Author: grizzlychadams

The Secret Underground of the West Bremerton Wrestling Federation

It was just another one of your typical spring days in the Puget Sound—damp and dark, with a constant, heavy drizzle of rain.  Not like one of those crazy Midwest rainstorms that come out of nowhere and hammers you for a couple minutes with an intense, thunderous storm followed by a streak of sunshine; Mother Nature’s nice way of reminding us how powerful she is and why we shall respect her.  In the Pacific Northwest, she reminds us of her dominance in a much more subtle, but torturous manner…

 

To put it bluntly, it rains.  Period.  It will rain for days, weeks, and when she’s really pissed off, months even.  You wake from your peaceful slumber to a steady flow of water droplets pummeling the ground day after day, beating onto your skin as you step outside to make the morning commute, slowly seeping deeper into your already darkened soul.  Little by little, like the frog who’s stuck in the pot water that gradually turns to a boil, it wears you down to the point where it becomes accepted as part of your everyday routine, analogous to the mundane work that is to be accomplished when you arrive at work.

 

Then finally, after a much-extended departure, a few rays of light seep through a slight break in the clouds, sending the Olympic Peninsula natives into a frenzy of adulation.  We rejoice in the miracle of sunshine and spend much of our workday talking amongst our peers about our great plans for the weekend, now that the streaks of grey have been vanquished from the sky—our one and only sign of hope.

 

We crawl into bed with delusions of grandeur, for the sun, that bright ball of fire in the sky that had departed so long ago and had nearly been erased from our memory, would finally return to us.  Then, the very next morning, you are woken by the same persistent sound of tapping on the roof and windowsills.   You rise with every emotion drained from your body, except for a slight smirk, a recognition of the irony from the sights and sounds of sorrow, fooled once again to think we might actually have a chance to live through a day of nice weather.  And once again, the cycle repeats itself, forever ongoing, beating us into submission and furthering our depressed state.  No wonder so many people look like they’re in a terrible mood in the city of Seattle.

 

The rain doesn’t always have such a negative effect, however.  It makes us Pacific Northwesterners who deal with it day in and day out hardened to the fact that bad weather is a part of life, and that we must deal with or die.  We learn to suck it up, to pedal our bikes through unyielding walls of water just to make it to work to produce goods and services for the proud, work-driven community, or hike through flooded plains and mud-ridden trails to reach a destination of everlasting beauty.  It’s much like how the Wisconsinites deal with the bitter and cold winters with their sub-zero temperatures, or the harsh and blistering summer climate in the southwestern states.  It gives us all an appreciation of those wonderful days when by an act of God, the sun is shining bright between the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges without a cloud in the sky.

 

Much was the attitude that I discovered that liquid-saturated Saturday preceding Cinco de Mayo when I ventured down Callow Avenue in Bremerton, Washington with my go-to skate buddies Jack and Adam.  For those of you unfamiliar with Callow Avenue, it is a representation of the very best and very worst of what the city of Bremerton has to offer.  It houses a collection of historic businesses that molded the city into what it is today, while at the same time attracting many new stores that seem to undertake a more progressive model to commerce.

 

On either side of the street, you’ll find a mass of pawnshops, which have strategically placed neon signs plastered across the windows with seductive slogans.  One in particular caught my eye, and if I can remember correctly, it had a catchy phrase that went something like, “guns, guns, GUNS!”  Apparently, judging by the signs and the wooden silhouette of a cool cowboy leaning on a post and clasping a smoking pistol, these pawnshops like to sell a lot of guns.

 

Then on the east side of the street across from the town bakery and adjacent to the comic book shop, there is an adult themed store with its specially attributed mannequin models posing in a provocative manner to advertise their explicit clothing line.  They seem to have great deals on a wide range of videos that line the store shelves, which I’m sure keeps their customers coming back for more.  And who can blame them with deals like “3 DVD’s for 19.95,” or “free edible underwear with the purchase of full lingerie set?”  Say what you want about the morality of their product, but there’s no denying that they know how to run a consumer based business.

 

And what would Callow Avenue be without a tobacco shop or two, whose specialties have recently expanded into the reach of glass headpieces?  With the rise of marijuana use due to Washington’s reformed laws, business has been booming for these small business start-ups, and who can blame them for taking full advantage of the law to boost their clientele base?  It’s what any smart businessperson would do, from Donald Trump to Vince McMahon.

 

There is even rumored to be an underground S&M and dominatrix club in one of the back alleys aligning Callow.  Supposedly, some of Bremerton’s finest are members of this exclusive club that is only accessible through secret invitation.  Doctors, lawyers, bankers, among many of the other important citizens of the Kitsap community are supposedly spotted entering the club’s secret passageway to indulge in their inner-most dark desires.  I didn’t believe it at first, but with much persuasion from Ben Woodward, he verified and assured me that such a place exists.  He seems to show a keen interested in those types of places for some reason or another.

 

We had nothing but the harmless intention of composing a high quality Instagram video that afternoon, although the never-ending rain put a stop to those plans real quickly.  It was just impossible to gather the filmmaking resources required to make such a video that lives up to our standards given the cacophonic state of the weather.  All was not lost however, for as we walked further down, a congregation of spectators had come into our sight.  For better or worse, our curiosity guided us past food vendors and hollering fans, some of whom had traveled far and wide from the outskirts of town, including representatives from Shelton, Belfair, Purdy, and many of the other communities out in the sticks that surround the city of Bremerton.

 

After maneuvering through the cluster of crazed fans, growing further impatient from the delay of action, or eyes settled to the middle of the street where a group of children, drenched with an unrelenting barrage of rain water, tirelessly labored to clear a square ring erected from four columns of turnbuckles at the corners and aligned with three rows of ropes.  No matter how much these boys squeegeed or how many towels they soaked up, the unstoppable force of rain continuously militated their efforts.  These modern peasants however were determined to see the ring cleared, and were willing to do whatever it took for the chance to watch their hero’s, many of whom they’ve been waiting their whole life to see, battle it out for their shot at stardom; the superstars of the West Bremerton Wrestling Federation, or better known as the WBWF.

 

I had heard of these small-operation wrestling organizations popping up around different cities with their members aiming to take their skill set to the big leagues.  Usually these events are pretty secretive, with their whereabouts only known by a limited number of hardcore fans who rarely share the details of the sport’s arrangements.  For that, I considered myself lucky that day to have stumbled upon such an event, and I’m sure there was at least a WWE scout or two in the crowd, even if it was raining cats and dogs.

 

After 10 minutes of obstinate work from the child laborers whom of which I’m sure were grossly underpaid, out of nowhere a booming voice with a God-like reverb exploded out of a PA system setup outside a Mexican restaurant.  From the way the man screamed at the boys to get their tiny buns out of the ring, I got the idea that their determination had finally paid off, even though much of the ring was still covered in a thick layer of water.  It mattered not, for rain or shine, we were finally going to see some damn wrestling!

 

The first two opponents stepped out into the ring, a masked behemoth, clad in a full body spandex suit vs. a truly undersized welterweight sporting red and yellow Zumba pants.  Toe to toe they stood, gazing into each other’s eyes with great malice; every second passing adding to their desire to clobber the other into the mat.  The bell rang and the two reached in for a fierce grapple, forcing each other’s weight upon the other, a force that quickly overcame the friction between their florescent colored K-Swiss running shoes and the rain-soaked mat.  What seemed like perfect execution, both wrestlers’ pair of legs flew out underneath them, sending them face first to the mat.  The crash of the two muscular giants thundered throughout Callow as the two turned to their sides, squinting their eyes and wallowing in pain.

 

The referee began his 10-second match disqualification count as the wrestlers desperately attempted to rise from the fall.  I don’t know if he was paying attention, had terrible track of time, or what his issue was, because his 10-second count seemed to last over a minute, for both wrestlers found it extremely difficult to keep their balance during their ascent to stand on two feet.  Both wrestlers slipped and fell back to the ground at least 3 or 4 times before the black behemoth finally rose up, grabbing Zumba’s long, oily locks and forcing him back onto his feet.

 

The behemoth grabbed Zumba by the arm, pulling and using his momentum to send him towards the ropes… perhaps too much momentum.  Again, the behemoth lost his balance and found himself back on the ground.  Zumba saw this as an opportunity, bouncing off the ropes to set up for a fierce guillotine leg drop, a perfect set up for a devastating finisher.

 

He approached the Behemoth lying on his back as he ran full speed and lifted his right leg, the one that would soon be strategically placed across his opponent’s throat, sending maximum pain throughout the rest of his body.  It was a perfect execution, too perfect, only if it hadn’t been for the inch of rainwater covering the mat…

 

Zumba began to slide, waving his arms in a windmilling fashion, doing everything he could to keep his balance and deliver the finishing blow.  However, with one leg already up in the air and a near frictionless wrestling mat, his valiant efforts were ultimately no use.  His left joined his elevated right, an entire ball of muscle floating in the air for a brief moment of time; his eyes widening to the size of silver dollars and his mouth shaping into the letter “O”, bracing for the impact his bony behind was about to make with the floor.

 

“OHHHH,” he cried out holding his left butt check, the one that had taken the brunt of the impact from the monstrous impact.  “C’mon!” we screamed in frustration, sensing that with both men on the ground, the referee would repeat his 5 minute 10-second count all over again.  This match was far from over.

 

Zumba’s mistake proved to be detrimental, for although he was courageous for taking on the masked behemoth, his valor was much too underwhelming for the 100 plus pounds and 8 inches the behemoth had over him, much to the disappointment of the crowd.  Everybody likes a good underdog victory every now and then, especially the couple that was across the ring from me.

 

The wife sported a black shirt with the slogan, “ATF: Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms.  Who brings the chips?” and the husband was clad in a tucked in XXL shirt with Yosemite Sam spread across the torso with two revolvers drawn and the phrase “Back Off!” tucked underneath his belly, well below his waistline.  Their 6 children, soaked in oversized shirts such as “Out of my Mind, be Back in 5 Minutes,” among other witty tops easily purchased at the local Wal-Mart mimicked their parent’s demeanor, hurling insults and yelling furiously at the heels throughout the duration of the event.

 

Soon after the Behemoth celebrated his victory and Zumba pitifully exited the ring in agonizing pain, the piercing sound of the Soviet National Anthem came blaring out of the speakers, one of the most excruciating songs to come out of the 20th century.

 

“What the hell?” I asked myself.  My question was quickly answered as two Russian jerks strutted out of the Mexican restaurant covered with the red hammer and sickle flag alongside their manager who kept waving around old Soviet Union paraphernalia yelling gibberish through a stupid megaphone.  Nothing grinds my gears more than a bunch of loudmouth commies prancing around with unjustified cockiness, especially considering the hostile advances against Ukraine in the past months.  A vicious anger began bellowing inside me, a rage building to uncontrollable levels.  It consumed me so much that I regrettably found myself hurling offenses along the lines of “Putin Sucks.” It was an action way beneath my character, but I could hardly believe the utter lack of respect these guys were showing, and was very much hoping their opponents were strong enough to deliver them the punishment they deserved.

 

After their egregious boasting, out came the other tag team, whose appearance left me a bit concerned I must admit.  The first was a chubby kid; barely of legal age to wrestle in the WBWF, clothed in black tights and in the process of growing a Flock of Seagulls style haircut with purple highlighted tips.  The kid had passion no doubt, a commendable attribute, but at the same time, certainly had a lot to learn about the sport of professional wrestling.

 

His partner, although out of shape, looked to be more of a veteran of the sport.  His hair style was of one of which I had never seen; a blonde and balding bowl cut with two inch long braids lining the perimeter of his head, matching his stained and crooked teeth and his multi-pocketed, flared out bellbottom style jeans, discolored with bleach stains in multiple spots.  His one saving grace was his superman shirt.  Say what you want about the guy, a washed up WBWF legend or recovering meth addict (some would make that assumption, but I never make accusations unless I have hard evidence), but anybody with a superman shirt is a man of integrity, intensity, and intelligence, and will with no doubt come out on top, no matter their appearance.

 

The match began with Mr. Emo up first against one of the Russians.  It was an absolute massacre, right from the get go.  Mr. Emo didn’t stand a chance.  Over and over again the Russian’s took turns throwing him against the turnbuckles and delivering slap chop to his abnormally large breasts and blows to his bloated gut, causing his epidermis to resonate with a high frequency.

 

“No, no!” He screamed as the Russian’s grabbed each of his legs, kicking them up and down as he clasped the ropes for dear life.  His plea was humored, but ultimately ignored as they ripped him from his rope stranglehold and threw him onto the center of the mat, sending a splash of water high into the air.  The Russian’s were just being a couple of buttholes now, placing Mr. Emo in various submissions, shooting pain throughout his body with every twist of his wrist and pull of his leg.

 

The Russian had Mr. Emo stuck in a full crab, a submission move where the victim lies on his stomach while the aggressor sits on his back and takes hold of both legs, pulling them towards the back of his head, causing much strain and deformation to the spine.  Further, the Russian consistently taunted his partner, Superman, as well as the crowd, hurling insults in a heavy eastern dialect that nobody quite understood, but hated all the same.

 

Although they certainly had the upper hand, the Russians’ cockiness were getting the best of their talent.  As they were busy ridiculing the crowd, Mr. Emo was clandestinely slipping away from his opponent’s submissive grip, his hand inching closer to his partners, Superman, who had yet to be tagged into the match.

 

He was so close, nearly a fingertip away from the tag with his arm outstretched and his eyes squinting, a helpful tactic that increases your reach every time it’s tried.  My heart was pounding out of my chest, for we were on the verge of witnessing an epic comeback matching that of when the Packers came back at the last second to beat the Cowboys in the Ice Bowl.  Just a little more reach and they would have it; the match would be theirs…

 

 The Russians pulled Mr. Emo back to the middle of the ring, laughing at his hopeless effort to tag his partner, but the laughter was short lived.  Somehow, by a shear act of God, the tag had been made and Superman was on his way to deliver a world of hurt.  His eyes were full of fury, the humiliation his partner received was about to be repaid in full, and after 10 agonizing minutes, we were finally about to get what we all came for—a good ol’ fashion American ass whoopin’!

 

Superman took a lunge and stuck out his forearm to deliver a close line.  The Russian inside the ring had just enough time to see the blow coming, but not enough time to evade.  Contact was inevitable; the Russians were going down…

 

“WHOA,” screamed the Superman as he realized one of his legs slipped out much to far in front of him.  Before doing the splits and ripping his growing muscles, he miraculously switched leg positions, and switched again, and then again, and again, and again.  It was like a Nordic Track on overdrive, accelerating with intensity with each leg shift.  At the rate his legs were moving, his body was brushing with the peril of a dangerous rotation that could send him to the mat if he wasn’t careful, but I knew he was going to pull out of it.  He was Superman after all.

 

It all happened so quickly; that I can’t quite remember the exact way it went down.  What I do know is one minute he was upright, the next he was down.  His face planted hard against the wet mat, and shortly after, our palms planted hard against our faces.  The Russian picked him up and suplexed him right onto his neck, a finishing move that proved to be incorrigible to recovery.  The Referee went down for the count.  In an attempt to save his partner, Mr. Emo got tangled in the ropes, eventually landing on his stomach with complete uselessness, the epitome of maladroit.  1, 2, 3, and it was all over.

 

The crowd booed off both teams with utter disgust.  I for one was completely ashamed to have these two buffoons represent my country.  Their pathetic display was an embarrassment to our great nation, and the unruly crowd let them have it with disapproving hand gestures, nasty heckles, and flying food particles.  Mr. Emo and Superman did what they could do re-garnish their support, but in the end, they both left the ring in disgrace.

 

The last match was perhaps the most inhumane of the day, a three on three tag-team bout consisting of the most desperate wrestlers in all of Kitsap County.  They came from all sides, the one entering the ring closest to us standing out above the rest.  We were in full view of his cacopygian attributes, and from what I could tell, he may have been only wearing a mask and a white T-shirt, for his overly obese legs, covered in a film of cellulite that had the consistency of cottage cheese, blocked the view of anything between his thighs and waist.

 

The match began and immediately there was trouble in the ring.  The mangers got involved right from the start, distracting the referee while the Cacopygian joined his other teammates in illegally attacking their outnumbered opponent.  For those of you not familiar with tag-team wrestling, the wrestlers can only double or triple team for a brief moment after a tag has been made before they must return the their corner, which these wrestlers were in clear violation of.  The crowd screamed at the ref in an attempt to raise his attention to the unsportsmanlike conduct happening inside the ring, but the more they hollered, the further he got distracted.  For some reason, everybody could see that the bad guys were cheating except for him.  I hate it when that happens.  It’s become a wild epidemic in the wrestling community that after many years still hasn’t fix.  You’d think there’d be better talent out there for referees, but then again, who knows?

