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...

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.

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!"

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...

What If the Internet Really Was a Big Truck?

Nine full days without the aid of technology. I knew I could do it, however, what suprised me is how difficult it was to avoid. Before I pat myself too hard on the back, I should clarify what I mean by "without." I was camping, or at least, "roughing it" for most of the last week and a half. I was free and clear of an electrical outlet for...let's see...four of those days. This resulted in what I refer to as my "camping bliss." This "bliss" I refer to manifests itself in the inability to charge a cell phone and the incapability to get on-line and waste hours typing my radom thoughts to no one in particular. This bliss has the power to eliminate the urge to see who's on facebook or check to see if anyone at all is bothering to read my blog (props to you who, for unknown reasons, have come back more than once). When searching for this level of calm, you must be wary. For even without electricity, we modern folk can still deny ourselves this euphoric state as long as our batteries hold out. And what if, as I did later in my trip, we venture into the hinterlands of the north woods and still find ourselves in a cabin with electricity and battery charger in our hands, what are we to do? How can we escape the grid and find the rapture that awaits us? This answer is, as it is so often, a simple one. Change your carrier to AT&T. For even with the most stout and resilient batteries on the market, your charge will do you no good. Their coverage is fantastically piss poor. Now, if I was a working man during these days of northern exposure, I'd be left without options. I'd be demanding my money back and changing providers. As it was, it served to work in my favor, and for that AT&T, I bow to you. Counting the days WITH electricity, I had only four days out of nine with cell phone service. So even though I was fully capable of charging up the old cell phone for most of my time off, I was only bothered by it a few, insignificant days. This was very nice. You see, I don't like talking on the phone.
Now, if you're the type of person that can't resist the urge to gossip unconditionally for hours at a time, a cell phone is your best friend. If, however, you are like me and despise the fact that anyone, at anytime, can interupt what you are doing, a cell phone is nothing short of a portable nightmare without the hope of a 7 a.m. wake-up call. Don't get me wrong, I don't necessarily want people to stop calling me, I just don't want those people to be offended when I "can't make it" to the phone because I'm "indisposed." But I digress.
All I really wanted to say is that I am back, well rested, happy to have spent some time away from all that makes us the modern people we are. I don't despise all these different ways we have of communicating, I love this stuff. The better aquainted I've gotten with blogging and various other forms of social networking, the more I've enjoyed it. I only miss the time I am able to spend WITH my friends, and this past week or so I was able to get caught up with a couple of them. I only wish I could do the very same thing with so many others. But, as the honorable Senator from Alaska, Ted Stevens, once said, at least we've got this new fangled "series of tubes" keeping us together, however tenuous it may be. And the Senator was right, the internet isn't "a big truck" but sometimes I wish it was.

The Tale of the Golden Altar and the Guardian of the Spitting Snake

There I was, ground level and facing a sea of immovable sentinels so tightly packed together, and so fiercely protective of their charge, that I'd never be able to squeeze past them to reach the golden altar that stood in the middle of the unending, grassy field. But I was focused, and I was determined. NOTHING, I REPEAT, NOTHING was going to stop me from my goal. Under their very noses, creeping on all fours -and sometimes my belly- I slowly made my way toward the focus of my quest, with the gracious cover of a moonless night sky allowing my passage.
At times during this mission, I thought all was lost. The sentinels would stir and act as though they might see me. They had no weapons, but they did have a unity of purpose - to protect the altar which I approached at all costs. I was alone, they were many. What hope did I have? As I inched closer, just a few feet away from my target, the enemy closed in. With a resounding wail and summoning all my might, I leaned as far forward as I could, I could just reach the altar and my eyes looked upon the Guardian of the Spitting Snake. He alone controlled who may drink from the golden spring at the top of the altar. From the ground, with hope in my dreary eyes, I peered up at him and pronounced, "BEER ME!" -thus, began a series of events that lead to me being kicked out of the University of Wisconsin.

