I was reflecting back over a lifetime of hits and misses (very few hits, by the way) and one memory kept coming back. It is of a little boy, sitting on the backdoor steps of his aunt and uncle's house. The house sits on the edge of an enormously flat expanse of jet-black dirt, a tild field somehwhere in the middle of our nation's cornbelt. He is about 4 or 5 years old and he's trying to play a toy guitar that he had just dug up in his cousin's basement. His hair is reddish and curly, he probably needs a haircut - but you can bet he doesn't want one. He just wants to play guitar and make music like that Elvis guy his aunt loves so much.
But why does he want to play so badly? The small collection of 45's he listens to on his record player are all hits from this old crooner (the Elvis guy is like, 40 years old), but they make him feel good. He wants to dance and sing and play when he listens to the music on those little, round, peices of wax with the hole in the middle. No one has told him that it's not okay to do any of those things - in fact, most of the grown-up people in his life find it rather endearing, cute. His great-grandmother, who is a wonderful, wise, kind, deeply religious woman, has even made him a little vest to wear when he pretends that he is Elvis. The vest is white and trimmed in sparkly colored beads. It feels like silk, or at least how he imagines silk would feel. It's beautiful, just like the music he hears. When he wears it, he imagines it is he that makes those wonderful sounds. The beats are his creation, and he proudly sings out loud, "Baby let me be...your, teddy bear! Put a chain around my neck, and lead me anywhere!" Oh to make music! That is what this child thinks, perhaps too young to truly understand what it all means, and certainly too young to see where it would lead. But, oh boy, it feels good to imagine!
My mom dug out the old vest a few weeks ago and gave it to my little nephew, who's only about 5 years old. It's has a rust stain on the front, probably from decades of living in a box, resting up against an old metal Tonka truck. But the beads still sparkle, and it fits him perfectly. If he wants, maybe it will help him to sing and dance and play - and maybe even magically inbue him with a little courage to be whatever he wants to be.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, April 5, 2010
Only a Fool Would Say That
Let me start this entry with a question. Why am I such a freak? I've spent years following a mantra of "avoid the normal life at all cost." But I don't think I have ever sculpted this philosophy into any meaningful definition. It was always based on a line from the Police song, Invisible Sun. The lyric goes: "I don't wanna spend the rest of my life, looking at the barrel of a normal life." I heard this years ago, nay DECADES ago, and have used it -in near religious fashion- as a reference point for making most of my biggest decisions. If you are the type of person who adheres to a more "free spirited" way of life, you may stand up beside me and say, "Hell yes, man! Live your life the way you want to!" If, however, you are one of those people who, free spirited or not, love the Police, you would be more likely to stand up and say, "Hey, wait a minute, those are totally the wrong lyrics you idiot. It's, "looking at the barrel of an Armalite," which is a gun manufacturer, not a general thought on life...how completely ironic. What I thought was a path to happiness is nothing short of a reference to the maker of some of the world's most infamous automatic weapons. To be fair, the song does disparage the use of such things, but the mistake has already been made. I am officially a complete dork.
That's right folks, I have just realized that my central philosophy is based on the misinterpretation of some old Police lyrics. No shit. Really. Perfect. This is truly a great way to start off the week. It makes me wonder...
Let's say you've based your life on a truth that was garnered erroneously from an old song-lyric. Under the light of day, this would appear to be a fairly silly concept, no? I would have to agree. Except, perhaps, what I was really doing is PROJECTING my intense sense of personal freedom onto the song. I was hearing what I WANTED to hear, not what was present. And I guess, in this instance, it hurt relatively few people. What is truly tragic, what really hurts more than it helps, is when large groups of people engage in this behavior. When they accept what they hear as the truth, because that is what they want to hear. When they don't bother to do a bit of fact checking and they blindly follow whatever they THINK is the truth only because it serves to reinforce whatever it is they already believe.
To be fair, my epiphany in regards to the true meaning of the lyrics hasn't resulted in me rethinking my position, but it has got me wondering a bit more about why I believe what I do. The difference in my predicament and the larger issue I've tried to raise is this: a personal philosophy does little damage outside of one's own reality, no matter how misdirected it may be. It is only when people take those misguided notions and force them on others as "truth" do we see the negative consequences snowball. To the misinformed on all sides, do your fucking homework before you start spouting your "truth." The only problem is, you don't even know who you are. Let me give you a hint, read my last blog entry...
