You start acting festive or I'm gonna....Part 1

As the two of you who actually read this blog know, I teach at a boarding school.  As such, one of my responsibilities is to supervise a dormitory one night a week.  I perform said duty in an upperclassman boys' dorm. 

A few weeks ago, as Christmas neared, I happened to be on duty the night that the boys were supposed to decorate the common area for the holidays.  Before I go any further, let me qualify that I am wholly unqualified for this task, as I can scarcely match my tie to my shirt on a consistent basis.  Thankfully, one of my esteemed colleagues, who happens to be our Dean of Students, and her daughters came in from the bullpen and assisted with a plethora of craft-creating accoutrements.  In what seemed like a fairly short period of time, they had created paper ornaments for each of our residents, who needed only to add their own name and photo.

In spite of the apparent ease of this task, the boys, who are all seventeen after all, were less then enthusiastic about it.  I began with some gentle encouragement, and when that didn't work, I got a touch more forceful.

Which is to say that I said: "You get in and show some holiday spirit or heads are going to roll!"

Or something like that...For the record I'm sure they knew that I was being figurative. 

Wagons West! Part 2

Everyone should travel by train…at least once.


But you can’t be in a hurry, and you can’t be snob or a recluse, or turn your nose up at the vast in between of America.

My Dad and I decided a while ago to take a train trip to New Mexico. My Grandfather on Dad’s side was a railway worker, and so my Dad spent much of his childhood summers travelling the country on the vast network of rails that so many of us have forgotten about. While the Golden Age of train travel has come and gone, it still had a great deal of meaning for my Dad.

As soon as we started planning the trip, it struck me how different it would be from any trip I’d taken before. I was no stranger to travel; I used to work for a consulting firm and travelled just about full time. But this trip was different, and not just because of its medium.

For the first time that I could remember , the trip was the thing….The destination was almost secondary.

We departed from Chicago’s Union Station, bound for Albuquerque, New Mexico. Even before we boarded, there was something palpable in the air. It could be felt among the passengers and the crew…a journey was forthcoming. Not a hop or a segment or a flight…the sort of journey that seemed an anachronism.

What I also found fascinating were the attitudes of my fellow passengers. Dad and I were riding for novelty and nostalgia, but I had no idea why anyone else would ride the train. It’s not fast, it’s not glamorous, and riding means being stuck in fairly tight quarters with one’s fellow passengers. Still, I was amazed to see how packed the train was, and at the enthusiasm with which everyone boarded.

Yes indeed, a journey was forthcoming.

Wagons West! The Great Train Adventure Part 1

A while ago, my dad has posited the idea of a train trip from Chicago to New Mexico.  For him, the trip was largely driven by nostalgia; my grandfather had worked the rails for fifty-two years, and so Dad traveled the country by train.

 It had been the glory days of rail travel.  A cross-country train was the pinnacle of luxury; the dining cars presented michelin-quality food eaten with crystal and silver, and smartly-dressed porters and pages handled everything from luggage to martinis while the passengers simply enjoyed the trip.

 Today, the idea of such a trip is at best a novelty; when I told some friends about our undertaking, the most common response was "why?"

 And the trouble is, I didn't have an answer...At least not right away.  I suppose I was mainly interested in QT with my dad. I'd been missing his companionship since we moved to Wisconsin.  But the train trip as a good unto itself?  I wasn't so sure.

 Well, I'm here to tell you...now I am.  I am officially sold on our railways as a means of worthwhile transportation, and over the next few weeks I'll do the best I can with my stories from the rails, to sell anyone who reads this as well.

Reason Number 1,234,556,345 not to try to be like a celebrity

Ah, traffic....

One of my main reason for moving from Chicago to Wisconsin was to avoid this bane of my existence.  Yes, I can fondly remember days on the Edens expressway(an misnomer if ever there was one), sitting in traffic trying to turn my steering wheel into a speed bag.

There are many reasons for traffic jams in the upper midwest, some of which, like gale-force winds or blizzards are, in my view, perfectly acceptable reasons to slow down.  Others, like fumbling for a new radio station, are not.  The worst, most offensive reason for a traffic slow down, is the gaper's block. 