The events described above are of a backyard keg party, one of five or six that were going on at the same time in Badger Court, across from Camp Randall on the U.W. campus. It was my first night in college. There where so many people that I literally had to crawl on all fours and fight my way to the beer. But I did this gladly. Hell, this was everything I had every pictured. This was COLLEGE.
What followed is a fairly predictable course of events. I had fun whenever and however possible, and gave very little thought to my coursework. I slept in. I skipped class. I did as little work as possible-and I got rip roaring, no-holds barred drunk whenever the opportunity arose. This isn't to say I failed completely, I didn't flunk a single class. But my overall GPA was somewhere in the low ones by the end of the year. Needless to say, they didn't invite me back to the party. They sent me a letter a couple weeks into the summer informing me of this. This is "the letter" I spoke of the other day. It changed my life. It was the single hardest slap in the face I've ever recieved. I had truly let my parents down this time. But what was even worse, I think, was the fact I had let myself down. This was a feeling I had never felt before. It was an awful feeling. But in the end, it told me something about myself, I apparently really wanted to go to college. Now, granted, this was a pretty g-damn expensive way of figuring this out, but screw it, for the first time in my life, I realized I WANTED something. After figuring out that I could get into Ripon College on double-secret probation, I never looked back. I had learned my first "valuable life lesson"- if you want something bad enough, you can get it, but you HAVE to want it first.

Talk at you tomorrow.

People, Places, and the Upside of "Social Networking"

So I didn't come down off of yesterday's coffee buzz until 3 o'clock in the morning. The upside of this is that I was able to spend some time on Facebook looking up several old friends. I reluctantly joined the social networking world a couple of years ago on myspace. In the interim, I slowly watched as the whole world made a massive shift to Facebook. Earlier this year, I followed suit, but was unclear what had caused such a mass exodus. After slowly getting aquainted with Facebook, I'm really beginning to see why. It has made finding the people in my life that I have lost touch with incredibly easy. In one night, I was reaquainted with 8 people from my past, some of whom I haven't seen or talked to in close to 20 years.

All of this contact has me thinking.

When I look back on my life, I see myself passing through different stages, but I think the term "epoch" is a much better description.

Epoch- "a moment in time chosen as the origin of a particular era."

There are certainly occurences in my life that delineate, rather harshly sometimes, different larger chunks of time. Graduations, for instance, are typical -though slightly benign- examples of these moments. It is better to think about more specific, impactful moments, to describe the onset of an age. For example, the hot summer day that "the" letter came to my house informing me that I was no longer welcomed at the U.W. is a great sampling of such a moment. I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the beginning of my first REAL adventure: Ripon College. Ripon is a small, liberal arts college, and the last place IN THE WORLD I wanted to go to school. I had always dreamed about going to a "Big University" and now that I was no longer welcomed there, I felt I had failed in the most complete sense of the word. Ripon was the consolation prize for losing the big game. Little did I know what an enormous impact this school would have on not only the next four years, but the rest of my life. For it was at this little liberal arts college that I would meet, get to know, and become life-long friends with, some of the best and strangest people on planet Earth; here too, I would recieve a stronger, more meaningful education than I could have ever hoped to get at larger institution.
So, what I would consider to be the first of serveral "epochs" in my life are the "Formative Years" growning up (mostly) in Columbus, Wisconsin. The second would be "The Ripon Period," these are the years that started me down a long, slippery path into the highly bizzare and rich world of people that I can, with a little luck and presumptuousness, call my friends. Along this path I have occasionally taken people for granted, I've forgotten or not got around to calling them , or just managing to let people slip away. I am sorry for this. I realize that life is big, and complex, and difficult to manage. As impersonal as the internet and social-networking sights can potentially be, it's nice to have some way to reach out to the past and hopefully draw a few good people into my present. If you haven't tried it, give it a shot. I'll be posting about many of these moments in time and the people that color them in the future. Maybe I'll even explain exactly how one goes about getting booted out of a prestigious institution like the University of Wisconsin...if nothing else, it makes for a good little story, and why else am I doing this, right? Tune in tomorrow for the details.

Caffeine and Thoughts From Days Gone By

My God. I didn't realize it until I pulled up in front of my house this afternoon, but I am WAY over-caffeinated. You, the coffee aficionado, understand my plight. Coffee wakes you up in the morning, it gives you that feeling that you are somehow stronger, faster, BETTER than you were the previous day. Yep, for me it's liquid Steve Austin, and no, I don't mean the wrestler (if you don't understand this reference, then I have officially dated myself and you can google your other options). Today, however, I somehow crossed "the line." The problem with this demarcation is that it is ever-changing. Caffeine seems to affect you differently every day. Most of the time, for me anyway, the line is distant and difficult to cross. Coffee and I usually get along gloriously. I generally know about where my limit is, but somehow today it snuck up and laid across my path without me noticing. I stepped over without looking down and now I find myself barely able to type. I can only focus for moments before having to go back and make sure my train of thought is flowing coherently. With that said, I like to start out this week by publishing something I wrote a couple of years ago on a myspace blog. This is the only entry I ever made, and aside from what you have read this last week, the only other blogging I've done. I feel a bit like a cheat to put this up today instead of something new, but I want this older peice of writing in the record as well - and you might even enjoy it. It's a little light-hearted rant that I put out just before the 2006 mid-term elections (after just the right amount of coffee, I believe) and my feelings have changed little since then, although, given the opportunity, I wouldn't hesitate to replace Reid and Pelosi with people who have spines (right Dad?)...enjoy.