That's right folks, I have just realized that my central philosophy is based on the misinterpretation of some old Police lyrics. No shit. Really. Perfect. This is truly a great way to start off the week. It makes me wonder...
Let's say you've based your life on a truth that was garnered erroneously from an old song-lyric. Under the light of day, this would appear to be a fairly silly concept, no? I would have to agree. Except, perhaps, what I was really doing is PROJECTING my intense sense of personal freedom onto the song. I was hearing what I WANTED to hear, not what was present. And I guess, in this instance, it hurt relatively few people. What is truly tragic, what really hurts more than it helps, is when large groups of people engage in this behavior. When they accept what they hear as the truth, because that is what they want to hear. When they don't bother to do a bit of fact checking and they blindly follow whatever they THINK is the truth only because it serves to reinforce whatever it is they already believe.
To be fair, my epiphany in regards to the true meaning of the lyrics hasn't resulted in me rethinking my position, but it has got me wondering a bit more about why I believe what I do. The difference in my predicament and the larger issue I've tried to raise is this: a personal philosophy does little damage outside of one's own reality, no matter how misdirected it may be. It is only when people take those misguided notions and force them on others as "truth" do we see the negative consequences snowball. To the misinformed on all sides, do your fucking homework before you start spouting your "truth." The only problem is, you don't even know who you are. Let me give you a hint, read my last blog entry...
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
God I Hate the Far-Right Wing Idiots of this World
Here is a viral-post from Facebook in the weeks following the earthquake:
"Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, childern going to bed without eating, elderly going without needed meds and the mentaly ill without treatment, yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 tv stations that ended up raising over 57 MILLION dollars in donations. I'll bet 99% of you wont have the guts to copy and repost this."
This tragically conservative comment, cloaked in seemingly compassionate language, really chaffed my ass. What follows is the response I posted...
To Whom it May Concern,
After some reflection I wanted to add this:
What really gets me is that so many people just blindly reposted this comment without taking the time to consider where the "shame" really lies. The shame I have for my country, which I love, is in the willfull ingnorance of the masses. We spend so little time paying attention to our country and our world that we, without thought, tend to accept what is given to us at face value. This happens every day with our media consumption. A comment such as this can be passed around among friends with cries of "hell ya" and "damn right" without considering what is actually being said. This comment is about the authors true feelings toward the poor, black nation of Haiti. It was nothing more than a thinly veiled racist rant. If the person who wrote this truly cared about the poor, the sick, and the dying, he/she would be as concerned about the people of Haiti as they are about the people of our own country. Compassion, as I understand it, doesn't pick and choose. It doesn't allow us to say that one person is more "worthy" of our care than another. Granted, each of us cannot help everyone, we only do what we can. But to place "shame" on people for helping others is not only cruel and insensitive, but it WREAKS of hypocracy and racism, given the context. The author only shines the lights brighter on his/her ignorance by implying that nothing was done in the wake of Katrina. A simple google search disproves his point. But then again, since I suspect that whoever came up with this ridiculous rant comes from the far right, ignorance and hypocracy are their modus operandi.
Peace.
Monday, August 17, 2009
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Marsh
I have a couple of friends who are also brothers. They live on a cranberry marsh in north-central Wisconsin with their wives (also good friends) and children (human and canine, all wonderful). Let's refer to these brothers as Corky and Steffen. One evening, several years ago, Corky, Steffen, and myself were sitting around Steffen's house enjoying some adult beverages (among other things) and some childish conversation - as we often do when in each others company.
Now, this seemingly harmless scenario is rarely what it seems. A typical visit to the Marsh is sort of like visiting a foreign land were the laws and ethical behavior rarely conform to those found in polite society. More often than not, a night on the Marsh (yep, that's a capital M) will devolve into something resembling a scene from the latter half of "Apocalypes Now." Danger, mayhem, lunacy are all accurate words to describe various weekends that I've had "up north at the Marsh."