For those of you not familiar, this is when mindless dopes with nothing better to do slow down to a snail's pace so that they can investigate a car accident or otherwise unusual motoring event.  Nevermind that such accidents have NO bearing on the gaper's lives, nor can said gaper actually do anything about the carnage.  Call it curiosity, call it compassion....I call it really stinkin' annoying, because it took pre-existing congestion and made it ten times worse!

When I moved to Wisco, it's not like gaper's blocks went away, it's just that they became much easier to deal with, as there's not nearly enough traffic to cause the sorts of delays I saw in Chicago. 

That is, until this past weekend....

Let me set the story by telling you that my three-year-old son has recently starting using "the potty" rather than his pants for biological relief.  This is a inevitable law of child development.  Another inevitable law, attributable to Murphy, is that he always has to go potty while we're on a stretch of road that has no exits for at least ten miles. 

We found ourselves in just this situation, and after interminable minutes of promising him a potty soon, we mercifully saw a sign for an exit.  Relief washed over me; there would be no tears nor cleaning of pee-soaked car seats in my future....

SCREETCH!!

Go the tires when Daddy slams on his breaks.

Break lights...Traffic...joylessness.

After a moment's panic left me, we began to creep along with the rest of the bewildered public.  I was sure that when we came upon the cause of this delay, it would be something substantial....I was wrong.

It was a boat trailer that had become unhitched from the vehicle which was pulling it.  No one was hurt, and the damage to the boast wasn't even that catastrophic. 

Color me...confused.

Then, as we approached, I took at close look at the proprietor of the boat.  He was a towering man, with long hair, a bandanna, and a dyed-blond fu man chu moustache.  He was clad in a sleeveless t-shirt and board shorts, and a deep tan juxtaposed his blonde hair.

Simply stated...he looked like Hulk Hogan...I mean a LOT like Hulk Hogan...to the point where I started to wonder...

And then I realized I was slowing down, just like everyone else. 

The reason for the gaper's block was a man who bore a striking resemblance to a retired pro wrestler.

The moral of the story....Trying to look like your favorite celebrity not only makes you seem shallow and insecure....it causes perfectly nice people like me to become impediments to good traffic flow.

Drean Poker Game...The Final Player

BUSEY!!

Drean Poker Game Part 2

And the entrants are....

Vince Vaughn: I know, I know....too obvious, too easy; a real cop-out.  But hear me out, if you're mixing a group of people who have never hung out before, chemistry is huge.  We've all been to parties where friends are mixed  and it doesn't go well.  Vince Vaughn, or at least his movie persona, would be the antidote to that.  Funny, loud, but not obnoxious.  Also, I met Vince Vaughn once, which is to say he said two words to my wife and I outside a restaurant in Chicago, and he was nice.  So, by the great American practice of judging celebrities' personalities based on meetings of profound brevity, I think he's cool.

Henry Kissinger: Perhaps an odd choice, but if you played basement poker like I've played basement poker, you know there's usually a case or three of beer laying around.  And if there's anyone who I'd like to hear rant after a few hits of the sauce, it's old Hank.  That being said, I don't know if I'd want to play him...I bet he's good, and if he's not, I bet he could have me killed, and if he couldn't, I'd believe him if he lied. 

Randy "The Natural" Couture: So, I'm a fan of combat sports, and I feel as though I'd want a fighter at my poker game.  Why Randy and not a boxer?  Well, first of all he's the best possible ambassador of MMA.  But more importantly, if I may be blunt, I feel like Randy's mental pistons are all still firing, which puts him ahead of a lot of pugilists.  But also, in the event that things went badly, and I won a few hands and Randy got mad at me...Well, he's a wrestler, so I'd probably just choked unconscious or something and get to keep all my teeth and most of my brain cells.  Such would likely not be the case if I invited a boxer. 

Kate Beckinsale: Do I really have to explain this one?  I should hope hot, er, I mean, not. .

Masaharu Morimoto:   Basement poker games, in my opinion, should include the aforementioned selection of brew, and also a selection of tasty treats.  Your typical spread is mostly soggy chips and badly-done guacamole.  But imagine if we invited an Iron Chef to the table?  A Foie Gras crossaint with a soft duck egg and red miso sauce?  Yes please, and I'll gladly trade chips for seconds.  I mean, Morimoto seems like a cool enough dude, based on my extensive viewing of Iron Chef and other culinary porn, so why not?  My only concern is that it wouldn't be a fun night for him, as all the other players would probably angle to get him knocked out of the game first so that he'll just spend the whole night in the kitchen.