 

Eventually the ref did turn back around, and by an astounding miracle things just happened to return to order right before his eyes reverted back into the ring, although the good guys were still beat up pretty bad and at a disadvantage.  It didn’t take long however for pandemonium to rear its ugly head once more after one of the managers slipped a steel-folding chair into the stage.  Cottage cheese legs grabbed the chair and took a swing at his opponent, except the low friction mat caused a slip, turning a brutal chair blow to the head into a petty tap on the shoulder.  The tap seemed to affect him all the same however, causing the good guy to flail back in pain, roll around on the ground and cover his face as if he’d been sprayed with a vile of acid.  The screaming good guy was too much for the ref to handle, quickly calling the match a disqualification.

 

Shortly after he announced his decision, a nasty, vociferous voice came out of the PA system.  A man walked out, claiming to be the CEO of the WBWF.  I believed him, although his appearance caught me a bit off guard.  Usually a ripped pair of jeans, a ratty T-shirt and an unbuttoned flannel doesn’t strike me as common CEO attire, and his cheesy mustache wasn’t doing him any favors either.

 

“I’m the CEO, and this is MY Company.  Therefore, I hereby reverse this match’s decision by the power bestowed on me!”

 

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

 

I really questioned the intelligence and motives of this CEO, and how long he was going to last.  I know his ambitions were high for the WBWF, but I just didn’t see him making it onto the Fortune 500 list anytime soon.  Within’ seconds of his reversal, an all out brawl of ten grown men broke out in the ring, slapping, grabbing and throwing each other around.  One man grabbed a hold of another and forced him onto the ground, thrusting his body weight onto his victim in an attempt to get him to submit.  Two others kept rolling around on the ground, grinding against each other, trying to position themselves on top of the other so they could have the upper hand and be the dominant partner calling the shots, delivering the pain and satisfying their alpha male desires.

 

The ring became a giant collection of blood, sweat, water, and flesh.  I hadn’t seen this much body to body contact since the last time I watched Game of Thrones, and being that this was a live event, the content was much more graphic.  For minutes we watched in horror as the bloodthirsty and obese kept hammering each other over and over again.  We stared in disgust with our mouths locked open as the topless plumps battled, slowly turning into a giant blob of flabby flesh with the occasional limb flopping around in desperation.  The uglier it got, the more impossible it became for us to turn our heads the other way.

 

They nailed each other with lefts and rights and forced their opponents into uncomfortable positions, the victims resisting as their perpetrators held them against their will, forcing their body to twist and turn in ways the good lord never intended.  Eventually, after a long and relentless pounding session, their stamina gave out, and they were left laying on the mat, side by side in a puddle of water mixed with blood, sweat, saliva, and any other bodily fluid that may be extracted during a match of this caliber, with a flood of rain dropping onto their feeble bodies; these weren’t the most athletic warriors after all.  Now, after 20 minutes of intense, physical, and strenuous activity in the ring, they were exhausted of all their strength, left breathless next to their partners in a moment of extreme pain and pleasure that only the participants could truly appreciate.

 

Their moment of intimacy was our cue to exit.  None of us said a word during the walk back through Callow Avenue.  Not even past the adult store, the pawnshops, or suspected S&M club.  We thought about those wrestling warriors that gave it their all in the ring.  Would they ever get their shot, the big time Pay-Per-View main event in the WWE with John Cena?  Only time will tell.  All I know that these athletes were willing to sacrifice it all for their shot at their dreams, and for that, I commend them.  We may not have gotten the Instagram skit we were hoping for, but in the end, I believe we received something much greater, for it’s truly amazing the things you’ll find sometimes when you’re not looking.

 

I think we all learned a great deal that day walking down Callow Street, about life and ourselves.  Maybe someday, we’ll be at that same level of pursuing our dreams, taking the risk of life for the glory inside the ring.  Until then, we’ll look up to these wrestlers with pride, despite their appearance or what opinions society may cast upon them.  We’ll look at them as greater men… The men we could be…  The men we want to be…  The men we can only hope our children will become…

 

-Grizzly Chadams

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So I Wrote a Screenplay…

So I wrote a screenplay…

 

It’s late Friday night inside the house of an upper-class neighborhood. Two teenage lovers lock lips in the daughter’s bedroom, deviously decorated with religious paraphernalia, a variety of stuffed animals, and colorful crafts to conceal her true sinister behavior. Journey’s “Faithfully” is playing through a cassette player, adding to the sensual ambience. The year is 1984.

 

Foolishly, the parents of this juvenile deviant booked out of town for the weekend, leaving behind their young royalty to finish her “research paper;” only this pretty princess has other plans in mind. “Let me slip into something a little more comfortable,” she hints at her hunk opposite to her on the bed. They’ve decided it’s time to take their relationship to the next level.

 

The hunk strolls down the hallway, fist-pumping all the way to the bathroom. He has been waiting for this moment his whole life. The fact that precious jewelry, family heirlooms, and various knick-knacks in the bathroom have gone missing doesn’t even faze this testosterily charged adolescent. His mind is totally oblivious to everything except his immediate future spent with his first and only love. A giant smile spreads ear to ear across his face as he opens the toilet lid, unbuttons his pants, and hums his favorite love song, all in preparation to take a leak.

 

He looks down, releases a ghastly shriek of terror, and steps back in shock. He shakes with an uncontrollable tremble; the sight is just too much for him to bear. It is one of the most disgusting things he has ever seen in his entire life– a large mound of bio-hazardous madness piled high inside the bowl.

 

“Babe, what’s wrong,” the girl asks with mounting concern as she bursts into the bathroom.

 

“You’re sick. You’re SICK!” the boy repeats. He is absolutely livid. “How could anybody make something that atrocious!?”

 

He storms out of the bathroom and down the stairs, brushing his princess out of the way. She follows him like a pathetic puppy. Outside, the engine of a red Camaro ignites, and with a couple of revs, it speeds away undetected from the crime scene.

 

The boy stomps towards the door and clasps the door handle before his girlfriend grabs onto his other arm. She gives him one final plea.

 

“We’re done. We are DONE,” screams the boy, as the door swings open.

 

“No babe, wait! I love you!” It’s no use. The door slams in her face and the young lover is left by herself in humiliation with nothing but the remains of an all-natural brownie mix in her stall and the hook of her favorite journey song echoing through the house. The turd burglar has struck again…

 

That’s the very first scene of a screenplay I wrote, entitled “Turd Burglars.” If you’re a sane person reading this, you’re reaction should be something along the lines of, “What in the Hell?” And I can totally understand, being it’s only the first scene in a movie that only expands in its offensive nature. I used to wonder how in the world I came up the idea for a movie centered around a “turd burglar.” Looking back however, I realized that there’s a history behind this brainchild, and even a logical explanation of how I formed this story inside my head and put it onto paper. Maybe after reading this, you may have a slight understanding of how I came up with the concept, and eventually believe, “Hey, he might actually be onto something really funny.”

 

But anyway, let’s get on with the story. It all started during your typical Sunday in the city of Seattle…

 

It was one of the hottest weekends in Western Washington during the summer of 2008. I had recently started my new profession as an engineer making gobs of money, so needless to say, things were going very well. After what some might call an excess of partying, there I lay on my good friend Ben Woodward’s futon, profusely sweating from the 85% humidity mixed with the 95-degree temperature in the air (which is very hot for Seattle since nobody has air-conditioning. Anywhere). It was early… too early, but there was no way I could gain another minute of sleep in that smoldering hot box of Ben’s crusty apartment, at least not in the type of pain I was in.

 

I rose to a hunched position, trying to reclaim the memories of the night prior. I was surrounded by Rainer beer cans, some empty, some completely full, and a mix of others in the in-between status. There was a putrid smell of garbage reeking from the overflowing trashcan with fruit flies swarming, mixed with rotten food particles clinging to the stacks of dirty dishes and mold crawling from plate to plate. Bags from Dick’s Drive-In cluttered the living room, reminding me that we had made the pilgrimage to Seattle’s premiere burger joint the night before… Now it was starting to come back to me. Maybe that was the reason why I had this terrible feeling arising in my stomach, and I’m sure my surroundings were aiding to that uneasiness inside me to come out. Not puke all over the place, but something a little subtler, a bit more normal, at least to some.

 

I rose from the futon, leaving a large puddle of sweat behind to be permanently stained into the cushions to forever remind us of this weekend. There were two paths I could go. One was the community bathroom that easily exceeded the grotesque conditions of the rest of the apartment. The other was a more dangerous route through Ben’s room where he spent his time slumbering away, unaware of the massive heat wave beating down upon us. It was a safe haven of sorts, a luxurious escape compared to the cradle of filth of which I was entrapped inside, even if it were only for a mere half-hour. The trek would be well worth the risk.

 

I snuck passed the corner of Ben’s living room that had been tainted by a black fungal like substance that perfectly contrasted his white carpet, probably an unknown offshoot of some type of growing bacteria that would have Scientist perplexed for years of its origin. But there he was, sound asleep like a little baby. This was too easy. I strutted through with a bit of cockiness to my step and slid into the bathroom. No one was the wiser.

 

The bathroom served as a solar deathtrap, further intensifying the blistering heat wave that we’d been cursed with that weekend. It was an action I wasn’t looking forward to to say the least, but it had to be done nonetheless. I sat down with sweat pouring from every pore in my body and proceeded with the dirty deed.

 

It was an absolute disaster, 20 minutes of extreme agony before I could finally rise covered in a blanket of sweat and gaze upon the vile creation pultruding above the waterline. I reached for the lever to dispose of my product that left me in total disgust, for no man should ever set eyes on what was inside that toilet; the consequences would be absolutely devastating. But then, an evil thought slipped into my mind. I stood over the bowl and contemplated my decision, except there was nothing to contemplate. I already knew what I was going to do the moment the thought popped into my head. I lifted my hand from the lever that had not yet been depressed, and shut the bathroom window. Before leaving, I casually flipped the heat lamp on and crept back through his bedroom and into the living room without his knowledge. Boy was he in for a surprise.

 

A good amount of time passed before Ben woke. He’s a heavy sleeper, he really is. So much time, that I nearly forgot about the incident and was reacquainted with an old friend called sleep. That is, until a blood-curdling scream from Ben’s room blasted my eardrums, followed by the sounds of picture frames falling and a large mass crashing into a desk, letting its contents spill onto the floor.

 

He burst into the living room, bug-eyed in his undies with sweat dripping from his dimple-imprinted forehead. “What the hell was that!?” he exclaimed, violently trembling in his socks. I sat there and tried to act surprised, but all that was delivered was a grin ever growing into a bigger and bigger smile. He wanted to kill me, I could see it in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Who could blame him? The man was absolutely petrified! The only thing he could do was slowly slide down into a fetal position, where he lay in a comatose state, letting his natural instincts of surrender take over.

 

Since then, my relationship with Ben Woodward has always had a bit of uneasiness to it, as if he never fully recovered from that incident. And unbeknownst to me, that day marked the beginning of a journey, one that led me to begin my amateur career as a screenwriter. Unfortunately, it also marked the beginning of an ongoing battle that lasted years.

 

It started out as harmless fun, as all these things do. Ben would sneak his way into my bathroom to leave a nice surprise for me, and a couple days later, I would return the favor, finding a creative way to out-do his last. The human race has a natural drive for competition, and the stakes rose to unbelievable heights with each prank we pulled. As the battle ensued, we each grew wiser, sniffing out the evidence and destroying it before it could be seen, or finding other means to outsmart the other, making each successful stunt more satisfying than the one before it.

 

But after awhile, our game had reached dangerous levels of competition. There was only so much our bodies would allow us to handle naturally before we began taking drastic measures in order to achieve the upper hand. Houses and apartments were broken into to deliver the goods, cleaners and other “supplements” were taken to produce cloggers, and eventually, the game ventured outside the bounds of the bathroom. This was no longer a game of friendly contest; this was all out war.

 

It reached a tipping point one night where emotions ran high after a round of jabs, until ultimately, and tragically, punches were thrown. Mike Gibson separated us, offering us a world of hurt if we didn’t stop our antics. We both wisely obeyed, for Mike is a certified ass kicker of all mischiviants. I think that night we both realized that we’d finally crossed the line, and it just simply wasn’t worth it to continue on. So we formed an unofficial truce and stopped the madness before it destroyed our friendship and our bodies any further.

 

Those events seemed to stick with me however, and from time to time, whenever I sat down to provide my body with natural relief, I thought about the days when Ben and I would devise schemes to force distraught upon each other, and the other times I’ve felt the same by entering a random public stall. Such examples are when you open a door to find the scene of a grenade explosion, with debris plastered everywhere, or when the world’s supply of toilet paper just wasn’t enough for that certain individual who previously occupied the stall (which actually happened today at work believe it or not). Usually in those cases, the perpetrator didn’t understand the concept of flushing whatsoever.

 

One thing I’ve tried to understand is why somebody would leave something like that for a random person to see, unless they’re just a sick person. In that case, there are a lot of unstable people out there, some of which work for the federal government, which is even a scarier thought. I do know with males however that no matter the age, dropping a giant bomb is considered a major achievement in our twisted little minds. Get a couple of us going, and you could spend a whole night reliving the history of our most decorated creations. If it’s a great accomplishment, pictures can taken and shared with friends, which is okay being it’s a trustworthy group of brethren and you’re not sharing your business with everyone in the world, most of who wouldn’t want to see in the first place. But on rare occasions, where the creator leaves a masterpiece, it’s totally acceptable to leave the work of art on display.

 

“Hey you guys, come check this out,” I remember one of the students on my floor shouting down the hall of the dorms during my freshman year of college as we leisurely converged our way to the bathroom.

 

“Whoa,” one of the kids said as a dozen of us gathered around the stall, mouths agape, marveling at the monster in the middle. We were in total amazement at the size of the object, so much that we left that stall untouched for a week. I think even the janitor didn’t even bother walking in and flushing, for he too was quite impressed.

 

It sounds like repulsive talk, but ask any honest man, and he’ll tell you about the biggest torpedo he’s ever fired, or the most astonishing direct explosion his ever encountered. It’s one of those topics that are very taboo to talk about, but once it’s brought up, we pour our hearts out, eagerly waiting to tell our own tales of combat.

 

One day while working in DC, I was in the bathroom having one of those moments of reflection, when a man entered a stall two down from me. I could tell by the way he walked in and groaned that there was a mess already scattered about. He must have been very eager to get on with business, for he wasted no time sitting down after he depressed the flush lever.

 

“What the-“ he exclaimed as he shot up off the john and water began to overflow and fall onto the tiled flooring. He grunted and stormed out of the bathroom, an action I couldn’t blame him for (but at least he could’ve washed his hands afterwards in my humble opinion). The water slowly seeped into my stall, sending me into a panic to finish my deed and jump off the pot myself.

 

While scrambling to get my things together and return to work before the flood of water outlined the reach of my shoes, a revelation came to me. How many times has this happened to people just like me, not this exact incident perhaps, but occasions where people enter a bathroom only to be blown away by what lied in front of them? It happens all the time I concluded, and it’s a situation people can really relate too.

 

My mind started flowing rapidly with stories throughout my life that I had experienced or heard where something wild and outrageous happened during a trip to the bathroom. There were so many, most of which people wouldn’t dare talk about in the public sphere, but deep down in the darkest parts of their sick little minds, would secretly love to hear.

 

Some nights later, I picked up a book on how to write screenplays. I was on to something, something really good. I breezed through the book, picking up on the storytelling techniques and screen writing formats as if they were second nature. I was ready. I opened up my computer, and began writing, and didn’t stop.

 

The words were placed on the paper draft as if they were diarrhea; they just didn’t stop flowing! The more I wrote, the more the storyline and characters seemed to develop clearer inside my head. There was no guarantee that people would like it, and even a lower probability that it would ever be made into a movie, but as long as the ideas kept pouring out of my brain, it was my duty to put them to paper and release my vision to the world, and now after over two years of writing, editing, and rewriting several times, I eventually produced a product ready to send out to the masses.