Both Corky and Steffen have taken me to death's doorstep on more than one occasion. In fact, I may have driven them there a time or two myself. Usually, however, it is the Brothers who are in the driver's seat. Have you ever driven off a 12 foot deep embankment at 50 mph, late on a winter's night after celebrating all that life has to offer? I have, and so has Steffen (complete with the very bloody face of our mutal friend "Mark"). Have you ever jumped a Chevy Citation 30 ft. through the air only to be stopped by the oncoming treeline? Oh ya, did you do it on purpose? Well, me neither, but Corky and Steffen did, and they used my car to do it. I could go on, but my point here isn't to brag about our trips out near "the edge." I only want the reader to believe what I say is the truth, and not hyperbole. This will not be the last time you hear about "the Brothers," dear reader. However, for this story, we have a less dangerous, and infinitely more entertaining outcome. This is the story about the night Steffen and I laughed, laughed harder than we ever have, before or since. It is also the night that Corky, invincible and invisible, cried out like a little girl - nearly causing me to wet my pants with the giggles.
The woods of north-central Wisconsin are of the secondary growth variety. It was heavily logged back before the turn of the century. The land is flat and sandy with lots of red and white pine, along with smatterings of maple, hemlock, and yellow birch. It's a beautiful and fairly unpopulated part of the state, a wonderfully forested place to operate outside the lines of the law. Its backroads can be desolate and dark on moonless nights. There are even tales of the infamous Sasquatch wandering its woody lanes. Sometimes you can drive for miles between houses, and at night, those miles stretch on forever, especially when you're on your bike and you're all alone. Such was the case with Corky.
Earlier that evening, we had been, as I said before, imbibing in drink and conversation. It had reached the point in the night when it was time to retire. I was staying at Steffen's place. Corky and his wife Cake, along with their two beautiful daughters, lived 2 or 3 miles away in their house on the Marsh. Steffen has since moved to the Marsh as well, but at the time, his residence was still quite a distance from Corky's. Needless to say, Corky had decided to ride his bike over earlier in the day. It had been a wonderful afternoon, we had spent most of our time shooting guns and reminiscing. As bedtime rolled around (2,3,4 a.m.?) Corky jumped on his bike and bid us farwell.
Now, I'm not sure whose idea it was, but it occurred to us that such a late night journey through the woods, down a dusty gravel lane with such a dark sky above would be more than a bit creepy. Even for someone as rational and fearless as Corky, a trip such as that would have to give you the heeby-jeebies at least a little bit. It was with this thought in mind that the idea was hatched. There was another way to Corky's house, a long way that could be cut short by driving a truck, sans headlights. We'd go the long way around and turn off the lights when we got close. We could then get out and hide along the road farther up from the truck and wait for the unsuspecting bicyclist. A wonderful plan. We headed for the truck.
As Steffen and I waited, we could hear nothing but the crickets and could see nothing but the faded outlines of what we knew were the lines of trees stretching down either side of that lonely road. Then, in the distance, we began to hear a faint noise. It had a certain beauty to it. As it came closer, we started to hear a melody. It was a song. A dainty, whispering tune that had a certain charm and eloquence. It was certainly improvised, but clearly it was being sung as an incantation. A melody devised to ward of those lurking creatures of the dark woods. Little did the oncoming enchanter know that there were two demons unaffected by this weak magic. We grinned quietly and waited. Corky sang his song and slowly drifted toward the inevitable.
When we yelled incoherently and jumped out at him from either side of the road, time slowed. He was close enough to see as our eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Yet we appeared as no more than moving shadows. I remember seeing the front wheel turn with a jerk. At that same moment I remember the shriek, for that is what it was, in all it's shrill glory. A shuddering cry from a man who is facing his last moments on earth. Brought down by what isn't suppose to be. A cry that only a person whose brain is attempting to respond to madness and unreality could conjure up. Perfect fear. Then, total loss of all cycling skills. A crash. Then utter rage upon realizing the truth. But it was too late, Corky's rage against the cruel joke was not enough to stiffle the gilded, glittering laughter that was let loose from both Steffen and myself. I don't know how to describe the perfect moment when humor and horror meet face to face. But when humor triumphs over the evil deed, laughter is a nectar that can be savored again and again. Excuse me while I go change my shorts...