Tune in next time for the final player....

Dream Poker Game Part 1

Ah, Poker...

It's one of two things that every guy thinks he knows how to do.  The other, of course, is boxing...and perceived prowess in that is a topic for another sermon.

Poker, the safer and more accessible of the two, has become a ritual of sorts amongst dudes.  It's hard to say why, maybe it's because Poker's a relatively benign way to prove one's manhood to others, or just a proxy for much-maligned male bonding. 

But such deep, provocative questions really have no place on my blog, especially now that the school year's over.  So I propose a simpler question:  If you had the chance to invite anyone at all to your house/bar of choice/fictional playboy club for an all-night rock'em sock'em Texas Hold'em throwdown, who would it be and why?

For me, this is a toughie.  Do I go with people who would play the best game, the biggest celebs, the most powerful people....Or just a mish-mash or personalities that would lead to the biggest train wreck?

Decisions, decisions.

Call me crazy, but I pick option three....

Gone Fishing (Part 2)

Lesson 4: I like to fish, but I don’t LIKE to fish.


My father-in-law is much more experienced than I am in the realm of fishing, or any other outdoor activity for that matter. That said, we generally share the same attitude as to why this activity appeals to us. We seemed to have the most fun when we were focused more on enjoying ourselves than on actually catching “a big one.”



The same cannot be said for our comrades. The other folks who joined us on the trip, who were the kindest people on Earth, were much more devoted to the craft of fishing than I was. Our second day in camp was miserable; around forty-eight degrees or so with rain blown sideways by the howling wind. After a few hours, my father-in-law and I were done. We were cold, wet, and had no fish in our boat to show for our suffering. We concluded that nothing would be better than a hot fire, a cold beer, and shelter from the weather.



Others in our camp….not so much. They stayed out fished…and fished…and fished. And when we finally convinced them to come in from the water….they fished from the dock.



Lesson 5: The forest shall provide…

One question that most outdoor newbies like myself have to ask at some point is “Where’s the bathroom.” In most cases the answer is fairly obvious….the ground. And I get that…I mean, it’s not as if I’ve never peed on the ground before. But my question was more related to old numeral dos.



“Where do I take a dump?” I graciously asked.



“I dunno,” I was told. “Find a shady spot…Or hold it ’til we get back.”



“But what about, you know, the clean-up?”



“Leaves.”



“Leaves?”



“Leaves…just not the wrong leaves.”



“Which are the wrong leaves?”



“Oh, don’t sweat it…the wrong ones are pretty rare.”



“Oh, okay.”



“But tell me if you start to feel funny.”



I held it.



Lesson 5: Did I mentioned I don’t know Jack about Squat?

There’s nothing quite like being left out of a conversation entirely. In this instance, it wasn’t because the people I was with were particularly rude. Rather, it was because I really had nothing to contribute whatsoever. For one, fishing-talk is littered with lingo; jigs, holes, trollers…too many others to mention. I found myself, on many occasions, resolving to make flashcards and quiz myself in private so I could keep up.



There were also bits of knowledge which appeared to be common sense…At least to everyone else. At one point, we pulled up to a “hole” (a place where fish are). On the surface of the water, there were a multitude of dead insects.



Fishing Guide: “Dammit! A stinkin’ Mayfly hatch.”



Everyone else: (Groans, moans)…”Man, there goes the whole trip.”



Me (whispering): “Is that bad?”



Lesson 6: There’s no place like home.

All good things must come to an end, and so on the sixth day we packed up and headed back to civilization(relatively speaking…we were headed back to a farm in the middle of nowhere). The best part about returning home is that you can leave all of the tough parts of the trip behind you, and remember only the best bits. To my family, suburban to the last, I might as well have been returning from an undersea expedition to Atlantis. To my wife’s, I was finally starting to act the part of a proper husband…leaving my wife for a few days and returning with frozen fish.



Either way, this trip was like every other great vacation….It pushed me a little, made me a little uncomfortable, but will likely never be forgotten.

Gone Fishing (Part 1)

The title of this post is not, for once, a clever pun...I really did go fishing.