 

The story centers around two police officers, one, a rookie cop named Jones who is full of potential, but still has a lot to learn about the force. The other, Jackson, a washed up loser, was once the premiere detective of the local police squad before tragedy struck him and his family. Now he’s been given a second chance to put his life back together and mentor his young apprentice. Through their pursuit of a vicious cat burglar terrorizing the neighborhood, the two work and grow together, forming an unforgettable bond to catch this relentless villain, who leaves behind no evidence except for a single calling card; a giant mess at the bottom of the toilet for his victims to discover, leaving them overcome with fright and quivering in fear.

 

As these cases increase in their frequency, the public’s concern grows, to the point where people contemplate even entering their own bathroom, and parent’s worry that their child’s next bathroom visit could be there last, as the horror of such a monstrous scene would haunt them for the rest of their short lives. Jackson and Jones must do everything they can to catch the perpetrator before it’s too late and the town is left in a giant heap of waste, getting themselves into a couple sticky situations along the way, some of which nearly cost them their jobs, and their lives.

 

All the while, Jackson must prevent his protégé, Jones, who is eerily following in the same footsteps of his shaky past, from self-destruction; one that the turd burglar, whom we eventually find to have a close connection with Jackson, is all too eager to see through.

 

Apart from a fanfare of dirty tricks, silly jokes, and outlandish situations that the two heroes find themselves constantly tangled in, “Turd Burglars” in the end is a story of good vs. evil, friendship, and learning how to cope with the demons that hold us back and prevent us from moving on. Set in the 1980’s suburban dreamscape, “Turd Burglars” places normal people looking for their shot at the American Dream up against an out of this world villain for an epic showdown you’ll have to see to believe…

 

So if you’re interested in reading my story, or even getting a large group together and doing a screen reading, I’d love to share it and get your thoughts on what you think of it or how it could possibly be better. Even with such an unconventional subject matter that’ll leave the purest of hearts shying away, it’s something I’m actually really proud of and that I think people would really enjoy. I mean, how many people do you know that can say they’ve wrote a screenplay? It actually takes a lot of work coming up with a complete, full-length story. But now, it’s finally complete, and hey, maybe if enough people show interest, we can make a movie! That would be a dream come true.

 

But until that day comes, let me know if you’re interested, and I can send you a copy, and if we get enough people involved, we can turn this dream into a reality. Let’s make this happen!

Enjoy!

 

Grizzly Chadams

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Jay

 There are very few moments in my life where I have been literally left at a loss of words.  No matter how much I try to think and decipher some explanation of why things happen the way they do, nothing comes out.  Two weeks ago, during what seemed to be just an ordinary Saturday spent at the bar with a couple friends, that feeling snuck up and smacked me like a 2×4 to the face.  It was on that that first day in March, when we learned that our great friend, a friend who we considered our brother, Jordan Webber, was taken from us.

 

I sat for hours trying to put words onto paper, but all I could do was look at a blank screen.  I just couldn’t find any sort of clarity in this situation.  I even ran 9 miles in the pouring rain in an attempt to clear my mind, but no matter what or how hard I tried, nothing seemed to work.  I was in utter shock and disbelief that he was gone, just like that.

 

How was I supposed to find some understanding in all of this?  It was supposed to be another typical Saturday night, where I had just finished working on a silly blog post about my screenplay I had finally completed, and was on my way to celebrate my friend’s birthday.  Even coming home from work that afternoon, a thought passed through my mind.  “What if I just got smacked by a car and that was it for me?”  It was a thought I quickly dismissed as highly improbable.  Jay passing away however, that was one of the furthest things from my mind.

 

That next week was a bit of a struggle for me, as I’m sure was the case for many others, especially as I tried to find the correct words to write so I could properly pay tribute to our fallen comrade.  The meaning of life was on my mind constantly, what Jay’s life meant to us, and what I was meant to do with mine, let alone trying to wrap my head around the fact that I would never be able to see him ever again.  The following weekend however, after spending a week in Boise with some close friends of his, it started to become apparent what his time on this Earth represented, and what I would write.

 

It was the summer of 2002 when I had my first encounter with Jay.  We were part of a church group on our way to Whitefish, Montana to help a local Presbyterian Church lead a vacation bible school program, one of which my pastor had pressured me into volunteering.  I was pretty sore about the whole thing, for Pastor Tom was very adamant about me coming along, giving me the impression that I would be going to hell if I didn’t.  Therefore, I reluctantly agreed and prepared myself for a week of pure torture and agony.

 

It was about an hour into the trip, and I was just sitting by myself near the front of the 16-passenger Congo-Pres church van minding my own business, probably listening to one of my many burned mix CD’s.  I was thinking about the usual mid-day pit stop in Kellogg, Idaho, looking forward to the moment when I could indulge myself in the ecstasy of devouring a Quarter Pounder with Cheese when I heard the sound of chuckling coming from the back.  I turned around to find out what the commotion was; a group of young teenagers by the names of Collin, Nate, Nick and Tay were fixated on this 14-year-old kid with wavy blond hair.  They huddled around, totally drawn into a story being told with expert precision, which included a signature brush of the hair and explosive hand motions.  This kid was a natural, knowing the correct times to pause, when to emphasize, and how to use simple body gestures to propel the story into new and exciting directions.  I resisted at first, but it didn’t take me long until I became intrigued as well.

 

“My dad took a puff of the Cuban and handed it right over to me, ‘POOF’ (he was never shy about using sound effects, a common Jay storytelling trademark) and said ‘This is disgusting, here you go Jordan.’”

 

“Who the hell is this kid?” I thought to myself.  “Is he really talking about smoking a cigar on a church trip, while Pastor Tom is driving, sitting next to his kids?  Let alone a Cuban!”  I could just see Pastor Tom stopping each of us individually later into the trip to have that uncomfortable conversation; the one where they have to tell you they’re concerned about you spending time with your friend that’s a trouble maker and what you’re supposed to do if they start acting up (the correct answer was always tattle), such as throwing around some swears or dabbling in some hard drugs.  In fact, I was dreading it horribly, for it was the same type of lecture I’d get from my mother whenever I’d spend the night at Austin Moody’s house.  What can I say?  I get a little anxious about confrontational situations.  I really do.

 

I nervously looked back to see if I could get a glance at Pastor Tom’s demeanor through my peripherals.  I slowly positioned my head where I could look at him without it looking like I was looking at him, if that makes sense.  Looking through the rearview mirror of the car, I saw a slightly tilted profile view of Pastor Tom chuckling in his seat with a huge smile on his face.  I was in total disbelief!  I could never get away with anything like that, and even if I did, my parents would find out somehow or another, resulting in one of those “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed,” types of talks.  I quickly dismissed the thought as he continued with the story, for within a minute, he had the whole van gut-rolling as he went forth into a wild tangent.

 

The Cuban Cigar incident was only the tip of the iceberg, for that trip was filled with many more episodes that included rockin’ out to Styx with Pastor Tom, exploring Glacier National Park and seeing a grizzly bear (Which Pastor Tom was so excited about, he based his next sermon off of), and this stupid Organ with a pre-recorded track that him, Tay and Nate Jasper kept turning on full blast when the rest of us were trying to take a nap.  I remember four times in a row, I was on the verge of taking that plunge into a perfect sleep, when a “BUM, BA DA DUM DUM” would ring through the room over and over again followed by a bunch of giggling and thumps from the three of them running away.  God that pissed me off.

 

Sometime near the end of that trip however, Jay turned to us all and said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind staying another week.”  I believe he said it during an excursion through town, sometime between the incident where we tricked Tay into using the bathroom of this local bar to confirm a rumor that it was plastered with pictures of naked girls (it was) and going into a store where we bought fireworks from this girl with hairy pits, nearly making Jay throw up in his mouth.  No matter the time he said it though, the important thing is that we unanimously agreed.  That Whitefish trip actually turned about to be one of the best trips I’d ever gone on, despite my initial doubts, and little did I know that a measly story about a kid smoking a Cuban with his pops would spark a friendship with one of the most fun and good-natured people I’d ever meet, and in turn spur more tales equally as epic as the ones we had just created in Whitefish.  I lost count of how many times Whitefish got brought up during a conversation over a drink at the bar, on a drive from Lewiston to Moscow, or while we were hanging out at his apartment.  Maybe Pastor Tom had this grand plan set in motion all along for me to meet and befriend Jay?  He always had the tendency of plottin’ and schemin’ on the low like that.

 

A few years later he started to attend the University of Idaho, where it didn’t take long for Jay’s presence to be known throughout the campus.  Between the years of 2006 and 2011, you were bound to have an encounter with Jay, whether it was between class, at his job at the Kibbie Dome, at the bar, or a house party, for better or worse.  It was here where his personality fully blossomed, and when the weekend arrived, we would gather around with delight whenever he’d walk through the door.  After joining in a boisterous song and dance to get pumped up for the night (usually to classic groups such as “Men at Work),” innocent bystanders were warned by our waning voices traveling about the town, your night would not be dull.

 

I always got a kick out of how many people he could convince that he was a heroin addict after he showed them a punctured skin mark on his arm from a recent trip to the blood donation center.  “I just shot up a few hours ago, stuck the needle right in my arm, ‘POOF,’ Pulp Fiction style!”  A wide-eyed look mixed with a wringing sensation of fear was the typical natural response.

 

There was even a string of months where he started rocking a necklace with a cross and convinced a quarter of the student population that he was a member of the Irish Republican Army.  “I just set up a couple of car bombs next to the SUB,” which was followed by a few laughs from the poor souls he was telling.  “I’m not laughin’,” he would then say with a straight face.  That got them shuttin’ up real quick.  I think he told that story so much that he eventually convinced himself that he actually was a member, but it could’ve been that he simply enjoyed the combination of Guinness, Irish Whiskey and Bailey’s instead.

 

And then there was the infamous Cinco, Bill, Tay and Jay’s apartment located on Taylor Street next to a big field that separated the street from U of I’s Greek Row.  How do you describe a place like Cinco, and how do you serve its justice for the people who lived there and helped create the legendary establishment?  The answer is, you can’t, but I’m going to try anyway.

 

Every weekend, we would all converge to that vortex of calamity where Jay would invite us into his home.  There we would plan our strategy to attack the town, usually with the help of our two favorite weapons, Keystone Light and Montego Bay at our arsenal.  It seemed like it was at least twice a month we would find some new way to piss off his downstairs neighbor, the one who apparently “ran” the city of Moscow while living in his piece of crap apartment.  If something broke, Jay would run over and break it some more, leaving the culprit at ease of his crime.  If someone was too loud, Jay would become louder so they wouldn’t get the blame.  And one way or another, after we blanketed the citizenry of Moscow with shear terror, we always found ourselves back where we started.  Cinco.

 

And they never complained once about me passing out on the couch after a night on the town, which I took advantage of many a time.  Once on a cold and dreary day in October after everyone had retired to their chambers from a typical Saturday night, Jimmy Dawson and I were left in the living room between a couch, a TV, and a newly acquired Xbox 360.  “Let’s play a couple rounds of Halo before we hit the hay,” I suggested, in which he foolishly agreed.  A few rounds turned into a few more and a few more, at least I think.  I mean, it was a bit of a blur after we started playing.  What I do remember however, was at some point during the night, Jay came out of his room to grab some water and bumped the trashcan over, sending its contents scattered across the floor.  He ignored it and went back inside his room, but not before tipping over a mini-fridge in the process.  Now that I think about it, he may have pushed it over, or even thrown it, I can’t quite recall exactly, but the important thing is, it ended up on the ground.  By the end of that night, the floor was totally covered in clothes, trash, beer cans, and bits and pieces of leftover food; and when I say covered, I mean every square inch of carpet.  That floor could not be seen with the naked eye.  Only a few seconds was awarded from us to observe the wreckage.

 

Suddenly, a jolt of energy rushed through Jimmy’s nervous system.  He jumped out of his seat, for a pivotal revelation had just struck him.  “Dude, it’s 6 in the morning, we better stop playing and go to bed!”  Man that kid can be a buzz kill sometimes, but I guess he had a point.  We started to shut it down, and then it hit me.

 

“Wait… it’s daylight savings time.  We still have another hour to play!”

 

4 hours later, Bill came out of his bedroom, totally petrified at the madness that was laid out before him.  “Oh.  My.  God…” were the only words that he could muster as he stared at two zombies, skin pale as a vampire’s with bloodshot eyes looking back at him in an apartment that mimicked a war zone.  He slowly retreated back into his room.  No sudden movements.  That was the last time we saw Bill that weekend.

 

And that was just one meager sliver of the stories that came out of that place.  There are literally thousands of other stories that are on the same level or above, such as the time where Kim Hoppe was locked in the bathroom, sick and scared out of her mind, until Jay and Jess Sanden busted down the door into a thousand pieces just to save her.  Or when Collin Morlock accidently pushed a chair over the balcony and onto his downstairs neighbor’s car, the same one who “ran” the city of Moscow.  I don’t know how Jay talked himself out of that one.  Ask any one of us that were around during that period of time, and each of us would have our own unique story that would equal the one told by our peers.  That place will always have a soft spot deep in our hearts, no matter how disgusting it became.  I hope that sinkhole in the middle of the living room will remain for generations, as a monument for Cinco’s existence.

 

The day after a hard night of partying on the town, when our minds were clear from the toxins we had consumed and our stomachs (somewhat) settled, Jay and I somehow always found ourselves at Wheatberries, the local Moscow bakery trying to piece together what exactly happened the night before, the trouble we narrowly averted, and which person Mike threatened to beat the crap out of.  After a while, it seemed as if walking to Wheatberries and discussing the events of the night prior (or at least the parts we remembered) became our unofficial weekend tradition.

 

And whenever I think about Jay, the very first thought that pops in my head is sharing a Panini at brunch while conversing over a range of topics, sometimes getting rather deep with our knowledge and thoughts on life.  It’s funny how I look back and realize a favorite memory of somebody doesn’t have to be an outrageous stunt they pulled, but rather a simple and unscripted moment of companionship that brought a little contentment into our lives.  It was during those times when our friendship really developed and we got to know each other on a personal level, and I found out first hand how down to Earth, witty, and honest Jay really was, and how lucky I was to call him my friend.

 

There was even one time where Brian Gill and I joined him for brunch at Casa de Lopez, the popular Moscow Mexican joint smack dab in the middle of Main Street.  The waitress came out, took one look at us, and immediately turned back inside.  A minute later, she showed up with three full 64-ounce pitchers in her hands for each of us.  No words needed to be said.  It was that kind of night.

 

If one of us were in trouble, or had screwed the pooch big time, Jay would be one of the first one’s there to take care of us, whether we were in the right or wrong.  If a friend went to jail, he’d be waiting there, money in hand to bail them out (That actually happened once, not to me, but no need to get into details at this time).  If there were signs of hooliganism that could potentially lead to a hefty citation, he’d show up the next day ready to cover up the evidence.  There was never any hesitation inside of him when the opportunity came about to help a friend.  Once, during a classic Northwest snowstorm, he climbed halfway out of the car window and spent almost an hour brushing off the oncoming snow from the windshield so Mike Gibson could have a few more angles of visibility while driving across Snowqualmie pass; and all so they could meet me for a Seahawks game the next day (Mike Holmgren’s last home game to be exact).  It was just after 2 AM when they finally reached my house, when nearly 2 feet of snow had been dumped on the city of Seattle.  They were the second to last car to make it across the pass that night before the Washington Department of Transportation shut it down.

 

This last summer, what seemed to be out of nowhere, a thought popped into my head.  “Hey, I need to go visit Mike and Jay in Boise for the 4th of July.”  I may never know exactly what supernatural powers were at work that compelled me to go, but it had been ages since I’d seen them, and it would be my first time ever visiting Boise after 20 years of living just west of the Idaho border.  Now that I look back, I’m so glad that I was able to make that trip, even if I didn’t fully appreciate or understand it at the time.  I mean, being reacquainted with that signature 110-degree Idaho summer heat wasn’t exactly the best first impression of Boise (and to think I missed that about Idaho?).  Sleeping out in Mike and Jay’s shed that evening turned out not to be a very good idea either.  They both felt pretty bad the next morning when I left the hotbox looking as if I had just taken a dip in the lake.  Jay immediately sacrificed his bed for the rest of my stay so that I could sleep in comfort and wouldn’t let me change his mind otherwise, no matter how much I protested.

 

A couple of days later, the 4th of July had arrived, and the night before, in our typical fashion, Mike and I had stayed up a little too late, reuniting with old friends, meeting some new ones, and sharing stories of the past, Jay’s antics being the main theme for most of them.  And during that time, we might have had a couple of drinks, but whatever.  I woke up that day a little dazed, but ready to do my patriotic duty and celebrate our nation’s birthday.  Mike on the other hand was a different story.  He was totally passed out, with little hope of ever regaining consciousness.