Now, this seemingly harmless scenario is rarely what it seems. A typical visit to the Marsh is sort of like visiting a foreign land were the laws and ethical behavior rarely conform to those found in polite society. More often than not, a night on the Marsh (yep, that's a capital M) will devolve into something resembling a scene from the latter half of "Apocalypes Now." Danger, mayhem, lunacy are all accurate words to describe various weekends that I've had "up north at the Marsh."
Both Corky and Steffen have taken me to death's doorstep on more than one occasion. In fact, I may have driven them there a time or two myself. Usually, however, it is the Brothers who are in the driver's seat. Have you ever driven off a 12 foot deep embankment at 50 mph, late on a winter's night after celebrating all that life has to offer? I have, and so has Steffen (complete with the very bloody face of our mutal friend "Mark"). Have you ever jumped a Chevy Citation 30 ft. through the air only to be stopped by the oncoming treeline? Oh ya, did you do it on purpose? Well, me neither, but Corky and Steffen did, and they used my car to do it. I could go on, but my point here isn't to brag about our trips out near "the edge." I only want the reader to believe what I say is the truth, and not hyperbole. This will not be the last time you hear about "the Brothers," dear reader. However, for this story, we have a less dangerous, and infinitely more entertaining outcome. This is the story about the night Steffen and I laughed, laughed harder than we ever have, before or since. It is also the night that Corky, invincible and invisible, cried out like a little girl - nearly causing me to wet my pants with the giggles.
The woods of north-central Wisconsin are of the secondary growth variety. It was heavily logged back before the turn of the century. The land is flat and sandy with lots of red and white pine, along with smatterings of maple, hemlock, and yellow birch. It's a beautiful and fairly unpopulated part of the state, a wonderfully forested place to operate outside the lines of the law. Its backroads can be desolate and dark on moonless nights. There are even tales of the infamous Sasquatch wandering its woody lanes. Sometimes you can drive for miles between houses, and at night, those miles stretch on forever, especially when you're on your bike and you're all alone. Such was the case with Corky.
Earlier that evening, we had been, as I said before, imbibing in drink and conversation. It had reached the point in the night when it was time to retire. I was staying at Steffen's place. Corky and his wife Cake, along with their two beautiful daughters, lived 2 or 3 miles away in their house on the Marsh. Steffen has since moved to the Marsh as well, but at the time, his residence was still quite a distance from Corky's. Needless to say, Corky had decided to ride his bike over earlier in the day. It had been a wonderful afternoon, we had spent most of our time shooting guns and reminiscing. As bedtime rolled around (2,3,4 a.m.?) Corky jumped on his bike and bid us farwell.
Now, I'm not sure whose idea it was, but it occurred to us that such a late night journey through the woods, down a dusty gravel lane with such a dark sky above would be more than a bit creepy. Even for someone as rational and fearless as Corky, a trip such as that would have to give you the heeby-jeebies at least a little bit. It was with this thought in mind that the idea was hatched. There was another way to Corky's house, a long way that could be cut short by driving a truck, sans headlights. We'd go the long way around and turn off the lights when we got close. We could then get out and hide along the road farther up from the truck and wait for the unsuspecting bicyclist. A wonderful plan. We headed for the truck.
As Steffen and I waited, we could hear nothing but the crickets and could see nothing but the faded outlines of what we knew were the lines of trees stretching down either side of that lonely road. Then, in the distance, we began to hear a faint noise. It had a certain beauty to it. As it came closer, we started to hear a melody. It was a song. A dainty, whispering tune that had a certain charm and eloquence. It was certainly improvised, but clearly it was being sung as an incantation. A melody devised to ward of those lurking creatures of the dark woods. Little did the oncoming enchanter know that there were two demons unaffected by this weak magic. We grinned quietly and waited. Corky sang his song and slowly drifted toward the inevitable.
