addition to helping people get acquainted, it makes everyone keenly observant of strange intruders. Sometimes I fear that as a result of my reclusiveness, if I ever get murdered (not that far fetched in Rogers Park), the various news stations would come to interview my neighbors and they would say things like, “well, he was kind of creepy,” or “he usually kept to himself,” or “my children were scared of him.”    
 

Because I don’t enjoy interacting with my neighbors, I am very careful to avoid putting myself in precarious situations that might have me unexpectedly coming face-to-face with other people in the building. This came into play last weekend, when my neighbors had their annual spring cleaning get-together, which is when residents gather in the courtyard to pull weeds or plant flowers, all the while seeming to enjoy each other’s company. Though I admit to staring longingly at them from my window, half happy that I wasn’t out there and half sad that I wasn’t a part of the group, I did not participate. 
 

In fact, over the course of this particular weekend, I didn’t once leave through the main entrance. I instead came and went through the back entrance, leading me to refer to myself as “Back Door Pete” until I realized this moniker would only be good for use at a gay bar. So “Enter Through The Rear,” it became and all was well with the world.  
 

I got into radio because I liked the idea of interacting with an audience without the need to actually see anybody. But that is all going to change this Wednesday, when Brendan and I record our podcast at Crimson Lounge (333 N. Dearborn Street). We’ll be there from 5:30 – 7:00 p.m., and I encourage everybody to come out. Heck, I’ll even do my best to make some eye contact. Join us, won’t you?

I recently succumbed to the power of television advertising and purchased a Snuggie that I have been enjoying, despite the fact that I feel like I could wind up engulfed in flames at any moment. Thankfully, I don’t smoke, nor do I keep romantic scented candles around the apartment in hopes of enticing more people to visit. I don’t believe I’ve ever looked around my apartment and thought, “This place would be a lot more appealing to women if there were just a bit more fire around.” But as much as I enjoy lounging around on the couch, enveloped in fleece that might be flammable, I realized after a few days of enjoying the Snuggie that my apathy has reached a new level when I became too lazy to find the sleeves. More often than not, if I can’t locate the sleeves within a couple of seconds, I just say, “Hey, I’m not holding a baby or playing backgammon with a gorgeous blonde woman, so I think I’ll just use this as a combustible blanket.”

I’ve been using my Snuggie a lot lately because I’ve had a cold, and it does provide a certain level of coziness that you can only expect from a blanket with sleeves. But because I rarely get sick, my house is otherwise ill-equipped to treat many of the ailments associated with the common cold. I don’t have a lot of soup on hand, my refrigerator isn’t stocked with OJ and the only thing in my medicine cabinet is a plethora of unused dental floss due to my propensity to trick myself into thinking that I’ll floss more frequently after every dentist visit. After each appointment, I buy way too much floss, use it every day for a week and then forget about it until the week before the next visit. Of course, the dentist always asks, “Have you been flossing?” and I say, “Not as much as I should.” But don’t you think he already knows the answer? Can't we just stop the dance?

Anyway, this particular cold left me with a terrible runny nose, and I quickly became aware that another item I don’t have in my apartment is Kleenex. I started to use paper towels as a substitute, but it was too rough and my nose became red and irritated. Sadly, I too became irritated, so I switched to toilet paper, which is a lot softer. The problem with that was I didn’t like the look of having a roll of toilet paper sitting on my nightstand. I imagined Brendan coming over to do the podcast, looking in my bedroom, seeing the toilet paper and thinking, “What is going on in there?” Luckily, I did eventually venture out of the house to purchase Kleenex, because before long, I would have had to resort to using Swiffer sheets.

Since I’ve been sick, and this might be hard to believe, I’ve been watching a lot more TV than is my norm. One show that I just started watching is The Amazing Race, which as far as I can tell, is a reality show that challenges you to book air travel. The show this year features a deaf contestant, and they are really milking his triumph over adversity. Sure, I imagine this kid has had a rough life growing up, but I already knew that being deaf doesn’t prevent you from running, sitting in a rickshaw while wearing a funny hat, carrying cheese, or dressing up in traditional Indian clothing.

And even though the show will challenge you to make international travel arrangements, two flight attendants, who would seem to have the upper hand on the other competitors in this department, were recently eliminated. One of the flight attendants happened to be a single mom who “lives for her daughter,” but I’m somewhat skeptical of that since she left the kid at home to go compete on a reality show. I was told that they have an Amazing Race-type of competition every year in Chicago called City Chase, where pairs of people run throughout the city performing various challenges. I’m tempted to try it this year, but I’m more of an indoorsman, so I’m not sure I could be very successful. I wonder if they have a City Big Brother, where they force you to sit inside and do nothing except irritate other people? That, I’ll bet I can win.