 

Now anybody who knows Mike understands how much he likes to take advantage of his sleep, but it was now 4 in the afternoon, and Mike was still sound asleep, with no sign of waking up, not even for the end of the world!  Now me, I don’t like to disturb somebody while they’re deep in a slumber, let alone barge into their room when the door’s closed.  But this was the 4th of July of Christ Sakes, and there was over $150 of primetime fireworks bundled up in that room!  Something had to be done.  I was not going to let a bunch of illegal fireworks along with my favorite holiday go to waste.

 

Jay first scouted out the situation, providing me a thorough brief of the fireworks’ location inside the fortress that was Mike’s room.  It was up to me now to complete the rest of the mission without disturbing Mike of his much needed rest.  I cracked the door open to scope out the area myself.  All that was visible was Mike sprawled out on top of the bed in nothing but his underpants.  I barely lasted a second before I shut the door and retreated to my post.

 

“Jay, I’m scared, I don’t want to do this,” I pleaded with him.  “What if I wake him up?  He’s gonna kill me!”

 

“Those are your fireworks, man.  Go get em’,” he said back.  He had a point.  This was my task, and mine alone to see through.  I needed to man up, walk in that room, claim what was rightfully mine, and then simply walk out.  Easy.

 

Attempt number two:  I opened the door and took a step.  I tried to ignore Mike and shoot straight for the fireworks…  I turned my head.  I couldn’t take my eyes off him…  I froze.  Visions of Mike ripping me apart clouded my head.  Waking up with a cold dead stare straight through my trembling skull, fuming with a raging fury right before the kill.  I panicked, and fled the scene, yet again.

 

“I can’t do it Jay, I just can’t do it!  The fireworks are gone.  Forever!”

 

“Don’t be such a sissy!” he shot back.  “Walk in there, get your damn fireworks, and walk right out.  That’s all you need to do.”  This was my final shot, or it was so long 4th of July.  So I regained my composure, took a deep breath and creaked the door open, stepping back inside enemy territory to reclaim my prize.

 

I tiptoed through his room, careful not to make a single noise.  My heart raced, beating faster than a cheetah, every slight rustle intensifying the state of terror, but I pressed forward.  My eyes were locked into the target.  Nothing could stop me now.

 

After an agonizing minute of sneaking around, I had finally reached the fireworks.  Grab them too quick, and you run the risk of making too much noise.  Too slow, and your hands start to get sweaty, causing the bag to fall from your hand, making even more noise.  I had to wait for the opportune moment to make my move.  Another sound of rustling echoed through the room.  This was it; now or never.

 

I snatched the stash from his floor.  Due to the sheer number of fireworks in my possession, carrying them out with precision turned out to be quite difficult, especially when you’re trying to avoid waking a sleeping giant.  But nevertheless, I already began my task.  No turning back now.

 

I was half way out of the room, my palms becoming more and more clammy with each step I took, but still doing everything I could to retreat from the room with ease.  A bag started to slip from my hand.  I repositioned my grip, but not before a bag smacked against the bed frame.  Violent shifting came from the bed, and I held my breath not to make another sound.  Pressure was building throughout my body, my face turning beat red.  I was almost out of there, but I couldn’t quite hold it in.  It was too intense.  I had to release…  I…  I…

 

I snickered.

 

“WHAT THE $@&#!!!!”  That scream bellowed through the house as I booked it out of there like a bat out of Hell.  I bolted passed Jay and Meredith.  Mike followed closely in hot pursuit in nothing but his undies.  This was a life and death situation, or at least I was in danger of a severe ass beating.

 

I reached the front door, fireworks in hand before dropping into the fetal position while giggling my brains out, somehow finding humor in the fact that I was going to get the crap kicked out of me.  I assumed the position to receive the pounding, for it didn’t much matter to me at this point.  He cocked back for a massive blow, the first of many of its kind.  But then he took a good look at me, sitting there, completely helpless and innocent looking.  A sudden wave of compassion miraculously struck through his enraged body.  There was no way he could knock my lights out, at least not here, not now.  He came down with his right with maximum velocity, but stopped short of my shoulder.  He gave me a love tap and shook his head, with a little bit of a chuckle afterwards.  I’ll remember that day for years to come, and praise God for sparing me of a brutal clobbering.

 

I left Mike and Jay that summer thankful for the time I got to spend with them, but also with the knowledge that it may be a long time before we ever get to see each other again.  As we grow older, we often have to leave our comfort zones and embark on our own journeys.  For many of us, that meant leaving Moscow, away from our friends and family to live our lives as we were called upon, breaking away from the flock that had steered us for so many years.  But a few months after the firework incident on a pleasantly cool mid-November evening in the Lewis-Clark valley, after what may have been years since some of us left that stretch of land in Idaho commonly known as the panhandle, we all reunited under one roof to celebrate the marriage of our friends Jill and Brian Gill.  And celebrate we did.  We laughed and danced (quite foolishly at times) the night away as we congratulated Jill and Brian on their newly formed union.  Although it had been years since some of us had seen each other, it seemed like it had only been yesterday since we were in each other’s presence.

 

That night really sticks out to me, especially after having one of my many conversations with Mike after Jay’s passing.  He mentioned how Jay was much more than a friend to us, that he was our brother, who we had laughed, fought, cried, celebrated, and grew close with throughout our lives and especially our careers as college students.  At a time where we struggle to find our independence, identity, and grasp of adulthood, having people like Jay in our lives proved to be essential in making it out in one piece.  That’s what made that night so special, and that group of people gathered together so remarkable.  Over the last six years, we had grown up together, had experienced so much and shared so many different emotions, that we were more than just a group of friends who knew how to have a good time.  We were a family.  One of which was so unique and unbelievably amazing, that no matter how far and wide you traveled, it would be impossible to find a group of people that could replicate, or even come close to what we had in that small town of Idaho, where I consider it both a blessing and a miracle that we all happened to converge on that part of the world during that short window of time; a window of time that I would never trade anything in the world, a sentiment that all of us would not hesitate to share.

 

Jay was central to that, and without him, I don’t think we would have had the same experience and built the same relationships as we did during those years in Moscow.  Jill and Brian’s wedding was the last time most of us got to see him, but perhaps the first that we saw him as a mature adult, grown into a man with purpose and resolve.  In a way, that evening summarized the last six years we spent together, the end of an era, one that Jay was instrumental in creating, and one that I will forever be grateful that I could be a part of.

 

I think it had to be the weekend after his death, with many of his close friends together paying our respects, when I really started to realize what Jay’s life meant to us.  For hours, we gathered around his kitchen and shared are favorite stories of Jay, each one just as funny and outrageous as the last.  We couldn’t stop.  Throughout that whole weekend, Jay stories kept popping up, and even as emotional as that weekend was, Jay was still making us laugh, as if his spirit was still present and working through each of us to bring us comfort in a time of suffering.

 

And for the very first time, it became abundantly clear to me how one person’s simple presence can be such a tremendous influence on one’s life.  Whether we were out and about on a Friday, or sitting down having a heart to heart, Jay’s presence always brought us joy, and the fact that we could share so many heartfelt memories of him and not even scratch the surface of what is the massive mountain of Jay stories alone brings testament of how incredibly special that man really was.  Not only to us as a whole, but to each of us individually.  He loved all of us like we were his brother, and touched us all in his own distinct way.  Ways that we could never forget and will positively impact us for as long as we live.

 

And if we stop and think every now and then, we realize that we all have people like Jay in our lives.  People whose presence makes life worth living.  It could be a family member, a significant other, kids, a spiritual leader, or a great friend; just them being in our lives motivates us to get up and make an impact on the world.  Even the amazing people I have met during my life that I rarely get to see, or may never see ever again, the fact that they exist, fighting the good fight for what they believe brings me inspiration.  Those are the type of people that mean the world to us, and make it a livable place.  With each word I write, every important choice I make, I will think of think of them and whether they would be proud, whether they would be honored, and whether it would bring me a step closer to being the great person Jay was, so maybe someday I can make a difference in people’s lives the same way he made that difference in ours.

 

It’s times like these, as we mourn for the loss of one of our brothers, we need to be surrounded by those types of people, and become that type of person when the duty calls.  We feel hopeless during these occasions when tragedy strikes us, especially when it creeps up on us so unfairly.  And most of the time, I, as I’m sure is the case with many of us, don’t ever have the words to explain.  We have trouble finding the right thing to say that will bring consolation to such a dire situation, or haven’t the slightest idea of how to respond to grief.  But by merely being that loving presence in each other’s lives sends a stronger message than any combination of words could ever deliver.

 

The simplest of actions, a hug, visit, or just being present so a close friend can look you in the eye can make a world of difference.  It gives them a mutual understanding that you’re in this together.  That you will struggle, cry on each other’s shoulders, and grieve as you try to find the answers of why things are the way they are.  But in the end, for as long as it takes, you will be by their side, through the good times and the bad, to pick them up when they’re down, to stand by them when it seems the whole world is against them, to be that special presence in their life that makes life worth living.  To be the type of person that Jay was to us.

 

For a long time, I will struggle with the reasons why Jay was taken from us at such an early age.  I may never know that reason, but I will be always grateful for having the privilege of calling Jay my friend, for the type of person he was, the lessons we learned together, and the wonderful memories he has engrained in our minds.  Memories that bring warmth to our hearts, such as the times he would yell “GO HOME, GO TO BED,” to the intoxicated hooligans causing a ruckus around the U of I campus, or having a deep conversation while listening to a good jam in the car, ranging from critically acclaimed artists like the Notorious B.I.G., the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s, or Weezer’s “My Name is Jonas” (A song we practiced extensively and mastered on guitar hero), so that whenever I think of him, I begin to laugh instead of cry.  His presence in this world and the mark he left on it will forever be remembered and celebrated, especially through the hearts of his friends.  His spirit will survive through each one of us, and we will do our best to keep that spirit alive, to bring his excitement and joy to all the new faces we will encounter in our lifetime.  The way Jay would want us to.

 

It breaks my heart that we have to say goodbye, but I have this strong feeling that this is not the end, that there will be a day that you will greet me once more with a giant hug and a celebratory shot, the same exact way you did whenever I’d step through the door at Cinco after a long and arduous week of anticipation.  We may have to wait a little longer this time, but when that time comes, we will party harder than we ever could have imagined during our prime in Moscow…  We’ll throw the ultimate Boy’s Club Prom.

 

Until we are reunited once again, may your soul be at peace, and may you watch over us until the time has come where we are together once again.

 

I will see you again, Jordan.  Our friend.  Our brother.

 

But not yet…

 

Image

Jay + Friends.  One of my favorite pictures with him.

 

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President’s Day is Coming…

It was nearly a year ago to this day when it all happened.  Sometimes, I wish I could forget, but turning a blind eye would be a treasonous stab in the back for the good of humanity.  It was my duty to remember and protect, for aside from my desires, an event like that leaves a permanent scar in one’s mind, to the extent where every aspect of that infamous battle can be recalled so clearly, so vividly, as if it were only yesterday.

 

I’m not proud of many of the choices that were forced upon me during that weekend excursion to the winter wonderland village located in the Northern Idaho wilderness, but choices were made to defend the honor of my family name, to send a message…  That we won’t be pushed around, that we will stand and defend what is rightfully ours.  No matter the cost.

 

It began with myself and sir Coby of Sammamish crossing the treacherous Cascade Mountain Range, a route of which many had fallen before us.  As for experienced riders in our native land however, the advanced trek was completed with relative ease.  All the while, our warrior cry, a compilation of songs in the form of the Pink Floyd album “Animals,” echoed through the passing townships.   We made our presence known to it’s dwellers loud and clear; that we mean no harm, and bring nothing but respect to their people, but any unnecessary inconvenience may result in calamitous consequence.

 

That night I reunited with my clan in the Dischman Micca Territories, just outside the borders of the Spokane Valley.  They are proud decedents of the Scotts and Germans, and it had been more than a month since our last meeting, a month that seemed to last for ages.  Although the reunion was joyful, it was short lived.  Our journey was far from over, for we would soon venture north, close to the borders of the great wall that separates us from our Canadian brethren.  A mountain village they call Schweitzer, located in the heart of the Bitterroot Mountain range.

 

Upon our arrival, we expected a modest cabin that would provide the basic necessities of shelter.  I stepped out of our vehicle, jaw dropped, eyes widened.  The shelter that was given to us for the weekend of the Presidents wasn’t a cabin at all; it was a royal palace.  3 stories carved out of the finest logs found in the Pacific Northwest consisting of limitless luxuries, easy access to the village’s amenities, and even a few secret passageways hidden within the structure.  One of these was discovered as I inadvertently leaned on a false wall on the bottom level of the palace.  “Is this a dungeon,” I thought to myself as I stumbled into the shallow opening.  It had to be.  But when I found a source of light, it was suddenly revealed that I was standing in a fully furnished liquor room stocked with the finest wines and spirits collected from many a great lands stretching from the vast corners of the world.  It was a personal treasure cove, but one of which I could not plunder, no matter how much temptation urged me to do so.  I would guard this fortune with all my might until its rightful owners returned.

 

I sealed the entrance to the secret liquor room and made my way up the wood polished staircase past the big screen TV equipped with a satellite dish.  My mother was busy cooking us a Fazarri’s pizza dinner (half Shotsy, half Panther) in the state of the art kitchen located on the middle level, where you take a step and immediately feel a warm sensation underneath your toes from the heated flat-stoned floors.  Although I have some culinary experience with select dishes, I calculated that my skills could be of use elsewhere by shoveling the outside walkway and upper decks.  After a visit to the storage shed to grab the necessary equipment underneath the guest apartment, I set foot on the deck to begin work, but only I couldn’t find the strength to move a single muscle. 

 

I looked outward at the setting sun over a dazzling view of the Bitterroots.  I was able to see as far North as Canada, and west to the Montana border.  But perhaps the greatest sight of all was that of Schweitzer Mountain itself, covered in a fresh blanket of snow; all for us it indulge in, to carve in the unsullied powder on our mountain equipment, as if we were creating our own personal masterpiece in nature’s backyard.  An art that only the creator could truly appreciate… and would to its fullest extend.   As the oldest male figure present in my family, I saw a mountain wanting to be ruled by a fearless leader, endless valleys looking to be discovered, and masses of land begging to be conquered.   The mountain was mine, and mine for the taking.  Nobody could stand in my way…

 

I’ll never forget the moment I saw his face.  Just when I had my mind settled for a peaceful takeover, on the brink of a world finally at ease, that menacing figure appeared before my eyes.  He stepped out of my sister’s car and delivered a disturbing smile, letting me know immediately that he meant to take over my standing as king of the mountain.  He was nothing but trouble. 

 

Thomas was his name, but it could’ve been easily mistaken for Lucifer, for this little 5 year old had all the signs of being the spawn of Satan.  Hell, anything closer and he might as well had horns growing out of his head!  We stared each other down until he dared to utter a sentence that sent chills down my spine.  “Snowboarders are weird,” he said to me.  How in the world did he know I was a snowboarder?  And to speak to me first, let alone insult me, in my kingdom?  This was setting the stage for a showdown of epic proportions, where I feared that no side would favor in the end, no matter the victor.

 

From the get go he wasted no time finding unique ways to push our buttons.  Whether it be pranks, insults, or genuine bratty behavior, the boy had the energy of a Jackrabbit during hopped up on steroids and wasn’t showing any signs of slowing.  He begged me to perform a number of wrestling moves on him, which I fervently resisted.  He was relentless however with constant nags and physical abuse.  I couldn’t give in…  That’s exactly what he wanted me to do.  But a wild swing a little too close to the family jewels- that crossed the line.   He wasn’t getting away with that one.

 

I snatched him off the floor, flipping him up over my head so he could peer into my eyes with everlasting regret before I pulled off the finisher.  I threw him down with debilitating force on his back and onto the bed.  The Jack Knife Powerbomb, a move engineered to deliver a maximum amount of pain to one’s backside, made popular by wrestling legend’s Kevin Nash and Scott Hall.  Thomas bounced a foot off the bed, busting his knee during the second landing.  A soft cry was heard from the kitchen, causing my mother to intervene.  And of course, I got slammed with a lecture about how I should be more careful, and no more roughhousing, yadi yadi yada.  Thomas however had planned the whole thing out, and his little experiment had paid off.  He had turned me into the bad guy within a matter seconds, and there was no way he was getting in trouble this weekend.  Not from my mother, my sister, and certainly not from me, unless I was willing to accept a severe punishment.  Another ugly grin grew across his face.  This was far from over.