Friday, October 27, 2006

the hot winds of hell or some mean-ass plumbing

MEAN PLUMBING: THERE MUST BE SOMETHING AFOOT

Deep down in my soul, there's a monster lurking. I know it's there, because every time the toilet backs up, stubby little horns break through my skull and a voice emerges from my inner being, screaming and hollering like a banshee on crack. It all happened again this morning. I was minding my own business, quietly reading on the hopper. It was at that moment, just as I turned and flushed, that the bowels of hell once again opened and poured out their violent lament. Now, before you turn away in disgust, let me explain myself. It takes little to inspire this wailing, and even less to feel the anger and disgust the voices are trying to articulate. It leaves me wondering, why the transformation is so easily inspired? The toilet overflowed, it happens to the best of humanity, it happens to everyone. So why then, when these "little things" happen., do I so quickly descend into madness? I've tried the medication, the trips to the shrink, and so on; even moments of calm, introspective reasoning with myself seem to do nothing. I'm beginning to believe that this rage that rears its head from time to time is not born of myself, but from a larger, darker world than even that found in my own twisted mind. A word: politics. A simple word that should begin to give you, the reader, a basic understanding of why, when I spill a little coffee on my shirt, I'm suddenly overcome by the urge to blow up small a country. Just a little one mind you, like Liechtenstein, or Canada, but you get the point.
But why should politics cause such inner fury? I wasn't always like this. I'm generally a calm, reasonable person. I'm typically fair and kind. However, over the last six years or so I've slowly lost control of that inner peace that would ordinarily put a stop to these violent outburst. What then, you might ask , is the relationship between my response to an overflowing toilet and how I feel about politics? I think the imagery here is explanation enough. Without being too graphic, a toilet bowl, in its various states of usage, should remind anyone of the current political situation in this country. Now, I am but a common man, not well versed in the political sciences. I vote my conscience. I try my best to be a part of the well-informed citizenry. I read the newspaper, watch varying amounts of what passes for news on the television, and tune in to "news-talk" radio while driving too fast to places I don't need to go. In short, I'm about as informed as the next guy. I really don't want to mention which direction I lean, because for the purposes of this rant, it doesn't matter. Besides, you could probably guess. This is one of the biggest problems I have with "politics." If I mention which way I vote, then suddenly everybody is a f-ing expert in psychology and they think they know what kind of great or evil person I must be. Well folks, two can play that game. I believe that most Republicans are blind sheep with little capacity for individual thought; I also believe that most Democrats are equally as blind and thoughtless. This is how we play the game in America, right? Politically speaking, we accept only others of our skewed little tribes and mindlessly dismiss what ideas others outside our paradigm may have. We don't listen to each other. Hell, the real problem is that there is no "each other." I for one, despise being the recipient of other people's generalizations. You don't know a thing about me. I don't know a thing about you . There you are. We're even. The fact of the nonpartisan matter is, George W. Bush is a complete moron who is driving this country to the brink of extinction. The problem is exacerbated by a Congress who's testicles are each smaller than the other. I don't for a minute believe that all Republican Senators worship the ground this lunatic skips around on while waiving his arms and shouting, "I'm not crazy, I'm an airplane!" This election needs to bring about some serious change, if only to stop the nut-job in the Oval Office from making another mistake. For now, I'll let the banshee smoke its rock and wail to the masses. I'll embrace this anger. I'm demanding you get out and vote. I don't care what persuasion you would normally lean to…right now, we need a congress that will question what this freak is doing and make sure that for now, we have some assurance that he won't be able to flush this entire country down the 'ole hopper, or even worse drop the proverbial "cherry bomb" into the plumbing and destroy the entire house. You people need to vote in a Democratic Congress- If you wouldn't normally vote that way, just do it this time. Next time around, when idiot-boy is no longer at the wheel, we can work something else out…I've gotta go get my plunger and let the winds of my inner maelstrom blow with the hot breath of a thousand angry demons...you should get off your lazy ass and go vote.