A few months ago, my father-in-law invited me to with him and a few others to Canada for a weeks worth of fishing, log-cabin-living, beer-swilling, and artery-destroying. Knowing that the trip would be just before our big move, I thought it would be a nice respite from the worries of moving and the anxiety that of everyday life. Instead, it was a wake-up call...A sort of boot camp of country living.

To try to retell the experience word-for-word would require a blog unto itself, so instead I'm going to summarize my experience as a set of lessons...things I have learned in the Canadian Wilderness.
Lesson 1: In a fair fight, mother nature will kick your ass.

When I say I was in the wilderness, I mean I was in the damn wilderness. To be specific, I was about forty miles south of where all the roads in Ontario end...Where bear attacks are a very real possibility, and where going to get groceries is referred to as an "expedition." You know you've gone to the country when the locals speak with wry pride of how ineffective cell phones are in their neck of the woods.

In this place, nature is beautiful but brutal. There is no margin for error; no easy path home, no park rangers...no animal control...no control. Two days of our trip were cold and rainy with high winds, so we actually packed back-up motors for our boats, because if we got stuck...we were really stuck. No one would come to help us.

Lesson 2: A person's worth is measured by what they can carry...or at least mine was.

In the world I inhabit most days, my accomplishments and experiences matter. I'm fairly well-educated and I've had some good work experiences, and that's impressive to most folks I meet in my "normal" life.

It mattered not in Canada. It wasn't important that I could quote Mill or Oscar Wilde or that I knew what a P/E ratio was. It only mattered that, as it happened, I'm a pretty big guy who can carry pretty big things. The moment I arrived, one of our guides called me a "stout fellow" and it subsequently became my job to carry motors, gas tanks, boats, and other heavy shit through mucky pathes and between our tiny two-man fishing boats. I think I got saddled with this because I was not only big, but otherwise useless; which is to say that I had no other skills or abilities that mattered out there. Had I been able to reliably build fires or something, I might have gotten off the hook when it came to becoming a human pack mule.

Lesson 3: I don't know jack about squat.

There are few things as humbling as being completely clueless...especially about something that you feel you should be able to grasp. This sentiment more or less sums up how I felt as I sat in a fishing boat with my father-in-law, holding a fishing pole and realizing how un-country I was. There was also more than a small feeling of inadequacy; as if I could feel my father-in-law wonder what his daughter, my wife, had been thinking marrying some schmuck who didn't know how to cast.
At the same time, I realized that I'd have a lot of moments like these in my future. Surely, casting a fishing rod wouldn't be the last country skill I'd learn. So, I bit my lip, swallowed my pride and let my father-in-law teach me a skill that most boys learn when they're about eleven or so. Then, after listening and learning, I gave it a try.

Just as I'd be shown, I released my reel, drew my arm back and cast...

Straight down into the water in front of me...a whopping four feet from the boat.

Oh, it was going to be a lovely week...

Requiem for a Man-Cave Part 2

Where was I? Ah yes, Square One. Apparently the prospective room in my basement was ALSO vital to gardening. You know, I'm no expert...but I'm pretty sure this isn't all necessary just to have a garden. If fluorescent lamps were that vital, how were gardens created in THE MIDDLE AGES!?! Still, I found myself at another impasse. But, an light-bulb of inspiration came from the most unlikely of sources....my beloved.

Up until this point, I was pretty sure that she was anti-Man Cave, but then she said.... "You know, we're going to have a build an underground root cellar...we could just build it twice as big and make half of it a Man-Cave."

I nearly collapsed with Joy. Seriously? An man-cave that was an actual cave?

Was she suggesting I could have my own underground lair? A place that could not only serve as a venue for the viewing of violent sports, but also serve as a place of refuge if my quasi-paranoid friends are right about the impending Zombie Apocalypse/Coup d'etat? Immediately, I began planning my lair. And clearly, now that it was an option, I wanted something beyond a TV and a tribute to The Duke...But what else? A fully-stocked bar? A walk-in humidor....An Octagon for the settling of disputes?

But than I got to thinking, which is to say someone....a "friend" of mine...began using silly concepts like truth and logic to ruin my glee. Apparently, such an underground edifice would require a bathroom; because it were used for say, a Super Bowl party, then everyone would have to traverse the snow-covered muck that is my backyard to relieve themselves. Also, a heat-source of some kind would be required, and my initial idea of just burning wood wouldn't work...lest we all wore oxygen tanks.