When we yelled incoherently and jumped out at him from either side of the road, time slowed. He was close enough to see as our eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Yet we appeared as no more than moving shadows. I remember seeing the front wheel turn with a jerk. At that same moment I remember the shriek, for that is what it was, in all it's shrill glory. A shuddering cry from a man who is facing his last moments on earth. Brought down by what isn't suppose to be. A cry that only a person whose brain is attempting to respond to madness and unreality could conjure up. Perfect fear. Then, total loss of all cycling skills. A crash. Then utter rage upon realizing the truth. But it was too late, Corky's rage against the cruel joke was not enough to stiffle the gilded, glittering laughter that was let loose from both Steffen and myself. I don't know how to describe the perfect moment when humor and horror meet face to face. But when humor triumphs over the evil deed, laughter is a nectar that can be savored again and again. Excuse me while I go change my shorts...
Friday, July 31, 2009
Just a Little Music for Thought
I've been playing music most of my life. It's my constant, the one thing that hasn't changed throughout the years. It is sometimes strange to reflect on how long it's been since I first picked up a bass: 1983. That's 26 years ago. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I was twelve years old. Like many beginners in the early 80's, I spent my first weeks playing "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple. From there, I graduated to "Living After Midnight," by Judas Priest and then, inevitably, Ozzy's "Crazy Train." Those songs are my foundation. As overplayed and cliche as they have become, they gave me the opportunity to dream. They were the songs which took me from being a passive observer/listener of music, to a participant. They were my bridge into another world, a world in which I've never really left.
Some people might look at someone my age and think, "Okay, that's nice, but give it up - you're never gonna be a rock star- you're too old."
To which I would respond, "You've obviously never played."
Nobody who does this does it to become a rock star. At least not after you've grown up and become a semi-rational adult. There isn't really a choice in the matter. It's what I love to do. You like to fish or hunt or maybe sew or paint. I like to rock. Should you give up your rod and reel just because you've hit forty? I don't think so. Some people spend their money on a new sofa. I spend mine on recording an album that my great-grandchildren can enjoy, or at least causes them to smile and laugh, it doesn't really matter. It's much better than a photograph or a distant memory. It's a tangible piece of me. It's a way to live on. It's something that 20 or 30 years down the line, I can listen to and remember.
I not sure why I'm even writing this stuff down. Most of my friends who will read this understand. Hell, the only people who would question my intentions are people that I'll never know or care about. I just felt like saying a little something about music today. My music. I'm really lucky to be playing in a band with friends I care about and making music we can call our own. I've never been able to figure out what I want out of life, and my love of listening to and playing music seems to be the one thing I don't question about myself. It's my rock. Pun absolutely intended. Peace.
Some people might look at someone my age and think, "Okay, that's nice, but give it up - you're never gonna be a rock star- you're too old."
To which I would respond, "You've obviously never played."
Nobody who does this does it to become a rock star. At least not after you've grown up and become a semi-rational adult. There isn't really a choice in the matter. It's what I love to do. You like to fish or hunt or maybe sew or paint. I like to rock. Should you give up your rod and reel just because you've hit forty? I don't think so. Some people spend their money on a new sofa. I spend mine on recording an album that my great-grandchildren can enjoy, or at least causes them to smile and laugh, it doesn't really matter. It's much better than a photograph or a distant memory. It's a tangible piece of me. It's a way to live on. It's something that 20 or 30 years down the line, I can listen to and remember.
I not sure why I'm even writing this stuff down. Most of my friends who will read this understand. Hell, the only people who would question my intentions are people that I'll never know or care about. I just felt like saying a little something about music today. My music. I'm really lucky to be playing in a band with friends I care about and making music we can call our own. I've never been able to figure out what I want out of life, and my love of listening to and playing music seems to be the one thing I don't question about myself. It's my rock. Pun absolutely intended. Peace.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Hey Coach, I DID IT!
A couple of weekends ago, I went fishing in the North-central part of the state, just north of the Black River State Forest. We were in a little town that was a cross between Bedford Falls and a Lynyrd Skynyrd song (maybe "Sweet Home Alabama" or some other one with reckneck overtones). It has, for lack of a better description, what you might call "character." It's a small community that rests on the shores of a northwoods lake. It prides itself on the notion that in the summer there are 5,000 residents, but in the winter, there are only 50. There's the smell of the pine forest mixed with gas fumes from the army of 4-wheeled ATVs that speed around town in the summer months. There's also a general store, two bars, a gas station, a dam that serves as the progenitor of said lake, and a set of railroad tracks that bridge the river that flows from the lower end of the dam. It was under that bridge and next to that dam that I spent the bulk of my weekend. The fishing was good but not great, and it was Saturday lunchtime at one of the bars that truly made my weekend experience one for the record books.
