According To Plan

According to Plan

got your plans in place
got your life in order

everything’s fine
no really you’re fine

think real hard
debate debate

got your plans in place
got your life in order

everything’s fine
no really I’m fine

think real hard
debate debate

got my plans in place
got my life in order

there’s a logical reason
a cause and effect

just think real hard
debate debate

I feel just fine
when everything goes

according to plan
even though

it all goes wrong
the harder you try

to make things right
in the end

c b snoad
draft 11-15-07
edit 1-25-17


Chuck Snoad

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B.A., English, Elmhurst College, 2002
Summa Cum Laude (4.0 GPA)
Staff Writer, The Leader
Opinion Columnist, The Leader
Nominated: Senior of the Year

Senior Thesis
“Rescuing Modern Man from the Feminization of Advanced Civilization:
Tarzan of the Apes as Escape-Fantasy”

Academic Papers
“From Separation to Creation: Wordsworth’s Preface to Lyrical Ballads
“John Locke vs. the Bloggers: Kenneth Burke as ‘Association’ Referee”

Creative Non-Fiction
“An Image of My Father” in Hippocampus Magazine

Middlewestern Voice
Lynx Eye
The Unknown Writer

Areas of Interest
Philosophy (Eastern & Western)
Modernism & Postmodernism
French Philosophy (Sartre & Baudrillard)
Contemporary American Culture
Cultural Critique & Political Theory
Media Theory & Digital Studies
Composition Theory
British Romantic Poetry

Father Knows Jest

Three Parables, As Told By My Father:

A psychiatrist encounters a second psychiatrist, his colleague and friend.

“Hello,” says the first shrink.

“Hello,” says the second, walking in the opposite direction.

I wonder what he meant by that, thinks the first.

I wonder what he meant by that, thinks the second.


Bob picks up his friend Phil at the train station. Phil has traveled a long way.

“Are you OK,” Bob asks, “you look ill.”

“It was terrible. I had to ride backwards the whole trip.”

“Why didn’t you just ask the person across from you to switch seats?”

“I would’ve,” says Phil, “but there was nobody there.”


Moe the cab driver has finally done it. He’s first in line outside the arrivals terminal.

Positioned for a big-time customer or two.

A businessman, excited to see his loving wife and kids again, gets in Moe’s cab.

“236 Maple Street, please.”

“Are you serious? Take your fare? And lose this prime spot?”

Feature Presentation


dumb & full
of puns

I see myself
in you I say
streaming like

a film strip
in the palm
of her hand

we’re stars
in the making
method actors

shadows in
an intimate

c b snoad

107 Seasons In One Day

Below is a post I made to the sports blog Bleed Cubbie Blue. I wasn’t surprised that it received little response, given its philosophical nature. But it means something to me.


Indulge me in a little thought experiment.

You fall into a wormhole and land back in the year 1909. You’re still a diehard Cubs fan, but your trip through space-time has zapped your knowledge about the team. You’ve forgotten that the Cubs haven’t won a World Series since 1908.

In an attempt to regain your sense of history, you watch every Cubs game from 1909 through 2014. Every win, every loss: 106 years of not winning it all. It takes 23 hours and 59 minutes of actual time on this earth to get you through 2014. You’re dejected.

But then you watch the 2015 season unfold in one second. The Cubs win the World Series. The clock strikes midnight. Was it a good day?

Does the celebration of one great victory cancel out 106 years of disappointment? Or does the joy surrounding this title, the longest wait for any fan base, shine brighter in light of all the heartache?

Me And My Shadow

Chris Truman found himself on the fifth floor of Catholic General Hospital. He had fallen ill at work, overwhelmed by the frenetic pace of his position as a shipping and receiving clerk. Doctors admitted him without a second thought.

The patients on his wing had no names. They went (for insurance purposes) by their DSM-IV codes alone. Many had a number of issues. The staff dispatched their fears with pills. Most were government approved.

One patient played the piano and sang in the recreation room every night. He was full of energy and carried a lively tune. Truman wrote a poem in awe of his stage presence. He preferred Robert over 296.40 and told the artist so.

Truman didn’t care for diagnoses. He had enough problems. What was he after all? He wasn’t clever enough to play the role of doctor. He felt unlike a normal patient. Truman, in a flash of insight, convinced himself that he was Catholic General. Concrete and studs, glass and bricks. The structure itself, housing many levels of pain. Just out the window, what a shadow he cast.

He was everywhere he went. The world he fit inside his head. Thoughts defying logic, refusing to be held. He was full of material, a mix of chemicals. So many words with nothing to say.

As he lay in bed Truman contemplated his current project. How to begin the next chapter on his fictional friend Chuck Snoad? He’d be discharged eventually. What did all this mean? How did Truman’s struggles with the Sadness and the Nerves speak to his character?