Never Give Up

Today, I'm under the gun. I find myself at the local library using their computer, which limits me to [at the beep] 27 minutes and 15 seconds. I havn't even thought about what I want to write about today. Chances are, you've never read this blog before, so, I would recommend that you skip this entry and start from the beginning, which would put you at this past Tuesday. I'm new to this. I've decided to let people know that I'm writing this blog and have made a blustery show of the announcement. If you are here because of the "BIG NEWS" announcements on Facebook, then let me apologize now. I wasn't sure how to invite my friends into my tiny universe without sounding like a leper begging for food, so, I used a little marketing strategy garnered from my girlfriend. I know that you, the reader, probably know who she is, but since I'm new to this whole game, I've decided not use anybody's real name except for my own - unless you piss me off, then, watch it.
... approximately 17 minutes left...
Anywho, I saw something today that left me feeling unexpectedly good. I was driving down a country road outside of Columbus and witnessed a David and Goliath battle-royal. This enormous sandhill crane was being flanked by what appeared, at first, to be a testosterone-fueled horsefly. Curious about this insect-on-aviary clash of the titans, I slowed my truck down a bit. However, upon closer inspection, I saw that the crane was in fact doing battle with a red-wing blackbird. [7 min.] What was most astounding though, was that the crane was actually in retreat from this most miniscule of pests. The freaking crane must have been 10-15 times the size of the blackbird and yet was doing a full-tilt, I'm f-ing outta here boogie. Strange, but sometimes you can learn a lesson from Ms. Mother Nature. It's like that frog/crane cartoon (crane? hmmm), the frog is in the crane's mouth but still has a hold of the crane's throat with the caption..."never give up."
time's up...gotta go...see you on Monday...

Why Would I Blog Such a Thing?

Hello. Day III of the HEAT WAVE. It's also my third day of sitting here in the basement. I refuse to go up. I have a system worked out where my girlfriend is bringing me food and water from the refridgerator upstairs and I stay here, away from the heat. Nice little system, yes? Our basement isn't actually air conditioned like I said the other day. I just keep telling myself it is in the hopes that the thought will work as some kind of placebo, maybe even good enough for a degree or two of imaginary variance in temperature. My fingers are crossed. Don't worry about her, she is Native American and seems to cope with the overbearing heat with a bit more grace than I. That isn't to say that, because of her ethnicity, she is somehow better equipped to deal with the heat, but only that I am less equipped and I struggle to justify my lack of endurance.

I wanted to take a moment today and explain my purpose in wanting to start a blog. Those of you who have taken the time to read the entries from the last two days no doubt perceive this blog to be about nothing more than some over-heated chump sitting in his basement rambling on about nothing. If that is the case, then I have succeeded in my quest. I have no particular direction to take, I only want a place to share my thoughts with whoever is even slightly interested. So you, the slightly interested reader, should hang around and see what comes of this. I hope to eventually morf this into a place where I describe the people and places I have come across over my 38 years and share stories about them. I wanted my first couple of entries to provide a window into the personality of the writer (me). I think it's only fair that you know who you are dealing with before you decide to venture further into my strange little world. And it IS strange, believe you me; perhaps no more odd than your own, but it is all I know and I want to write it down before my memories are lost to the dank, inner spaces of my sometimes fickle mind.
Stay tuned.