Before I get into too much detail, let me say that this location isn't going to show up in a Gin-Clear fishing adventure video. It's a small town that looks like other small towns. It sits on a lake that looks like other lakes in woods that also have a very familiar look to them. In fact, what I hooked into wasn't even from those parts; it normally walks the green pastures of southern Wisconsin. My quarry was laying in between two buns that could have fed everyone at The Mount without the help of miracles. I'm talking about a ridiculously enormous hamburger the local tavern serves up to certain unsuspecting visitors. This burger was enthusiatically listed as containing "one whole pound [!]" of beef. In addition to this mound of burger, the sandwich had an unspecified amount of sliced ham, strips of bacon, and a copious amount of lettuce, tomato, and pickles...a veritable salad on top of a hill of meat.
Now, when placing my order, I had no idea of the spectacle to come. My friend and I had both eaten supper at that very same tavern the night before. We had seen the aforementioned burger in the menu and we both decided then and there that we would be back the next day for the challenge. After all, this was a weekend away "with the fellas." There was to be fishing (check), beer drinking (check), late-night bonfires at the cottage (check), and lots of good food (blech). We walked in the next day and each took a seat at the bar. We had a quick look at the menu and placed our order. I went first. "I'll have the Monster Burger."
"You boys want fries with that?" said the nice lady with the green notepad.
"Huh?" I was confused for a moment.
"Do you want fries to share with your burger?" She asked, a bit perplexed herself.
"Oh, I see," I replied, "We're not going to share the burger. We're each getting one for ourselves. I think the burger is going to be enough for me, so no fries thanks."
A smile shot across her face. She then said, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear, "Oh! You fellas are gonna do the Monster Burger Challange!" The next moment saw every head in the establishment turn toward us.
"They're going to do the challenge!" some whispered.
"Fools. They'll never finish." croaked others.
"I'm sticking around to see this." said the woman sitting next to me. Her husband just rolled his eyes.
The lady behind the bar then instructed us on the rules of the game. You had to finish ALL of the burger, leaving nothing on your plate. You didn't have to order fries (what they refer to as a "wheel-barrow" sized helping), but if you finished them as well, the entire meal would be free. As it was, we agreed to just the burger in exchange for a free t-shirt if we cleaned our plates. We hadn't realized at first that this was going to be such a production. I just assumed that it was a huge burger that some people ordered from time to time. Now we not only had to plow through the largest ANYTHING I'd ever eaten, but we had to do it in front of a cheering section. Talk about pressure. It was time to step up to the plate and see what we were made of. If we finished these things, not only would we walk out of there as victors, but the ensuing telling of the tale would eventually put us in special standing with our friend we lovingly call "Coach." Coach is in charge of all things life affirming and passing judgement on those who come up short from time to time. He keeps everybody honest. Making Coach proud was central in my mind that day. He's full of tough love, but when one of his boys really pulls through with a win like this, you know your gonna get props from the man in charge.
The burgers were brought to us in shockingly short amount of time. For me, this was a good thing, I didn't really have time to think about what I was about to do. I knew this was task for the physical, not the mental. There are moments in life where, if you think too much about something, if you over-analyze your situation, your feet get cold. This was one of those moments. We took a couple of pictures on our cell-phones (for conformation of the task if any question about it's taking place should arise) and then commenced to eat. And eat. And eat. Approximately 20-25 minutes later, I put my fork down, smiled, and let out a loud, but very complimentary, burp. I had done it! Coach was gonna be so proud of me! As I thought about what I had just accomplished, it occurred to me that what had gotten me through it was an instinctual ability to "see through" what I was doing. I only looked at the end. I didn't think about the process, I was on autopilot. I knew I couldn't stop for a "rest" or take a "break." To do so would have been catastrophic. If I would've taken even a brief moment to reflect on what I was doing, it would've spelled the end. This was a day, however, that I would choose victory over defeat.