So, it looks as though the Man-Cave will be added to a list of great ideas that never were....right along with injectable coffee and vitamin-infused donuts. If only someone would recognize my genuis.....

Requim for a Man-Cave- Part 1

Let's get something straight...



I live in my house, but it's not really MY house. I had very little to do with the colors on the walls, the styles of window treatments, or which bells and which whistles were added to the appliances. All of those calls were my wife's to make.



And really, I'm fine with that. And I suspect most hapless guys like me are.



But, and this is a big but....



I'm starting to get peeved about a part of the house that was supposed to be mine. Most notably at the fact that said part of the house DOESN'T YET EXIST!

The Man-Cave.

"The what?" You might ask

My Man-Cave. A sanctuary of my very own; Spartan yet oddly luxurious, tough but comfortable. All I want is a room, somewhere within walking distance of my house, with a couch, a TV, and a giant picture of John Wayne.

I don't think I'm being unreasonable, but it seems that forces are conspiring against me on my quest.

Background:

My wife and I own 5 acres of land, including a house and two barns. One of which is an old pig barn. When we bought the place, we both agreed that we could do pretty much whatever we wanted with it. I mean, 5 acres is a lot of land for a family of three, and so our imaginations ran wild.

Pretty quickly, I was informed(this is how things work) that the pig barn would be turned into a potting shed/chicken coup. Both a garden and chickens had been agreed upon before, but now the barn was essentially occupied, and I was beginning to wonder if I was getting fleeced.

So, in the interest of compromise, I looked elsewhere for a suitable dude-lair(Also, I usually lose arguments with my wife). The most logical place was our basement. As of now, our basement consists of three rooms, one of which would work wonderfully for my purposes.

"Nay," Said my wife. "That room's being used to grow stuff for the garden from seedlings."

"You have to do that?" I asked.

I have not words to describe the face that was my answer.

And I was back to square one....

The 5 Real Signs of Spring

Call me a cynic, or impatient, but I think that I've given up on Mother Nature's ever-shifting moods as an accurate predictor of the changing seasons.



Especially here in the Midwest, I feel that we're constantly being teased...It's cold, it snows, it warms up, the snow melts, then it rains, but the snow returns...It's gotten old for me.



So, I propose the following as true harbingers of the new season:



1)The Super Bowl- I realize it's in the dead of winter, but hear me out on this. Once the Super Bowl is over, it's officially the end of anything worth doing in winter. Winter, we can all agree, sucks after the big game is over. February is, paradoxically, the longest month of the year. There's nothing left to do except wait for the weather to warm up. So I guess The Super Bowl is the Fat Tuesday of the winter doldrums.



2)Pitchers and Catchers report- Even if you're not a sports fan like me, there's something reassuring about the fact that:

1. Somewhere, anywhere, is warm enough to host a baseball game


2. That those same baseball games will one day move to a city near you, and that Winter is going to end at some point.

I always think back to my youth and a ad campaign put out by the Chicago White Sox, picturing a baseball in a pile of snow which read "Think Spring."

3)March Madness- Firstly, basketball is a winter sport, so when it's over, it means that winter's over as well, at least as far as the omniscient NCAA is concerned (insert your own joke here). But what's also important is this: You've been sitting in front of the TV all winter long anyway, watching whatever is on because it's way too cold to go outside for anything. March Madness is more of the same; lots of sitting around watching TV. Only it's probably the best TV-watching there is...ever. So it gives your favorite activity a little shot-in-the-arm, a little spice if you will, to get you through.

4)Movie Trailers Get Louder- Summer(and late Spring anymore) means the movies start to get good, at least if you're into things going boom, formulaic plots, and protagonists with whom Carl Jung would have a field day(I happen to be into all of the aforementioned). Consequently, it's usually sometime in April when you get to see all the blessed carnage in morsel-sized trailers just before some forgettable flick.

5)Opening Day- I hate to stick with baseball, as I realize not everyone loves our national game as much as I do, but let's face it...Nothing means Spring the same as the beginning of baseball. Now, as a lifelong resident of the Upper Midwest, I realize that sometimes Opening Day is played in parkas and thermal underwear. Be that as it may, I still think that it's a more reliable indicator of a new season than anything the nerds at The Weather Channel have come up with.