 

That was child’s play compared to his next discovery.  Thomas had found his way into the palace’s arsenal, stocked plentiful with Nerf guns and ammo.  Excitement grew on his face equivalent to that of 5 red bulls being shot gunned at once.  His energy level became too high and powerful to control, even with the copious amounts of mead I consumed during the process.  I couldn’t hold a conversation, relax, or watch Downton Abby with my mother without being pelted multiple times by a string of bullets.  I couldn’t endure the attack much longer.  It had to come to an end.

 

I retreated to the outer boundaries in shame, for the devil himself, Thomas, had overtaken my keep.  It was a devastating blow, one of which I feared there was little recovery, but I was determined.  The battle may have been lost, but the war was far from over.  By weekend’s end, I would retain the throne that was rightfully mine.  I just needed a plan…

 

I set up a secret meeting with my sister, Lady Emily and Sir Coby of Sammamish.  The task I asked of them was arduous, but it had to be done.  I knew they could perform it, even if it meant having to endure a night of suffrage.  I instructed them to take Thomas back to their quarters where he could celebrate his victory with hours of playing the Nintendo Wii, all the while providing him an endless supply of candy and soda.  They would keep him up as long as they could, for the following day would be the true testimony for all visiting the mountain resort if Thomas could handle the title of king for a day.

 

I met my comrades at the resort the next day, both deprived of much needed rest.  I didn’t want to know the horrific details, but as time passed, I could tell they had completed their mission to task, draining Thomas of any stamina that had been built up prior to last night’s hooligans.  It was barely our first run when the complaints about the cold set in, or how he just wanted to go back to the house to play with his Wii.  It was going to be a very long day for our buddy Thomas.

 

“Skiers are better than snowboarders,” he would you say, and remind me with taunts of similar fashion.  “Skiers better than snowboarders?  We’ll put that statement to the test,” I told myself as we made our way towards the South Bowl Chutes, a double black diamond run consisting of steep terrain, sudden cliffs, and walls of trees that only the most experienced riders can maneuver successfully.  “You think you’re so hot Thomas?  Prove it.”

 

He looked down at the drop, quivering in fear.  Pressure came from all fronts.  “C’mon Thomas,” screamed Coby waiting behind him, growing frustrated as precious minutes of skiing and exploration were wasted away at Thomas’s hesitation.  Maive, Thomas’s older sister by two years stood at the bottom of the run hurling insults to her brother shaking in his ski boots, as any good sister would do.  “Nananan boo boo, Thomas is a scaredy cat,” she kept teasing.  That was the final straw. There was no way he was going to let her bruise his ego like that.  It was go time.

 

He took a step and descended upon the bowl.  He gained speed; too much speed.  In a panic, he turned his body to stop, hockey style, but his little legs couldn’t handle the initial velocity after the drop in.  He caught an edge and flew, landing smack dab on his face.  Down the mountain he went, screaming head first for help along the way, but with no way to stop.  There was nothing anybody could, so we watched as he ate it down the double black diamond, all the while Thomas watched a tunnel of white light appear with a golden gate far in the distance.  After a while, all that was visible was a dust cloud of snow descending down the mountain at an exponential rate, with the occasional ski accessory, whether it be a glove, pair of goggles, boot, or even the skis themselves fly through the air.

 

After it was all said and done, It had been a minute long wipe-out where he had slid on his face down ¾’s of the run, lost both of his skis, and was left in a pool of tears as if he had just broken every bone in his body (Which he didn’t.  Kid’s always like to pull that bull crap, making their pain seem way worse than it actually is.).  Lady Emily ran to his aide, for any injury to her employer’s children could prove to be costly.  Maive stood at the bottom, laughing so hard that she could hardly control her bladder.  Sir Coby gathered the equipment that had been scattered across the run, or at least what was left after the carnage, which was an amazing feat considering the tumble.  I watched in the distance as Thomas sat in humiliation.  We made eye contact, only for a second, for he quickly looked away in disgrace the second he realized my stare.  But I continued to glare, gazing into the pathetic and disoriented figure.  “Skiers better than snowboarders???  I put that statement to the test.”

 

Lunchtime had arrived, and we settled to a little dining table we had claimed.  Snacks had been prepared to appease our appetites, for the traders at the mountain food market were known to swindle you for a few extra bucks when they could.  In front of Thomas sat his lunch, a hot, fresh “cup of noodles.”  He kept begging for candy, but my sister was much too wise to give in until he had finished lunch.  So he sat, playing with his food, swirling it around in the cup, staring at it, doing everything he could with his lunch except for consuming it, delaying the inevitable, and complaining every step of the way.

 

This process continued for well over 10 minutes, and several times I watched as he nearly tipped the cup over the edge while sloppily playing around with the prepared dish.  I stuck my hand out a time or two to catch it before it fell, warning Thomas of the disaster waiting to happen if he continued his careless ways.  He didn’t listen, and continued to play with his meal, which was typical of any kid his age.   No more warnings would be given.  He was going to have to learn the hard way.

 

I watched the whole thing go down as if it were happening in slow motion.  Could I have prevented it?  Yea, sure, but nothing was going to convince me of saving him from the tragedy taking place.  Not this time.  He tipped his cup of noodles too far to the edge, and the hot, steaming, contents fell onto his lap, severely scolding his torso.  Slowly, his mouth opened wide, eyes squinted, and two streams of tears dripped down his face, all before he took a deep breath and let out a putter of soft cries that crossed as a cough.

 

Many mothers gathered around to tend to his needs, but not me.  He knew better, and he would receive no sympathy from me.   In his head, he would hope that such an event would receive so much pity that he could go home and play Wii and eat candy without finishing his lunch.  Not a fat chance.  Not as long as I was around.  We still had a long day of skiing ahead of us.

 

A backside run had brought us to the Stella, a 6 six-person high-speed chairlift that controlled the flow of patrons with horserace style gates that opened and closed when it was time for the next group to board.  Little Thomas made his way to the front leaning forward on his poles, eyes barely level with the top of the gates.  His eyes kept wandering, unaware of his surroundings.  By the time he had arrived at the gates, he finally realized they were quickly approaching the vicinity of his face.  He tried to react, but it was too late.

 

BOOM!  The gate fully closed at a fierce speed, but not before striking Thomas right in the nose, an event none of us saw coming.  A gush of blood left his nasal cavity and spilled onto the snow, leaving a trail behind for all to follow.  The lift operators snickered at the sight, unable to contain themselves like the audience members of America’s Funniest Home Videos when a clip of an unsuspecting victim gets smacked in the balls; another black eye to Thomas’s ego.  He shed tears of pain all the way back to the top of the mountain.  I took it as a sign that the snow gods were working in my favor.

 

To add to his distress, a wrong turn left him and Sir Coby stranded past the lodge, leaving the only option of a hike.  Sir Coby was furious, making Thomas carry his skis all he way back up the hill.  By the time they had reached the top, Thomas had nearly collapsed, sending everyone the image of a Vietnam soldier who had just returned to base after an escape from the Hanoi Hilton, where he was brutally tortured for weeks on in.  With a sudden change of luck however, the day was coming to a close, and we were set on retiring to our keeps.  His fate for the rest of the night would be determined by his actions, and his actions alone.

 

Back at the palace, I had made a safe guard of all the Nerf guns in the house, placing them on high ground, where Thomas’s disadvantaged height left the weapons out of his reach.  He was growing ancy, bored out of his mind and suffering from the withdrawals of not being able to play the Nintendo Wii for almost 12 hours.  “Please, can I have the Nerf gun,” he pleaded, desperate for any type of sympathy.  Over and over, I refused, but I had to hand it to him, he was persistent.  He wanted that Nerf Gun, bad.  He needed it, for his own sanity.  Withholding a weapon of that magnitude from a five year old was unbearable torture, worse than any water boarding technique that the Taliban were ever forced to endure.  Eventually, I gave in, for even the greatest of kings can show a hint of compassion from time to time.

 

“Do you give me your word that you will not shoot me, that you will not attack the innocent with this weapon, that you will wield it with honor and use it only when necessary?”

 

“I promise,” he answered.  So I handed him the weapon.  In our family, a promise is held above all else as the most sacred entities one came make with another soul.  A broken promise would not be tolerated in my kingdom, and would result in an unspeakable curse that would plague him for years to come.

 

5 minutes later I was in my quarters rummaging through my goods, and I felt a sudden sting across my back.  I turned and saw a short, devilish figure sending me a smile that screamed of pure evil.  My eyes beamed towards his weak body, a terror released from my pores.  The boy had broken a promise, a sacred bond of trust that we had shared.  This would not let this stand.  Not on my watch.

 

“You’re lucky that God forgives,” I said to him as I cocked my Nerf pistol, fully loaded for an intense battle.  “Because I don’t.”

 

I emptied a full clip of bullets without any sense of mercy to his flailing body.  This was war, and a blind anger possessed me to keep squeezing the trigger, nailing him with every shot.  He fled across the bed, sending blind bullets back my way, but unable to connect, not even a single one.  Both our clips were empty- not a problem for a veteran warrior like myself.  I rapidly reloaded and ruthlessly pressed forward to release havoc on my enemy.  Thomas just squatted in the corner, a small sense of joy still bound up inside of him, for he continued to spill sputters of laughter from his mouth.  It was his only defense.  I ended that real quick.

 

I unloaded another round to his head as the laughs gradually converted to screams the further the massacre dragged on.  My second clip emptied, and my opponent lay, completely helpless.  The lesson had been taught.  He was ready for surrender.

 

“Stop… Please, Stop!”  He continued to plead, but I could not feel any sense of pity at that moment, especially for somebody who had broken such a sacred promise that we had made mere minutes prior.  I loaded up one more round and continuing to pummel his head at point blank range.  He covered himself in the fetal position, assuming defeat.  All of a sudden, the barrage of bullets had stopped.

 

He turned his head and opened an eyelid, a small peak with the mindset that this horrific battle was finally over, and I was gone.  Instead, he set his sights down the barrel of a gun, one Nerf bullet left.  We both waited for a moment, remaining completely still.  Any false movement could result to be detrimental.  He had surrendered, and was left to my mercy.  “I’m sorry,” he uttered, the most sincere apology he had ever given in his entire lifetime, and probably among the most genuine I’ve ever witnessed from one of my opponents.  He had finally realized the error of his ways and was ready to make a statement, for this day was the day that he would change his life for the better, to live with dignity and bring honor to his family name.  I knew it, and he knew it.  Peace could finally be achieved, once and for all…

 

I squeezed the trigger.  POP!  The Nerf bullet left my gun at a high velocity and struck him square in his open eye.  He let out a cry so vicious, so horrendous, that it captured the pain of crashing down a double black diamond, spilling a hot cup of noodles on his lap, being smacked in the nose by a horse chute, and the struggle of a treacherous hike back to the lodge, combined.  He let out screams that no man should ever hear, mimicking those of World War II vets who had nightmares after coming back from the Pacific front.  But I just stood there, emotionless and immune to the pain he was suffering.  I eventually walked away, leaving my rival cobbling in despair.  I would make sure that he’d never forget this night for the rest of his life.  That this is what happens when you mess with Grizzly Chadams; so that every time he saw my face, he would bow down to my reign, for he could not, and would not let any of his family or friends face an ounce of the devastation that he endured during the brutal battle of the Bitterroots.

 

That night, I descended upon the village with Sir Coby and Lady Emily to a vast celebration of our victory; a laser light show featuring a collaboration of selected music from Pink Floyd…  Our battle cry…  Our ancient ancestral song that we traveled with signaling our presence from township to township.  It was a sign, and a tribute… This was our village.  We ruled this land, even if it was only for one weekend out of the year.  So we indulged in our victory with dance and drink, and would remember this day for years to come, a short stint of happiness until our next battle, which very well could be our last.

 

As President’s Day draws near, our enemies grow stronger in numbers, and now, a year wiser, come back to us, thirsty for revenge.  It would be wise never to come back to the small village in the bitterroots, but yet, a sense of duty, of pride, of honor draws us back.  Thomas will surely be edging for another shot at the throne, and I will be there, ready to deliver a deathblow much more stern than the year before.  I do not wish the events to unfold the way they did a year prior, but am willing to do what is necessary for the good of my family, and to protect the people of Schweitzer, no matter the cost.

 

President’s Day is Coming…

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The professional Pee Tester

At my work from time to time I am called in for a random drug test.  You know, the ones where you pee in a cup and they send it to a lab and analyze it for bad things in your body.  It can be once every couple of months, or even years sometimes between pee tests.  Recently however, I’ve been called in for a donation of my pee pee quite frequently, twice in a matter of three weeks to be exact.  Maybe Obama just doesn’t trust me anymore?  Oh well, whatever the case, I usually don’t mind, for I get to take a nice little stroll through the shipyard, observing the blend of historic structure and modern military marvel, where old World War 2 bunkers are converted into laboratories for analyzing chemical compounds, and old workshops built of brick and mortar house an array of machines that fabricate the finest technological gadgets to support the mission of the United State’s pacific naval fleet.  A perfect time for life thinking, and breaking off from the monotony of office life for an hour is always a nice change-up in your routine.

 

I enter the pee test lobby and behind a window there is an elderly gentleman who happily greets you, the same one every time I go in to deliver the goods.  And when I say gentleman, I truly mean the word gentleman, one of the last few left on this planet.  Definitely a God fearing, good deed doing family man.  As I look at him and I can just imagine him gathered around his grandchildren at Christmas time jolly as can be, telling stories of seasons past and the honorable heritage of their family tree, all of which are hanging on his every word, eyes glued to his in wonderment.  He wears a nice long sleeve button up tucked in to a pair of wranglers sporting his favorite belt buckle, the one I’m sure he’s had ever since he was a young lad.  His face is aging, slowly turning into the same material as his leather cowboy rope tie.  His white angel thin hair parted across his head, the same way he has been styling it his whole life.  And yet, even at 70 plus years of age, he feeds you a smile of youth, as if you were that young broad he courted at the barn dance all those years ago, sporting the same outfit, the one that has never let him down.  It’s only natural to feel brightened, and send him back a smile in exchange. 

 

And yet, this is just another day in the office, taking people’s urine and analyzing it.  The work seems mundane to us, but he’s in his office working like a busy beaver, taking all the pride and joy that’s inside of him and delivering it in the form of services.  The service of collecting your urine… 8 hours a day for 5 days a week.  He treats his job as if it’s his passion, his reason for living; the profession that God himself has called upon him to carry out.

 

Imagine meeting a guy like that at a dinner party and everybody’s introducing themselves.  “Hi, I’m steve, I’m a Optomoligist,” or “Hello, I’m an engineer.”  “Paul’s my name, I own the general store down the street.”  This guys would be the man who says “Hello, I’m Dale.  I’m a certified pee pee collector, available for private and public practice.”  The more I talk about him, the more I want to hang out with this man.  Seems like a night out on the town with him would be nothing but a good time!

 

“All right, c’mon back,” he says to me, waving his hand in a welcoming circular motion.  He leads me to the back room where he hands me a cup and instructs on how to produce what he describes as a “good specimen.”  I do as I am told, in the order he tells me.  Wash the hands, enter the bathroom, and fill the cup to around the halfway mark, and if necessary, pinch it off, sending the rest of my beautifully self-produced golden waste into the toilet filled with dark blue dye.

 

I hand the man my sample, and that’s when he starts to work his magic, and things get really interesting.  He takes out two smaller containers, the size of the old 35mm film capsules, and begins the process of filling them completely full.  You would think that this would be a very delicate process, one that any normal person would take their time with and wear the proper sanitary equipment that comes with the job, aka gloves.  Time nor gloves however are not resources this man has, or cares for, or needs.