Upon finishing, the bartender went to the back and smartly chose a XXL t-shirt that announced my victory for all the world to see. I basked in the glow of the moment. It was MY WORLD today. But what of my friend you ask? How did he fair? Well, we're on the same team. It wouldn't be right for me to divulge his results. I wouldn't want to get him into trouble with Coach. Let's just say that I was the only one who crawled back to the cabin on all fours in a brand new brown t-shirt that proclaimed, "I Finished a Monster Burger at the Mug!"
Before I get into too much detail, let me say that this location isn't going to show up in a Gin-Clear fishing adventure video. It's a small town that looks like other small towns. It sits on a lake that looks like other lakes in woods that also have a very familiar look to them. In fact, what I hooked into wasn't even from those parts; it normally walks the green pastures of southern Wisconsin. My quarry was laying in between two buns that could have fed everyone at The Mount without the help of miracles. I'm talking about a ridiculously enormous hamburger the local tavern serves up to certain unsuspecting visitors. This burger was enthusiatically listed as containing "one whole pound [!]" of beef. In addition to this mound of burger, the sandwich had an unspecified amount of sliced ham, strips of bacon, and a copious amount of lettuce, tomato, and pickles...a veritable salad on top of a hill of meat.
Now, when placing my order, I had no idea of the spectacle to come. My friend and I had both eaten supper at that very same tavern the night before. We had seen the aforementioned burger in the menu and we both decided then and there that we would be back the next day for the challenge. After all, this was a weekend away "with the fellas." There was to be fishing (check), beer drinking (check), late-night bonfires at the cottage (check), and lots of good food (blech). We walked in the next day and each took a seat at the bar. We had a quick look at the menu and placed our order. I went first. "I'll have the Monster Burger."
"You boys want fries with that?" said the nice lady with the green notepad.
"Huh?" I was confused for a moment.
"Do you want fries to share with your burger?" She asked, a bit perplexed herself.
"Oh, I see," I replied, "We're not going to share the burger. We're each getting one for ourselves. I think the burger is going to be enough for me, so no fries thanks."
A smile shot across her face. She then said, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear, "Oh! You fellas are gonna do the Monster Burger Challange!" The next moment saw every head in the establishment turn toward us.
"They're going to do the challenge!" some whispered.
"Fools. They'll never finish." croaked others.
"I'm sticking around to see this." said the woman sitting next to me. Her husband just rolled his eyes.
The lady behind the bar then instructed us on the rules of the game. You had to finish ALL of the burger, leaving nothing on your plate. You didn't have to order fries (what they refer to as a "wheel-barrow" sized helping), but if you finished them as well, the entire meal would be free. As it was, we agreed to just the burger in exchange for a free t-shirt if we cleaned our plates. We hadn't realized at first that this was going to be such a production. I just assumed that it was a huge burger that some people ordered from time to time. Now we not only had to plow through the largest ANYTHING I'd ever eaten, but we had to do it in front of a cheering section. Talk about pressure. It was time to step up to the plate and see what we were made of. If we finished these things, not only would we walk out of there as victors, but the ensuing telling of the tale would eventually put us in special standing with our friend we lovingly call "Coach." Coach is in charge of all things life affirming and passing judgement on those who come up short from time to time. He keeps everybody honest. Making Coach proud was central in my mind that day. He's full of tough love, but when one of his boys really pulls through with a win like this, you know your gonna get props from the man in charge.
The burgers were brought to us in shockingly short amount of time. For me, this was a good thing, I didn't really have time to think about what I was about to do. I knew this was task for the physical, not the mental. There are moments in life where, if you think too much about something, if you over-analyze your situation, your feet get cold. This was one of those moments. We took a couple of pictures on our cell-phones (for conformation of the task if any question about it's taking place should arise) and then commenced to eat. And eat. And eat. Approximately 20-25 minutes later, I put my fork down, smiled, and let out a loud, but very complimentary, burp. I had done it! Coach was gonna be so proud of me! As I thought about what I had just accomplished, it occurred to me that what had gotten me through it was an instinctual ability to "see through" what I was doing. I only looked at the end. I didn't think about the process, I was on autopilot. I knew I couldn't stop for a "rest" or take a "break." To do so would have been catastrophic. If I would've taken even a brief moment to reflect on what I was doing, it would've spelled the end. This was a day, however, that I would choose victory over defeat.