I'm Not Even Catholic

Good morning! For a trogladite like myself, this could mean anytime between 9:00 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. Today, I actually got up at the realitivly reasonable time of 9 a.m. I've drank a cup of coffee (my only real friend) and now find myself in front of the computer screen ready to take on yet another hot, muggy day by avoiding it completely in my air conditioned basement. I just wanted to make a quick post this morning and attempt to explain yesterday's blog. Anyone who reads my previous day's rant may come to the conclusion that I'm just a big, fat, lazy s.o.b. who doesn't appreciate the value of a hard day's work. This is not so. I am, in fact, a semi-umemployed English teacher, who for the last four years has been struggling to find a permanent position in a district that doesn't cut their budget year after year.
I've actually been working (in one capacity or another) for the same small school district for the last 3 years. Each year ends with me wondering whether or not I'll return in the fall. My first year I was a substitute. The second found me as a contracted member of the high school faculty, teaching English. This past year is a little harder to explain. The short version is that I was a "Long Term Substitute," and by this I mean I taught the entire year and didn't at all "sub" for anyone. It's a fancy way of saying that I was employed as a teacher for the district doing whatever they asked of me, without any sort of contract. What that means for them is that they had a fully certified teacher at their disposal for the year without having to pay me any sort of benefits. Pretty good deal for them.
I now sound bitter. Yet, I'm not.
I had a FANTASTIC experience this past year (a story for another day) and I'm happy I had the opportunity. I mention all this to explain something from yesterday. I'm not AT ALL against working, I'm just against the value we tend place on it. When I'm teaching, I'm working my ass off and trying my best to give the kids I teach something they can take with them when they leave. I enjoy what I do as much as anyone. I just wonder sometimes about how little emphasis we Americans put on enjoying our lives. If someone finds out we would rather be fishin', then we tend to look at that person with an air of suspicion. Sure, we all say that, we too, would rather be throwing a line in the river, but deep down we would never really ask for the day off. You all know someone at work who pushes the envelope of "days off." That's the person that everybody looks at sideways. Face it, who is more admired at work, the employee with several weeks of vacation days banked from the last 3 or 4 years, or the guy who blows through them by the end of July? The former, of course. That person is "dedicated" and the latter is probably someone who is "just there to pick up a paycheck." But, you know what? Those assumptions about work ethic are so far from the truth. I'd rather be well rested and relaxed after a few quality "days off" than be the other idiot who thinks that being a slave to their job is somehow "honorable." In fact, I'll probably do a better job than our friend the "workaholic" because I've taken time off to reflect on why I do what I do. I'm relaxed and content. Admittedly, most of us have little to no choice in the matter of working. We have to do this. I'm okay with work, but why do I feel the need to explain myself? I think that yesterday my rant was fueled by that most annoying of human emotions, guilt. And so is today's...
I'm not even Catholic.
Peace out.

A Window Into the Soul of the Unemployed Slacker

I really, REALLY, don't want to do this. It is freaking hot out. I would rather spend the rest of my day (and my life, for that matter) sitting in front of an air conditioner sleeping next to my dog and waking up occansionally to eat and do a quick Sudoku to pass the time. Of course, my girlfriend, my dog, and most other people in my life won't allow this to happen.
My question is this, "Why the f*$k not?"
The answer is obvious, because "THIS IS AMERICA, STUPID!"
You see, here in these United States, we have come to believe in an idea that is utterly contrary to my inner being. This is the idea that "work," no matter how you may feel about it, is entirely necessary in order for us "be" someone. We cannot define ourselves without it. We worship it, and we hoist those who do it with gusto to a pedastal high upon Mt. Olympus. Those industrious spirits who are unable to find satisfaction in anything but highly productive, stress inducing, creation of some tangible (or intangible) product at the expense of all else in their lives. The "workaholic" is the model against which we judge ourselves. I know many hardworking people who think of themselves as lazy and shiftless if they don't put in at least 50-60 hours of work each week. They idolize those that regularly post 60-70 hours and stand in awe of others who can magically do more.
Why is this so impressive to us? Because, behind this idea, is the great capitalist game: who ever dies with the most money wins. This game is a game of social class as well. None of this work means anything unless it is a "big, important" job, done by someone who has all of their impressive degrees in order. Do we idolize the single working mother with 3 or 4 jobs? No, we scorn her and whisper assumpitons we make about her behind her back. Working 60-70 hours a week and barely surviving doesn't impress us.
And what about those people who aren't impressed by such an extreme work ethic? I'm certainly one of them, and I'd be willing to bet that if you find that offensive, you've made a ton of assumptions about me as well. Do you assume I'm a slacker? A loser? A leach upon society? I'm unemployed, and I want to work. I've been looking for a job for quite a while now. I always try to do my best when I'm given the opportunity. I understand that we need to work in order to survive, to get the bills paid and stave off the IRS. I want this country to work, and I'm more than willing to do my part. What I despise is the zealous mentality that only hard working people deserve what they get. Because, who gets to define what "hard work" is anyway? Besides, what is so wonderful about passing away all of our time at work? Don't people in Europe take off several weeks each summer and enjoy themselves without judging each other? Why do I feel guilty about not having a job? I'm looking dammit! Get off my case America, freaking relax for a minute. This is our one chance to exist, to enjoy a moment in the sun. Go ahead and work, I'm gonna lie down in front of the air conditioner and finish that Sudoku.