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.