Upon finishing, the bartender went to the back and smartly chose a XXL t-shirt that announced my victory for all the world to see. I basked in the glow of the moment. It was MY WORLD today. But what of my friend you ask? How did he fair? Well, we're on the same team. It wouldn't be right for me to divulge his results. I wouldn't want to get him into trouble with Coach. Let's just say that I was the only one who crawled back to the cabin on all fours in a brand new brown t-shirt that proclaimed, "I Finished a Monster Burger at the Mug!"
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Gorilla-Based Epiphanies and the Inifinite Monkey Theorum
I'm finding it hard to write today. This is the fourth time this afternoon I've sat down in front of the computer and attempted to come up with something coherent, never mind interesting. I knew starting out that not everything I write was going to be worth reading. In fact, I had a pretty good idea that those "interesting" entries may not come for some time, or not at all. I continually go back to the concept of the "infinite monkey theorum." If you're not familiar with this one it is, simply put: an infinite amount of monkeys hitting keys at random on a keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely, at some point, produce the complete works of Shakespeare. You can probably see where I'm going with this.
At some point, if I do this long enough, I'm gonna strike a cord with someone. Or maybe I won't. I guess I'm doing this for myself, but ultimately, I want others to see it and appreciate it on some level, even if it is a zoological one. If I draw an analogy between myself and this many monkeys theory, I guess that makes me a chimpanzee. But I'd prefer if you'd see me as a gorilla. Gorillas are cooler. And bigger. And tougher. Why on earth would anyone want to be a chimp when they have the option of being a great, silver-backed, mountain gorrilla? It's not even a question. Gorilla it is and pardon the tangent.
So here I am, a large, proud, silver-back (save the sarcasm), typing away at my computer for what seems like an eternity (and it could be an eternity, if we truely follow the analogy) and then, one day, PRESTO! I finish my daily typing exercise and what do I have in front of me but the greatest journal entry (let's face it, that's what a blog really boils down to) ever written. But you won't know about it, because you only read my blog once. You read it, and not being aware of the Infinite Monkey Theorum, you think to yourself, "This guy is a hack. I'm never going to read this crap again!"
To which I would reply, "It's your loss pal."
Now, I agree that most of what I'm writing here has little to no value beyond being a catharsis for my injurned mind; but what if, just WHAT IF, I do this long enough and stumble into writing the greatest thought ever conceived by man? Not because of any genius on my part, but because of the law of inifite possibilities? That idea is enough to keep this simian plugging away. The question is, is it enough to keep you coming back for more?
tune in Friday for thoughts on gin-clear fly-fishing, hard rock music, and 75lbs. hamburgers...
At some point, if I do this long enough, I'm gonna strike a cord with someone. Or maybe I won't. I guess I'm doing this for myself, but ultimately, I want others to see it and appreciate it on some level, even if it is a zoological one. If I draw an analogy between myself and this many monkeys theory, I guess that makes me a chimpanzee. But I'd prefer if you'd see me as a gorilla. Gorillas are cooler. And bigger. And tougher. Why on earth would anyone want to be a chimp when they have the option of being a great, silver-backed, mountain gorrilla? It's not even a question. Gorilla it is and pardon the tangent.
So here I am, a large, proud, silver-back (save the sarcasm), typing away at my computer for what seems like an eternity (and it could be an eternity, if we truely follow the analogy) and then, one day, PRESTO! I finish my daily typing exercise and what do I have in front of me but the greatest journal entry (let's face it, that's what a blog really boils down to) ever written. But you won't know about it, because you only read my blog once. You read it, and not being aware of the Infinite Monkey Theorum, you think to yourself, "This guy is a hack. I'm never going to read this crap again!"
To which I would reply, "It's your loss pal."
Now, I agree that most of what I'm writing here has little to no value beyond being a catharsis for my injurned mind; but what if, just WHAT IF, I do this long enough and stumble into writing the greatest thought ever conceived by man? Not because of any genius on my part, but because of the law of inifite possibilities? That idea is enough to keep this simian plugging away. The question is, is it enough to keep you coming back for more?
tune in Friday for thoughts on gin-clear fly-fishing, hard rock music, and 75lbs. hamburgers...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