 

He fills the first specimen tube, holding my cup of urine about a foot above the tube, in almost the same fashion as some foolish college kid tries to fill his half drank soda bottle with his favorite liquor.  Now don’t lie to yourself, we’ve all been there and done that, and remember how hard of process that was and how nervous we were about spilling?  There was always that unfortunate moment where a good portion of that liquor ended up on the counter, leaving us with two choices.  Wipe up the mess in sorrow at the loss of perfectly drinkable booze, or suck it up like a man and zamboni it right off the table.  Think of that and now imagine the same situation, except instead of pouring a little bit of whiskey into a half drank 20 ounce bottle, you’re filling a large cup of pee pee and pouring it into a tiny little specimen tube, with barely the volume of two shots.  This is exactly what this man was doing…  Without gloves no less!  I had an underlying feeling that this stunt wasn’t going to go so well…

 

“Well here we go,” he said to me as he tilted the cup of urine down towards the specimen tube while I held me breath.  A stream of golden liquid, recently departed from my body was leaving the cup, suspended in mid air, with only milliseconds before it hit touchdown either directly into the tube, or all over his hands and onto the floor.  The suspense was killing me.  It was that Aaron Rodgers to Randall Cobb 4th and 8 call against the Bears with 44 seconds left on the clock all over again.

 

Touchdown!  The urine landed square in the middle of the tube.  So far so good, but the moment was short lived as I dreadfully watched the liquid level climb up to the top of the tube.  It was rising, and rising quick!  He acted oblivious to the fact that he was less than a second away from a flood of urine covering his bare hands (did I mention he’s not wearing gloves during this entire process?), and all I could do is sit there and watch as the time drew closer and closer to a disaster just waiting to happen.

 

Just when I thought a tragedy was among us, with as much grace as the choreographed “Single Ladies” dance by Beyonce, he lowers the urine cup, tips it back, and finishes the pour, test tube filled right up to the brim, not even a millimeter of separation between the edge of the tube and the liquid.  One handed, he flips the lid back into position and closes it, no urine lost or spilled.  Not even a drop.  I was in total amazement as I was still trying to wrap my head around what I had just seen.  He literally had a brush with death, and by some miracle, he was still standing, his clothes and body free of my warm bodily projection.

 

“Ok, now for the second one,” he said to me with in a chipper tone, delivering a slight chuckle afterwards as he flipped off the cap of the second specimen tube and prepared for the pour.  He raised the first urine sample towards me, now completely capped off, as if he were about to give a toast.

 

“Oh no, not again!” I thought to myself.  That first time was luck.  There was no way he was going to be able to handle another pour like that without some type of backlash.  But sure enough, with the same level of confidence and ease, he started his pour a foot above the specimen tube, filled it at a rapid pace, and stopped just in time for the urine to fill completely to the brim.  No miss pours, no straggling drops or a spraying of debris, nothing.  Again, he capped the specimen tube one-handed, and that was it.  A few signatures from me and those babies were off to be analyzed!

 

It was at that moment, seeing both specimens capped off ready for delivery, that I knew I was in the presence of greatness.  This could be possibly the best pee pee tester on the face of the Earth.  He just made it look so easy, as if pee testing is second nature to him, like riding a bike, or eating a slice of pecan pie.  No doubt the Kanye West of urine testing, maybe even better.  He was that freaking good.  I wanted to shake his hand right then and there, but something stopped me.  I looked at him as he went through the necessary pee handling procedures, filling out the necessary paperwork, dumping the leftovers, interacted with the other donors in the room; I felt like I didn’t have the honor of shaking a man’s hand like that, at least not in this environment.  Besides, I hadn’t even washed my hands yet after going to the bathroom, so a handshake would be considered a little rude at that point.  Maybe someday, I’ll gain enough respect to shake the man’s hand.  Hopefully someday soon, before he retires…  That is, if he retires.  Few men that are true masters of their profession never really retire or stop what they do.  I hope to be among one of those men someday.

 

And as I walked back to my office, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “How does a man get into a position like that?  Becoming a professional pee tester?”  I imagine during career day at school he didn’t go up and tell the class “When I grow up, I’m going to play around with people’s pee pee.”  Maybe he did, but I find it highly unlikely.  It at least wassn’t my top career choice in school.  I mean, judging from events in our adolescent years, Ben Woodward may have thought about that as a viable career path once or twice, for he was the most comfortable around that type of stuff (so it seemed).  But still, think it was a long shot even for him, or maybe a back-up plan.  And that’s saying a lot, cause that kid is a one in a million, and pretty wacko in the head!

 

But regardless of what Ben’s career aspirations were, over time with every trade, you develop skills, and for extracting other people’s urine 8 hours a day, 5 days a week for 30 (maybe 40) plus years, I’d say you’re going to get pretty damn good at the job.  That probably explains how he’s able to handle other people’s urine with the amount of ease and comfort that he does, as if it he was holding his newly born grandchild, or as if I was serenading a couple boundary babes in some exotic locale with a beautiful sunset shining over a landscape consisting of lush forest and pristine lake front. 

 

I can just envision what they’ll say at his funeral (God Forbid).  “Here lies George (or whatever his name is), father of 4, husband to 1, and the greatest pee test man the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard has ever had the pleasure working with.  He will forever be remembered as the admirable man who poured urine specimens, over and over again, to keep us out of trouble and protect us from harmful toxins that could inhibit our work ability and destroy our family life.”  Those in attendance would nod their head in approval, knowing that he was the best in the business, and that he touched their hearts every time he sent their donation to the lab, caring for their safety every step of the way, and performing the work that no other man would do, the tough job that could make you an enemy very quickly in the eyes of the ungrateful.  Never the less, he did it because it had to be done, by someone…  The best, all for his fellow brethren.  I hope I’ll be among those in attendance, reminding me that his legendary spirit will live on through the shipyard, long after all of us are gone.

 

I’m thinking a typical donor takes about 5 to 10 minutes total to complete the process of making their donation to the pee test man, so in a typical day, he could probably be handling about 50 unique urine samples easy.  That’s nearly 500 a week, and well over 1000 in a month.  A professional like that, given the right circumstances could very well hold over a million different types of pee pee in his hand over his life-time.  To me, that is a mind-blowing stat, and a bit of an accomplishment.  Who else could say that they’ve done something like that?  He’s truly the best pee tester in the game.  Even Richard Sherman couldn’t quite match a feat like that, and he wouldn’t even have to announce it over national television!  He just let’s his work speak for himself and leaves the rest of us in awe.

 

So every now and then, I get called back to the same room, where the same old man with the same old cowboy rope tie sits and administers a pee test.  I hand him my sample, thinking to myself, “Is this the time he’s going to finally spill on himself?  I don’t want him to. Honestly, I’m rooting for the guy, but his luck’s got to be running out.”  And with the same elegance he’s had throughout his whole government career, he proves me wrong, filling the cup straight up to the brim, no gloves, no splash, no problem.  He’s never made a mistake the dozen or so times I’ve visited to deliver my sample and I’ve never heard a peep from any of my other colleges around the office of him spilling.  And believe me, if he would’ve screwed up, I would’ve heard about it.  That’s just the way gossip works in my office, just like any other office in the American business front.

 

I truly believe with all my heart that not only is he one of the most tremendous pee testers known to man, but an honest to heart great man, the Vince Lombardi type, the ones who strive for greatness each and every day, while always finding ways to improve their technique and work, to keep them at the level of the best, now and forever.

 

I can say with all credibility that it’s a privilege, and an honor to donate my pee to that man.  He’s just that damn good, and watching people at that skill level working at their craft leaves you in awe and inspired.  If I could be just half as good at writing than he is at pee testing, you’d see me on the New York Times Best-Seller list every month.

 

Upon writing this entry, I’m truly looking forward to the next pee test, and dread the day where I enter the office he’s not there, replaced by some young klutz with a skull full of mush trying to administer a pee test.  He’s going to pour pee all over himself!  I know it!  It’s going to be terrible!  And I’m just going to stand there shaking my head in disapproval, for he will never reach the level that man has reached, and will probably end up quitting his job, unable to perform his duties at the quality of his former.  What a sad day that will be, a day that will live in infamy for the employees of the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.

 

I hope and pray that there will be at least a couple more pee tests with that man at the helm.  There’s got to be.   It’s what he does, what he was born to do, what the legends will speak of for generations to come.

 

Until next time Mr. pee test man…  Until next time.

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So as it turns out, Michael Jordan wasn’t born in North Carolina…

Ever since I was born, my mother has reminded me of the fact that I was born in Wilmington, North Carolina. Yea, no big deal right? Wrong, because there’s another big part to it… That it happened to be the same hospital where Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player of all time, was born. It was a fact that I repeated time and time again throughout my life. In grade school, the kids would hang on my every word and repeat the story to others as if I were a legend. Through my college years I would tell the tale and be met with responses along the lines of “No way!” or “Get out of here!” and other expressions of excitement. Even now as a working professional, I still tell the tale and receive the nod of approval and ever so slight grins that grow at a slow, yet proportional rate. I repeat it as if it’s my mantra, my motto.

It was one of my proudest claims to fame, a highlight of my life, and a great pick-up line for the ladies. In fact, it was merely a couple weeks ago that I was attending a bachelorette party and I laid down the line in front of a large crowd of babes, where they all smiled with a heightened level of impressiveness. And for those that are wondering, yes I said bachelorette party, and yes, aside from the over abundance of phallic objects, its was really fun (thanks to the efforts of a few boundary babes)! Even better than any of the bachelor parties I’ve ever been to, no offense to those bachelors, especially my buddy Alex. I love you man, but being stuck in the middle of the woods at night with a busted up rig that can’t start in weather that was around 10 degrees wasn’t exactly the greatest moment of my life. Especially after the fact that we nearly rolled off the edge of a cliff and to our deaths about 10 times, but that’s a whole other story. Let’s just say I’m happy to be alive to tell my stories after that incident.

But the point is, I would walk into a room and spread the truth in front of a crowd of people, and instantaneously I would be greeted with astonishment, with a slight wave of jealousy coming from a few. What could they say that made them relevant?  Nothing. I was always one step ahead.

It had been nearly 25 years since I stepped foot in the motherland, or crawled for that matter, and I was ready for a welcoming reception home. I met my compadres Mike and Jason at Jay Bee’s World Famous Hotdog’s in Statesville, North Carolina, where I have no idea why their hotdog’s are considered to be world famous. Every place I’ve been to that claims they have world famous hotdogs have always left me with a feeling of disappointment, such as Ben’s Chili Bowl in Washington DC. If you’re going to say you have a world famous hot dog, it better be damn good. At least don’t call them world famous so your standards shoot through the roof. If you don’t claim it and your hotdog is terrible, I won’t really care, but when you claim world fame status and your hotdog stinks, your reputation and integrity fly out the window in my book, and leave me with less satisfaction than if I ate a 1/4 pound all beef kosher dog from Costco, except that those actually aren’t that bad. One, they taste better, two, they’re only a buck fifty, three, a 22 ounce drink is included, and four, they don’t even claim to be world famous! They just let the taste of their juicy dog do the talking, and that’s the way I roll.

Anyway, after eating my less than mediocre world famous hotdog, we headed to our destination in Asheville, NC, telling story’s of the glory days when we were hooligans roaming the streets of Moscow, Idaho. We were a minute away from the house when the story popped into my head, and I found the perfect segway to tell my great tale of fame. “Dude, this is my first trip my back to North Carolina since I’ve been born. And I don’t want to brag or anything, but I happened to be born in the same hospital as Michael Jordan.

Mike tweaked his head toward me with a sudden look of confusion. “Uhh, Michael Jordan was born in Brooklyn New York dude.”

“Bull crap,” I swore back to him. He was wrong. He had to be. I knew he was going to take offense to my statement, just like he always does, and of course he wasn’t going to believe it, he never believes anything I say, but he couldn’t prove anything this time. What the hell did he know? He was seriously going to go against my mother’s word? I don’t think so. Not even he has the balls to go there, and when it comes to arguments with Mike, trust me, we’ll go to the deepest and dirtiest depths just to prove a point. It’s personal.

“Wikipedia it man,” is all he said back.

“Wikipedia isn’t a source!” I wanted to screamed. That’s like the first things they teach us in college! God I couldn’t believe he just said that! Wikipedia? C’mon! It took a lot to hold back the fury that bellowed inside me, because I was freaking mad!  Lieutenant Dan mad when he’s yelling at God during the hurricane in Bayou La Batre. Bill O’Reily mad when he’s told to play it out. Freaking Kanye West mad when Taylor Swift robs Beyonce of the best video award at the MTV VMA’s!

But I kept my cool and held my tongue through the whole ordeal. Now was not the time to blow up and cause a scene. I was about to meet the remainder of his family that I had not yet met, including his mother, and impressions to me are above and beyond the most important. Besides, there was plenty of time to prove Mike wrong and make him look like a fool, an act I get more joy out of than being that kid who receives an Xbox for Christmas! All I needed to do was wait for the opportune moment. Patience is key in situations like this.

Luckily for us, nothing brings a bunch of testosterone craved boys together like a classic Pay-Per-View UFC match, including an epic bout between Rhonda Rousy and Miranda Tate, and watching Anderson Silva’s leg snap in half. I know people are gonna hate on me for saying this, but seeing that live was freaking awesome!  And even better than that was the epic Packers and Bears matchup that proceeded the following day. Wow, that was one that’ll go down in the history books. It’s 4th and 8 with 44 seconds remaining in the game. the Pack is down 27-28 and the Bears are lined up for a jail break blitz. 7 defensive linemen vs. 6 on the offense. Rodgers snaps the ball and Julius Peppers runs towards Rodgers unblocked. John Kuhn the fullback dives in front of him with a last ditch effort to deliver a block. He barely slows the bastard, but it’s just enough for Rodgers to escape within a fingertips length. Out of the pocket he spots a wide open Randall Cobb in the middle of the field. He delivers a strike and into the endzone goes Cobb, ball in hand… and that’s when me and Mike went bonkers. We were jumping up and down in the bar, yelling, calling, texting, hugging complete strangers, and even in some instances, kissing (ayayay I know, I almost got slapped for that)! But in the end it didn’t matter, for we were full of cheer and were going to spread it around to everyone we could see, including Bears fans! You’re probably asking why, but it’s just the kind of guy I am. I can look past those types of things for one night.

We made our unmistakable appearance known to all at the various bars we visited, and by the evening’s end it had been a complete night of unforgettable memories and passion. Yet something was still bothering me deep inside as I lay in bed at the end of it all. The controversy of Michael Jordan’s birthplace still lingered, and I just couldn’t shake it off. I had to know. This had to be settled once and for all.

I picked up my iPad and googled his name. I hovered my finger over the link, but couldn’t quite press down on the screen. What was I nervous for? This was my mother’s word against Mike’s. There should be no sense of hesitation inside of me. But there was… “Man up,” I told myself before I pressed down on the link and watched the circular bars rotate in the upper left corner of the iPad, waiting for the answer, my heart working overtime against the disproportionate level of alcohol in my bloodstream. The answer would come soon. I was right. I had to be right. The screen finally refreshed and there popped up the wikipedia page. I gazed down at my answer in plain black text, waiting for me at the right hand side of the screen.

Michael Jordan: Born – Brooklyn, New York.

My heart sunk at the answer presented in front of me. How could this be? My mother had been lying to me my whole life, and I bought into until just now, when I finally saw the truth. How was I going to tell all my friends whom believed my story throughout the years? How could I even bare the thought of facing all of the babes I had met at the bachelorette party now that I’m a phony? And the worst of all, how will my relationship with my mother resume now that that sacred bond of trust has now been broken?

I awoke the next morning, pretending that the whole incident never happened, but it was no use. “Oh, by the way, did you find out where Michael Jordan was born?” It was a cheap shot question I could not defend, and he said it so smugly in front of everybody. He was mocking me big time, and I tried to play it smooth, but all that came out was one of those pathetic looks of the same fashion as the one that is permanently engrained onto Jay Cutler’s face. And he stood there in his pompous stature that makes James Franco look like Mother Teresa. No other words needed to be exchanged. Congratulations Mike, you won the argument, and my life is over. I’m sure you feel no shame whatsoever. In fact, I bet you’re ecstatic. I hope you’re happy, and I hope the torment you put me through along with a newly broken family was worth it for you.

I can’t believe she did that, out of all people, my own mother! I’m completely devastated. Those types of things just shouldn’t happen. The thought of sneaking off to get a McRib before Thanksgiving pales in comparison to this quarter century fib. It’s probably going to be at least another quarter of a century before I fully recover too. But then again, I did get over the fact that Santa Claus didn’t exist, so maybe there’s hope for a rebuild of our relationship. Although I think a lot of chocolate chip cookies and cheesecake may be required for the rekindling (*hint hint*).

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The Mammogram… and the current state of our healthcare system

Healthcare.  It’s been on everybody’s mind lately.  People are worried sick about it.  “Am I going to lose my health coverage?  Is the website working yet?  Will I have to same type of coverage as the elite members of this country such as the president, senators, and Kanye West?”  All are legitimate questions, without clear answers, answers that have torn apart friends, family, and parts of this country as a whole.  Along with these answers comes the blame game, with our problems always being somebody else’s fault.