One of the great things about having a job, other than the obvious things like: a paycheck, the respect of your peers and the satisfaction that you are contributing something to society, is that you have a place where packages can be delivered without much hassle. When you work in an office building, you never have to worry about being around to sign for a package, because someone is always there. But it’s not the same when your package is delivered to your home. This week, I was expecting to get a package delivered from FedEx, so even though I didn’t have anywhere to go, I still felt tethered to the house as I waited for the delivery.

When I worked for the radio station downtown (and yes, it pains me that I’m writing this from a dimly lit apartment in Rogers Park, while a guy in BeDazzled pants is being handsomely compensated for sitting in a big office and deciding if he should play Boston’s, “More than a Feeling” or Foreigner’s, “Urgent” at 9:00 a.m.), I was fortunate to work with a wonderful receptionist named Regina. She was the kind of person who made you smile when you saw her, because her ebullient personality was so infectious. It didn’t matter how badly your day was going, when you saw Regina, you just lit up a little.

As you can imagine, working 10-hour days holed up in a little studio doesn’t offer one much opportunity to meet other people who work at your radio station. Sure, if a salesperson needs something from you, he’ll stalk you in the bathroom, but for the most part, salespeople look at you with disdain because you’re able to wear shorts to work. Anyway, because of the lack of contact with people, you rarely learn anybody’s name. Typically, you might instead offer a simple nod of the head, or from time-to-time, if you were feeling especially gregarious, you would add a “What’s up?”.

For a while at my station, there was a kid named Will who worked with The Howard Stern Show. Will must have been a guy who worked at getting his name out there, because one day I walked past Regina at reception and was greeted with, “Hey, Will.” I chuckled to myself and said, “Hi,” thinking it was a minor slip of the tongue. But the very next day, the same thing happened. This time, when I ran into Regina in the kitchen, she said, “Oh, Hi Will. How are you?”  Again, I offered a “Hi” without correcting her. I laughed it off, hoping that it was just an accident, since she has contact with so many people over the course of the day.

But a few days later, I was walking with a co-worker through the reception area and Regina said, “Oh, hello, John. Hi, Will. How are guys doing?” I nervously said, “Hello” and hoped my co-worker hadn’t noticed. Only as we continued to walk back to the studio, my co-worker asked, “Why did she just call you Will?”  I explained that Regina had called me “Will” a few times before and though at first I thought it was an innocent mistake, I was now convinced that she in fact thinks that is my name. I told him I figured it was too late to correct her.

Eventually, Will finally left the station for a different job, and I thought that Regina would now realize her mistake, apologize and give me back my name. But, no. In fact, I saw Regina at the going away party for Will, and she still called me “Will.” But I figured I could live with the misunderstanding – that is until the day she called my studio. I answered, identifying myself as “Pete” and Regina told me I had a package at reception.

At this point, I became paralyzed with fear, assuming that the jig was up. “What do I do?” I thought. “Do I just go up there, receive my package, and reveal my true identity?” I’ve been Will all these years, and now, suddenly I would be Pete? I just couldn’t do it. I was going to have be Will until I got fired, or Regina got fired. So I quickly summoned someone else to get the package for me, relieved that for now, my cover was safe. But I could feel the walls closing in on me. One day, Regina would learn my true identity and it would be a disaster.

So I went on with the charade for the next few years, sending someone else to get my packages in order to avoid an awkward interaction with Regina. I began avoiding her, turning around when I saw her walking toward the kitchen, or waiting for the next elevator when I saw her in the lobby. This worked out fine until I realized that the “Will” phenomenon had spread.

One day, I successfully avoided Regina, only to be called “Will” by somebody who worked for another radio station. This was horrible. Now I would finally have to make things right (or spend the rest of my career being known by another name). But how do you say, “Hi, Regina. I know for the last three years you’ve been calling me ‘Will,’ but my real name is ‘Pete.’ Isn’t that funny?” So I chickened out and continued to sneak around the station until one day last year, I could avoid Regina no more.

She caught me in the hallway by the elevator after the show. I was tired and not feeling particularly light on my feet. As Regina walked by, I braced myself. “Here it comes,” I thought. “The unavoidable mis-greeting.” But I was wrong. “Hey, Pete. How are you this morning?” she asked. And just like that, it was over. All those years of agony, gone in a mere instant. I looked up, she winked and smiled, and up in the elevator I rode, knowing that a new relationship had been born.