The truth is, these issues have been apparent for quite some time… years even…  well, I at least have known of them for a while now.  I could’ve sent a warning to my friends much earlier, but hesitated.  I was acting on selfishness and cowardness when I should’ve thought of others and how my story, no matter how embarrassing it may be, could have prepared them for the future.  Well, better late than never, and who knows?  It may still save a few souls here and there, even though my silence has cost many all ready a great deal of pain.  You only have one life to live, and you must do what you can with what you got to make it count.  That’s my motto.

It all happened a couple years ago during a Christmas party in an old apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle.  There was a holiday theme, and all in attendance were mingling about in the appropriate attire to match the occasion, sharing with each other the spirit of the Christmas season.  For some reason, I had my shirt off (which baffles me to this day, for I rarely rip off my shirt during any party or likewise occasion, ever), and after talking to somebody for an extended period of time, they noticed something unusual with my chest.  One breast was bigger than the other.  This was something I had known ever since my teenage years, and didn’t think too much of it.  “So, one of my boobs is bigger than the other.  Who cares!?”  But as the news spread around the party about my abnormality, worry and panic set in.

“Oh let me just see it,” one girl asked.  I didn’t mind.  She was probably a babe, so I let her feel for herself the non-symmetrical phenomenon that was my boobs.  “Oh my gosh, it’s true!” she exclaimed as she caught the attention of others, drawing them into close quarters with my naked chest.  “Let me see,” asked one.  “I don’t believe it, I wanna feel,” said another.  Before I knew it, a dozen people from both sexes were crowded around me in an attempt to examine the build up of unusual tissue around my left nipple, all of which began touching and feeling it at their own free will!  I don’t mind if a few hot babes grab them here and there, especially since I was eager for a chance to show off my newly sculpted pectoral muscles.  But it was getting to the point where things were starting to get uncomfortable.  To some, it could’ve been classified as sexual harassment, although I couldn’t bring myself to make that accusation.  After all, every one that touched both of my boobs seemed genuinely concerned for my health, and was only grabbing them for medical reasons.  So I just stood there in an inept position as I watched the reaction of people, one after another in shock as the squeezed each nipple, realizing the irregularity of my body.

“You really should get that checked out,” one suggested, followed by nods of approval.  Enough people agreed, and counseled me in their own personal way.  I forget who was all involved in the decision that night, but I know it wasn’t Ben Woodward.  He usually has some pretty good sense about these things.  In fact, I don’t really remember much of Ben during the whole party, which leads me to believe that he was actually being really cool about the situation and in general.  However, his coolness wasn’t enough to convince me from doing something about my condition, so the next week, I made an appointment to visit a doctor and clear up whatever defective generation of tissue build up there may be inside my body, if there was any issue at all, which I highly doubted.

I entered the doctor’s office with a slight agitation, and the nurse reminding me of my weight insecurity wasn’t helping the situation.  What was this build up of tissue in my left breast?  Will I need surgery?  Chemo?  I was just beginning my life, and life was good.  This is the last thing I need at a time like this!  But better to take care of these things now rather than later, when they could be much worse…  That’s my motto.

The doctor entered and did his regular examinations before proceeding to copping a feel, which I guess I allowed in an indirect way.  He squeezed, and massaged, and rubbed, and felt all around my chest as I stood there in anticipation of his diagnosis.  He had a look of puzzlement on his face that was impossible to determine whether it was a sign of hope or doom.  So I waited, heart pounding for several minutes for his decision.

“Well, my professional opinion is it’s just some build up of residual tissue.  I don’t see any signs of a tumor or-“

“Great news doc!  I agree with the diagnosis, and gee, look at the time.  Gotta go.  It’s been a pleasure-“

“BUT…”  One of most disappointing phrases a man may ever hear.  I looked back with concern, halfway out the door.  I wasn’t going to like the next words out of his mouth.  “I’m going to have to refer you for an ultrasound.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” I thought to myself.  It killed me inside, but I had to respect the man’s recommendation and his years of study and practice.

I informed my boss the next day at our group meeting that I had to schedule another appointment.  “I have to go in for some testing tomorrow,” I told the group.  I was immediately shot with an array of strange looks, and immediately realized I had uttered one of those phrases that came out the worst way possible and wished I could take back.  I sensed what they were thinking, but I didn’t know what would be more embarrassing; letting them think I have an STD, or telling them the nature of my impending risk of breast cancer, and the fact that I’m getting an ultrasound.

I kept my mouth shut.  My professional relationship with my Catholic coworker has suffered ever since.

So again I found myself inside a hospital waiting room, checking into my ultrasound appointment, lingering in agony until the moment my name is called.  I needed something to get my mind off the procedure, fast.  It was stressing me out big time!  On the counter I rifled through a barrage of magazines geared towards woman’s health issue.  There were the usual “Shape,” “Woman’s Health,” and “Bridal Monthly,” and “Pregnancy” magazines, but then something else caught my eye.  “So you’re having a baby,” and the many other health pamphlets scattered around the office table.  For a moment, I forgot all about my procedure and became intrigued about the subtle details of pregnancy.  I learned that it’s normal to feel sick and make multiple trips to the bathroom during the early stages of pregnancy, and how one may experience unusual spikes in their appetite.  The real eye opener was the section that begins with the woman’s water breaking and going down the list of steps involved in birthing the baby.  I was a bit disgusted at the level of detail portrayed in the pamphlet, yet at the same time, it was at a level of interest that kept me reading, wanting more, just like the show “Keeping with the Kardashians.”  I was sucked in with horror, yet amazement.  I needed to know what happened next, deeper and deeper into the vile depths of this pamphlet, each section more-

“Excuse me sir, we’re ready for your ultrasound.”  I looked up to a waiting room full of women, all eyes fixated on me, wondering why the hell I was nose deep into this pregnancy pamphlet and getting an ultrasound.  I slowly set the pamphlet down and cautiously made my way out of the room, as if it were a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” me being vastly outnumbered by the crowd of women watching my every move.  Any sense of panic or sudden movement would turn the room into a frenzy in which there would be little chance of survival.

The room mimicked that of an alien probing station, a circular space with a large table in the middle for the specimen to lie, and a long and skinny mechanical eye with the ability to examine any part of the body it pleased.   “Take off your shirt and lay on the table,” the nurse instructed.  I wasn’t really thrilled about taking my shirt off, even with my transitioning chiseled body, so the nurse probably wasn’t that much of a babe.  Regardless of my thoughts, I did what I was told.  I had to do what I could to understand the fate of my left breast, and allowed the nurse to splatter a blob of gel with the consistency grape jelly all over my chest.  This substance was rather warm, making the situation even more uncomfortable than it needed to be, and for several more minutes of unnecessary medical exploitation she took the metal probe and pressed it against my body, moving it all around the general area of my breast with a film of gel in-between looking for the best view of tissue on the large screen hovering above us.  By the way she was taking her sweet time moving the probe all over my delicate body slathered with medicinal oil, I could tell she really enjoyed her job.

“I can’t see anything wrong with your breast.”

“What a relief,” I thought to myself.  Christmas was just around the corner and my worries were behind me.  Sensing my probing was over and done with, I cleaned the warm goop off of my body and put my clothes back on as the nurse finished up her paper work.

“I’m going to refer for a mammogram.  Please go to the 9th floor and hand them this referral.”

“Whoa…  WHAT!”  She didn’t even hit me with a misleading and disappointing “But.”  She went straight for the throat.  I didn’t even get a chance to strike back, or even think!  But you know, I guess better safe than sorry…  That’s my motto.  And so I gathered what was left of my shattered and dwindling dignity, crept past the preying bird-like women in the waiting room, and made my way to the next stop on my breast cancer journey; the equivalent of Level 8 on Super Mario Brothers 3.

“Excuse me mam, I’m here for an appointment.”  I set the referral note on the desk.

“All right, what are we doing today?” she asked, her face glued to the computer screen.

“Um, I’m here for a mammogram,” I politely responded in a soft voice, avoiding any unnecessary attention.  The last thing I needed was another ultrasound incident.  I waited a few long seconds, where I sensed an extreme case of ADD with the receptionist, as she kept typing away on her computer, forgetting that she had responded to me mere moments before.

“I’m sorry, what was that hun?”

Again, I responded with quiet hesitancy.  “A mammogram mam.  I’m here to get a mammogram.”  My patience was running thin at this point, but again, I replied with gentle poise.  I wouldn’t let them break me, no matter how bad of humiliation I may suffer.

But she kept on keeping on with her typing, and again my answer was ignored.  Whatever was on that computer screen was much more interesting than me, a major blow to my ego.  I mean, what administrative bull crap could be on that computer that is much more compelling than my presence?  It was kind of making me mad!  I kept my cool though, for there’s no need to draw attention to oneself during these types of situations.  That’s my motto.

“I’m sorry, one more time sir?”

“A MAMOGRAM, MAM.  A FREAKING MAM-O-GRAM!  I NEED TO CHECK TO SEE IF I HAVE BREAST CANCER, AS STATED ON THE REFERRAL NOTE I GAVE YOU!!  WHY THE HELL ELSE WOULD I BE HERE?!?!”

They say every man has his breaking point, and I had just hit mine.  I had caught the attention of the entire room now.  I was like Tupac, all eyes on me; everything I had tried to avoid…  Oops.

“Well why didn’t you just say so sir?  Please have a seat and we’ll call your name whenever you’re ready.”

I did as she told me, making awkward eye contact with everybody in the waiting room.  I had to give them the nod of acknowledgment, letting them know that they were all right, and I knew I was in the right place.  I’m not quite sure why we do that when we’re placed in stiff situations, but it’s something we all do.  I didn’t dare look at any magazines or pamphlets this time, even though there was plenty to read on the subject of a woman’s breast.  I was very tempted, but refrained, and just waited with a steady fortitude along with the other woman in the room for my breast test.  There was no way I was making that mistake twice.

After an excruciating fifteen-minute wait, I was called in for the exam.  The nurse ripped off my shirt and grabbed the hunk of flesh that comprised of my enlarged left breast, pulling it onto the bottom glass portion of the machine and setting the top portion in place.

“Ok, I think we’re all ready,” she stated, which was great news for me.  The sooner I could get this procedure done and over with, the sooner I can get out of this discomforted sitting position, out of the hospital, and on with Christmas.  The machine started, and the procedure pressed on and on…  Literally.  It pressed on my boob, and didn’t stop.

“Mam, I think this is good enough,” I stated, voice raising with concern.  I had no idea if it was good enough or not as far as the breast screening process goes, but all I knew is that it hurt like hell, and I was done with this mammogram as far as I was concerned.

“Just about one more minute,” She responded.

“Ah hell no!”  At the rate this is going, there’s not going to be any breast left to examine!  This was far enough, time I draw the line.  So I pulled out… or at least I tried.  The machine had a killer clamp on my boob, and the harder I pulled, the more it pressed and resisted.  The friction between the two glass slabs and my breast was too great to overcome.  I was left in agonizing pain with only two outcomes.  Either the nurse would show an ounce of mercy and let up on the examination, or my left boob would pop like a zit, squeezing puss all over the machine, and probably alleviating my breast cancer worries for the near future.

I scream out loud, but the machine that had turned my breast into a pancake took the breathe out of me.  All that came out was a quiet and exaggerated “Eep.”  For a moment, I was surprised and a little impressed at the amount of surface area in my breast that had been created by the machine.  The amazement was short lived unfortunately by the fact that my boob was on the verge of explosion at any second.  My heart raced, and I could barely hold on.  My face turning a pale blue, heavy breathing, body going faint.  This was the end.  If only there was another way…  If I could take back-

“All done!”  The machine lifted and my breast slowly formed back into shape like a dashpot.  I began to regain consciousness at a rapid pace.  A Christmas miracle.  “The results look good! No signs of cancerous cells or tumors.”

“Oh gee, like I didn’t see that one coming,” I thought to myself, although my demeanor was that of liberation, for that meant no more testing for me.  I was off Scott-free!

“Now we’d like you to come back in three years for another check-up so we can ensure-”

“No way.  Nuh uh.  Not gonna happen.  I’m done…  I. AM. DONE!”

“But sir, we really recommend-”

“Nope! I ain’t putting up with that bull crap again.  No more check-ups, screenings, weird jelly, ultrasounds, and/or mammograms for me!  Screw you guys, I’m going home!!!”

What a complete and utter nightmare.  I swear those nurses were putting me through unnecessary torture just for their amusement.  I can just picture them colluding amongst themselves on how to screw me over and make me go through hell on Earth just to point out the obvious.  “Hey, here comes this one dude, let’s make him go through all the bull crap we have to go through just because we can, haha.”  Whatever.

A wise man once said, “Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me.”  One thing’s for sure.   I learned my lesson, that I’m never getting a mammogram…  EVER Again!

That’s my motto.

Merry Xmas,

-Grizzly Chadams

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Thanksgiving and a tale of two McRibs

Thanksgiving.  Truly the most genuine holidays of em’ all.  It leaves you in a peaceful mood and can even make the most deplorable among us rediscover our caring side.  For a day, you forget about all of the stresses created from the world around you–work, politics, football… well, maybe everything, but the point is that you remember the things that make life so great in the first place, and set aside what doesn’t matter, contrary to popular sentiment.  It’s part of what makes the Fall such a wonderful season; the coziness of sitting near a fire sipping on a fine cocktail or one of the many seasonal beers that are cool to the taste and warming to the spirit; watching women pile on the layers, going from there scantily clad summer attire to a more conservative autumn overcoat with stylish leggings (I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about girls dressed appropriately for the colder weather that’s kind of a turn on); and possibly the greatest of all is the line of holidays, one after another, starting with Halloween and ending with Christmas, each one a stepping stone of anticipation for the next!  It’s a continuous blast of excitement with all of the parties, food, shopping, and traditions; it’s what I look forward to each and every year.

Although all of the holidays are great in their own special way, Thanksgiving stands out far and above the rest of them.  Let’s start with Halloween.  Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Halloween.  It’s the one time of year that it’s socially acceptable for me to dress like a freak and for girls to dress provocatively.  In fact, the more out of control your costume is, the more praise you get, and this Halloween was no different.  My Kanye West outfit was spot-on (aside from painting my face black, a decision that was against Ben Woodward’s wishes and but made after some much appreciated consultation from my snarky minority friend Sharath), and compliments were flying left and right–a leather on leather on leather combination with a couple of gold chains and some rockin’ high-tops, the leather pants being the most on point.  I didn’t even have to go to the S&M shop (Ben Woodward’s favorite store) to find them either, thanks to my sister’s keen eye and extensive knowledge of fashion websites!  Unfortunately though, I ripped them two weeks later (a little piece of advice: don’t play basketball in leather pants.)

 

But let’s be honest with ourselves, what is Halloween but a bunch of kids going house-to-house begging for candy from a bunch of strangers?  “TRICK OR TREAT!” they scream in your face, holding out baskets full of processed sugar bars and pleading for more like a bunch of mendicants.  So just because you come to my house dressed in a costume, you’re entitled to the goods that I worked hard for?  And if I don’t surrender, you get to play a trick on me, like TPing my house?  Please.  Halloween sounds like another front for socialism if you ask me.  The Founding Fathers must be rolling in their graves every year on October 31st.

And lets take a look at Christmas and face the hard facts.  The thing that makes Christmas awesome is that we get free stuff.  But at what cost parents?  Because of our selfish desires, we allow our children to sit on an old fat dude’s lap while he ho ho ho’s and asks them what toys they want.  And then we look forward to him dressing in his red suit and breaking into our houses, sneaking around while the kids are sleeping and leaving them presents, Michael Jackson style.

Hello!  Do you see anything wrong with this picture!?!?  And that’s before he eats all of our cookies and drinks our milk too!

Sure, New Years is a big party, but in the end, your left with that depressing feeling of inevitable aging mixed with at least three months of terrible, endearing weather that drags on, and on, and on.  If your football team wins the Super Bowl, then maybe you end up with a winter that’s a step above mediocre, but with 32 teams in the NFL, the odds are stacked against you, and you’re left with even more disappointment that sinks you into the dark crevices of winter.

After months of the grueling cold, Easter rolls around, which means the weather gets nicer, but at the same time, life springs back into action and all the critters come back into play, terrorizing the neighborhood with glee, with one particular rodent who always seems to make his way into our homes, leaving egg droppings all over the place.  One of these Easters I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or something and accidently step on the little turd who’s running about my house unabated.