So back to the FedEx package. On Monday, I missed the delivery because I picked the wrong five minutes to take a shower. So on Tuesday, I decided to sit in my chair by the window until the package arrived. Around noon on Tuesday, the FedEx guy arrived at my gate and I gleefully ran out to accept my package, only to hear, “Are you Mr. Pat Zimmerson?”  “Yes,” I said sheepishly.  I miss Regina.

As someone who attended a college that never makes the NCAA tournament, I always try to come up with a fake alma mater to root for over the next few weeks. Normally, I like to pick a school that one of my friends attended, but my options are limited this year. For example, Brendan went to Iowa and they were one of the few Big Ten schools that didn’t make the tournament field, JimKid went to DePaul and they were winless in the Big East of the Mississippi Conference, Mary went to St. Mary’s (I think she went there because she liked the name. Why couldn’t her name be Oklahoma, Kansas, or Pittsburgh?) and I’m not even sure where that is, and Stephanie went to Columbia College and they don’t have a basketball team. And quite frankly, the times that I’ve walked passed the Goth looking kids hanging out near Columbia, it’s pretty evident that they didn’t spend a lot of time shooting hoops with their fathers. I also try to avoid rooting for schools that never would have accepted me as a student. I understand that list includes most of the teams competing, but this year I’m limiting them to Duke, Morgan State, Cal. State Northridge, Morehead State, East Tennessee State, and Radford.

One of my favorite ’85 Bears is Mama’s Boy Otis Wilson (the ladies loved him for his body and mind, but I would venture to guess that more loved him for his body) and he went to Louisville, so I like to cheer on the Cardinals whenever possible. I also like Villanova because Howie Long, Jim Croce, and Brendan’s favorite country artist, Toby Keith went there. I thought about rooting for Memphis to support Justin Timberlake’s new tequila venture, 901, which also happens to be Memphis’ area code, but then I read that I’d have to go to St. Louis to buy it. And if I’m going to St. Louis for tequila it’s going to be for Sammy Hagar’s Cabo Wabo. Since I won’t root for Duke, I do root for North Carolina because I like to feel a part of that intense rivalry. Plus, UNC is the team that President Obama picked to win it all and I like to think that in some small way we have a similar thought process. But even though President Obama did poke fun at retards, I still would have not appeared on The Jay Leno Show.

Anyway, this weekend officially launches the commencement of drinking season. Sure, you practiced for it during your holiday parties on New Year’s Eve, the Sunday before Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and Pulaski Day, but now it’s time to put that training to good use. Saturday is the Downtown St. Patrick’s Day Parade, Sunday is the South Side Irish Parade and Tuesday is the “Let’s Walk to the Next Bar” Parade. 
 

I don’t drink very often, but when I do, I enjoy a nice pint of Guinness during these colder months. Against my better judgment, I decided to give up Guinness for Lent. Of course, I could have given up beer altogether, but just like foregoing premarital sex is to Bristol Palin, it’s unrealistic. Thus far during Lent, I drank Guinness once because I forgot that I was giving it up, enjoyed a Black and Tan (half Guinness and half Bass Ale), and ordered a Smithwicks, which is the closest thing to Guinness you can find. Yet, I remain vigilant and plan to continue the, um, sacrifice(?) until Easter. 
 

A friend suggested that I just give up drinking Sunday – Thursday, since I rarely drink on those days, but I explained that while I like to do things half-assed, that would be doing something half-assed, half-assed. So quarter-assed, I guess. And Pete Zimmerman does nothing quarter-assed! Luckily, I’ve already decided what I’m giving up next year, and it’s going to be that new wine that Sting is producing. I think it’s going to be called, “Message on a Bottle.”  
 

So, back to the upcoming holiday. As has been discussed over the past couple of weeks on The Brendan and Pete Show, my parents are German, and celebrating St. Patrick’s Day was always a little weird for me. Growing up on the South Side of Chicago (actually, Southwest Suburbs, bitches.), my friends had last names like: Doyle, Reidy and Boyle. My first crush was on a girl whose last name was O’Brien.  
 

There were so many of the Irish persuasion in my neighborhood, in fact, that a family on my street named Grabowski chose to go by Gray to fit in better. And this was after Mike Ditka joined the Bears. Yet, when I’d leave the house wearing a green t-shirt on St. Patrick’s Day, my parents would look at me and just shake their heads in disgust. “How come you can’t be more proud of your heritage?” they would ask. And I would say it has nothing to do with heritage. Heck, I’ve worn a shirt made entirely of hemp, an inflatable parrot on my head, and a sombrero as an excuse to do some day drinking. 
 

So whatever you are, whoever you pretend to be, or wherever you are from, enjoy a safe weekend, and Slainte. Or prosit, as the case may be.