“What the heck man, you stomped the Easter Bunny!”  Hey, I’m sorry, but he came out of nowhere!  He scared the crap out of me!  Easter’s ruined, forever and ever.

Heck, there are even flaws with my favorite holiday, the 4th of July, the day we celebrate the valiant fight and struggle to gain our independence and become the greatest nation in the world.  It’s a wonderful day of reflection and gratitude, but I’d be lying if I don’t use it as an excuse to drink beer and light off a bunch of fireworks while screaming “MERICA” at the top of my lungs.  It’s the one-day where I’m allowed to do really dangerous (and stupid) things while being hailed as patriotic!  And trust me, I take full advantage of the opportunity every year.

fireworks

Fourth of July 2014

With Thanksgiving however, there’s no BS, no facades involved, just family and friends gathered around a feast to giving thanks for the gifts we’ve received in our lives.  Going back to its origins, it’s about a group of people after many harsh winters and an ongoing struggle to survive in a new world, finally having an abundance of food for one season, and deciding to share it with another group of people who taught them the fundamentals of survival.

And we continue the tradition today–simple as that.  Taking time to reflect even with all the prepped up stresses that come along with life.  We step back for a moment and say, “Hey, we really have it pretty good, and our blessed with what’s all ready around us, most of which we take for granted day in and day out.  Let’s give thanks for this and share our blessings.”

It is a time for great company and lasting tradition, with each family having their own unique rituals.  It could be as simple as getting together for a great turkey bowl battle with the pigskin, or a round of “The Settler of Catan,” which leaves all but one person (the winner) in a sour mood after it’s all said in done.  There is one tradition however that I share with my dad that has been somewhat of an untold secret for some time now.  It’s not a planned out tradition by any means, but something that coincidently reoccurs every year, and I believe it’s time to let this secret come to surface, for the truth will always set you free.

Many years ago at our residence near the Quail Ridge golf course in the Lewis Clark Valley, the Andrews family was working hard preparing for the big meal.  My mother slaved away in the kitchen while my sisters cleaned and the men were on stand-by, awaiting orders.  Thanksgiving dinner always starts around 3:00 PM in our family, making it difficult to plan your meals for the day.  Because of the awkward dinner time, I usually eat a very light breakfast so I can take advantage of stuffing myself with turkey, gravy, and the rest of the fixings to the fullest extent, and lunch is skipped for that very same reason, because hey, no sense eating lunch when you’re going to eat dinner in an hour or two anyway.  The closer you get to that 3:00 PM mark however, the more you suffer and grow delusional from the lack of food inside your body.  Even with all of the agony I was facing that Thanksgiving from an absence of food, I powered through the hallucinations that follow starvation, for a vision of me sitting in a food coma watching holiday movies and football would be well worth the wait.

Illusions of grandeur filled my mind with the multitude of flavors that would eventually enter my mouth, drawing me into a deep trance.  The juicy deep fried turkey that Bob would bring over, my mother’s stuffing, crispy on the outside, moist on the inside and blended with a fruit concoction of apples and cranberries that tastes so good that you could eat just that alone and be satisfied.  Add the mashed potatoes smothered in butter and gravy, A bowl of yams topped with toasted marshmallows, and pumpkin pie with a side of vanilla bean ice cream and you’re screaming for a beautiful disaster where the end result is a gluttonous gathering of humans parked in a living room unable to move for the end of the world from the dense mass inside their bodies.  What a great day this was going to be…

“Zack, Zack…  Snap out of it,” a voice shot out followed by a snap of the fingers across the face, giving me a bit of a startle.  “Your mother needs some spices from the store, lets go,” my father barked.  I obediently followed.  And just like that, reality set back in, and the pain of perpetual hunger rose again.

Not much was said in the car ride, or inside Albertsons for that matter, one of the few stores still open on the holiday.  I’m pretty sure our minds were on sync, delusional from the missing smorgasbord of turkey byproducts that should have been consumed by now, making Albertsons a quick in-and-out experience.  The sooner we got back to the house, the sooner Thanksgiving would be served, which without the missing ingredients, would delay dinner for at least another hour or two according to our calculations.

While walking back to the car I caught a glimpse of the McDonalds across the parking lot, one of the great all-time American staples with a giant sign out in the front that just slayed my digestive system.  “The McRib is back, and for a limited time only!”

The McRib:  The pinnacle of culinary excellence.  A superb blend of processed pork, a not too smoky but elegantly tangy bbq sauce slathered all over a slab of meat between two buns with a hefty serving of onions and pickles.  It’s as if God himself came down from the heavens and gave us a taste of what the afterlife will be like.  If Ayn Rand ever wrote a book about food, the McRib would be the equivalent of Galt’s Gulch.

I looked at my dad through my peripherals in an attempt to read his body language without being suspicious.  He just blankly stared at the empty parking lot ahead, not displaying any sign of emotion whatsoever.  The further we drove through the parking lot, the deeper the depression of missing out on a mouthful of flavorful explosion set in.  The odds are always against you in this situation, as learned from many occasions where my parents would drive us past fast food after karate class, giving us hope that a splash of kindness would result in a happy meal, but always being disappointed as we watched the big yellow arches fade away in the distance.

I wanted it so bad that I could taste it, but I just sat and kept my mouth shut, acting indifferent to the situation.  The whole ordeal was torturous, for my churning stomach left me in constant excruciating pain that was bound to last a long time, but there was no way I was going to risk looking disrespectful to my mothers cooking.  Hey, I ain’t gettin’ in trouble!  Better to live in pain for the next hour or two than to be given a harsh Bill O’Riely scolding while still experiencing the same pain.  So I just sat there and said nothing, wallowing in a sadness that could not be displayed.

Then, out of nowhere, when all hope had been lost, a chorus of angels sang the most beautiful words I may have ever hear in my entire life.  “Would you like to stop at McDonalds for a snack?” my father asked.  It was a miracle.  My body was freaking out inside, and I wanted to scream for joy at the top of my lungs.  However, I kept my composure, waited a few seconds as if I had to contemplate the decision.  I nodded my head and responded, “You know, I think I would,” with a grin of approval across my face.

“I’d like a McRib meal please,” order my dad.  “What would you like son?”

“You know, I think I’ll have a McRib meal as well…”

I don’t exactly remember the details of whether we ate in the parking lot, or if we drove home right away, but at a moment like this, you never forget the silent camaraderie of father and son sharing a meal together of this magnitude.  It was a coming of age moment, where he look at me and was damn proud I was his son, and I look at him and knew I would never trade him for any other dad in the world!  It’s as if the whole time, we were in sync and knew exactly what the other was thinking.  Kind of like a 6th sense that only a father and son duo can truly understand.  Just like the first time we shared a beer together, but better.

We entered the house with accomplishment written across our faces, having achieved the task that had been presented before us as we handed off the missing ingredients to my mother.  Our ailing hunger concerns had been satisfied for the time being, and nobody was of the wiser.  We were in the clear, and it was going to be a great Thanksgiving.

“Ok guys, time to eat,” echoed my mothers voice throughout the house a mere two minutes after we stepped through the door.

“Wait…  What???  That can’t be!  We just got home, and dinner wasn’t going to be ready, and McRibs in our bellies, and…  Oh no!”  I wasn’t hungry anymore!  The fantasy I had about gorging myself in food paradise… no longer existent.  I didn’t want any more turkey, stuffing, gravy, potatoes, nothing, for satisfaction had already been attained.  We ruined Thanksgiving.  And my mother…  She was going to know!  She always knows when I eat McDonalds before dinner!  And right before Thanksgiving… We’re toast!

My father didn’t say a single word.  He acted naturally; as if he were experienced and knew exactly what to do…  act as if nothing had ever happened.   So I followed his lead act in a strict fashion as we made our way up the stairs to the dining room table…  Silent, as if nothing had ever happened.

He made no contact with me that whole dinner, and he didn’t have to.  It wasn’t worth the risk, and I would’ve done the same.  Besides, we both knew what each other was thinking and what had to be done.  It’s like a 6th sense between a father and son duo that only they can truly understand.

I did however study his every move, cautiously of course, in order to avoid any unnecessary suspicion.  He placed a variety of items on his plate in a strategic spread to give the illusion of having full meal even though the quantity of actual food compared to mere rations.  I followed suit, and we continued on behind enemy lines, just praying for survival.

Our operation was precise and going as planned, but even the most flawless of plans can never completely fool a mother.  She was beginning to catch on due to the slow pace of my father’s food consumption.

“Aren’t you going to have any more hun?”  She asked.  He just shook his head and moved his mouth like he was saying “Nah,” leading her to shrug her shoulders and retreat for the time being.  It bought us some time, but those tactics only work for so long.

The unrelenting attacks kept coming, and my dad kept fending them off in the same fashion with responses like “I’m going to save some room for dessert,” or “I’m watching my carbohydrate intake,” which is a valid statement since he’s a firm believer in the low-carb Atkins style diet.  The sad part was, due to our proximity, he was taking all the grunt of the assault, and I was getting off Scott-free.  As any great father would do, he took on the burden, sacrificing himself so his son could live another day on the lovely Earth.  But I knew this was going to get real ugly sooner or later.  My mom would break him, make him confess, and that would be the end of Thanksgiving as we knew it.  I couldn’t leave him hanging.  His actions were admirable, so much that I wouldn’t have traded him for any other dad.  I needed to do something to make him damn proud that I was his son.

I peaked around the room violently, my mind racing a mile a minute with ways to swing the battle favorably in our direction.  My dad had held out for as long as he could, but he couldn’t take it anymore.  He was about to crack.  Running out of time, I looked at our good friend Bob, one of the heavy hands at our church.  I know it’s taboo to bring up politics at the dinner table, especially during Thanksgiving, but we had run out of options.  The guy could sell you a bag full of dog crap and leave you walking away with a smile on your face as if you’d just won the lottery, he was that good.  I had to get him involved, somehow, someway.  I knew the risk that was involved and the possibility of a resulting backlash.  But this wasn’t about me.  This was about my old man.

“So Bob, I hear some of the new trustees at the church are clashing with the pastor these days?” The comment definitely caught my mother’s attention, along with everybody else’s at the dinner table.  I blurted it out of nowhere, and immediately I was shot with inappropriate looks, for the comment could be classified to some as out of line.  I felt a cloud of anxiety floating over us, as if I had just blown our cover, and not only was I going to get a scolding from my mom, but a “I’m disappointed” talk from my dad, both of which I would deserve if this didn’t pan out.  Heck, I didn’t even know if there was even any conflict with any of the trustees!  I was totally bluffing!  But what could I do?  I was desperate, and action needed to be taken, a Hail Mary of sorts.  So I waited for the seconds to pass by for Bob to respond, which seemed to last for minutes from my standpoint.

“Well, actually, there have been some issues, not with the trustees, but some of the youth leadership with certain methods they use for teaching the kids….” and that’s all it took.  The whole room was hooked!  Even my mother, gleeful to get all the dirt she could from one of the biggest political strong-arms in the church!  And it wasn’t just her.  All of us around the dinner table wanted a piece of the action, for nobody can resist digging into the dirty details of congregational dwellings, and who better to get information from than the man who knows everyone’s business.

Everybody wants to be on Bob’s side.  The man knows how to get things done, and if you’re on good terms with him, he’ll make your life a hell of a lot easier.  That’s the simple truth.  He’s not a shady guy or anything, but more of a natural leader, the Reagan type.  He doesn’t get involved in the dirty side of politics because he wants to, but because people come to him, desperate for his input.  He’ll tell you like it is, whether you like it or not, and he’ll fix any problem, even if it’s political suicide and it makes him look terrible.  He does it because it’s the right thing to do.  I swear he’d be destined for Senator someday, if only his heart wasn’t so damn righteous.  I know it was a dirty move on my part, but I had to get Bob going.  Sadly I’m ashamed to say, it wasn’t the first or last time I screwed him over on a holiday, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and my father and I needed a game-changer.

Pretty soon, we all forgot about Thanksgiving dinner, and were more intrigued on which Church high-schooler didn’t get accepted to which college, or which kid came home after curfew, who was giving the most money, who was causing a rukus, and on and on…  and that’s all it took.  It was finally over.  The focus on our dinner portions had diminished, and shortly after our political discussion that was oh so mesmerizing, we were in the living room playing catch phrase, two families enjoying each others company with laughter and excitement bouncing off the walls of the house.  We had cheated death, and we couldn’t believe it.  We saw it as nothing less than a subtle act of God.

Later that evening, my dad and I finally made eye contact once more.  No facial expressions were made, and no words had to be said, but there was a 6th sense going on between us.  We knew we had pulled it off, and for that instance, I knew that he was damn proud that I was his son, and I would never trade him for any other dad, and that’s the way it always will be.  I think it’s something only a father and son duo can truly understand.

That night, I was thankful for many things.  At the top of my list was getting away with barely touching Thanksgiving dinner and not receiving a paddling from my mom.  But looking back, I realize it wasn’t so much about that, but more so the adventure I shared with my father, and that something as cheap and silly as a McDonald’s McRib created a memory I will never forget for the rest of my life.

It’s funny how those small types of moments are the ones that stick out in our lives.  Whether it’s sharing a McRib with your father, belting out the tunes of Jewel at the top of your lungs with some boundary babes after a long and dirty excursion through the northern Minnesota wilderness, or watching a beautiful sunset while listening to a beautiful song after a long and frustrating day, even if some crackpot ultimately ruins the moment for you.  You get to stop time for that short moment and remind yourself that all the material things we obsess about, our clothes, gadgets, jobs; none of it matters in the grand scheme of the entire universe.  It makes you thankful for what you have and the people that care about you.  It’s a liberation that always puts a smile on your face, no matter what.

Over the years, it seemed that my dad and I would find an excuse to sneak out of the house on Thanksgiving, finding a way to pick up a McRib during the excursion.  For one, they’re mighty tasty, but they also remind us of that special moment many years ago when we bonded over the simple sandwich and had to work together to avoid punishment for our actions.  It helps us to reflect on the important things in life, which is maybe one of the reasons why I love that sandwich so much, and get all giddy like a little school girl whenever it reenters my life in the early parts of November.  And the funny thing is, we’ve never gotten in trouble for our pre-Thanksgiving meal… Ever! (Note: I believe my mom’s starting to catch on throughout many years of us disappearing for an hour every Thanksgiving, by setting out hors d’oeuvres right before the meal.  And of course after reading this, she’ll be on the defensive this year…  Big time!  We still find a way though.  We always do.)

Throughout the holiday season, there’s a lot of hectic commotion going on.  Whether it’s prepping for parties, or buying gifts, cooking dinner, and running about for God knows what, we tend to get side tracked and caught up in the moment, forgetting the reasons for why we celebrate, which is natural.  We’re all human for Denny’s sake!

But every now and then during all the madness, we come across a moment beyond our control, where time kind of just stops, and all we can do is observe and ponder among the ambiance.  If you happen to be lucky enough experience a moment like this during the Thanksgiving holiday, or any day for that matter, try to take a step back and reflect on your life and your surroundings.  You may just find yourself in one of those beautiful moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.  It’s in those moments that we’ll know what’s most important to us, and what we’re truly thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving.

-Grizzly Chadams

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Government Inspectors, Washington State Ferry Protocol, and the Legend of Hannah Hunt

It was just one of those beautiful Saturday mornings in Seattle, where every once in a blue moon, on EXTREMELY rare occasions, there’s a break from the constant rain fall that the city is known for and the summer sun shines bright through a cloudless sky.  You walk out the door facing the west and are greeted by the majestic Olympic Mountain range glowing across the Puget Sound onto the famous Seattle landmarks such as Pike’s Place Market and the Space Needle.  Take a look back to the east and there lays the bright and beautiful Cascades, separating the abundantly green and rain soaked forests of Western Washington from the harsh and desolate climate of the east side of the State.  And then to the southeast, there sits Mount Rainer, the grand daddy of em’ all in its full glory, beaming over the city and sitting dormant over the younger peaks, shining vividly behind the morning sun as it reflects off its blanket of snow that permanently covers the rocky sculpture.

 

The perfect Saturday for adventure, exploration, and indulgence of the final days of summer…  And I was on my way to work, just like a schmuck!  Just me and my senior technician and advanced material warrior Sheila to support the mission of the Navy and deliver the boat back out to sea from the emergent work recently pressed upon us.  If we failed, we were going to get crapped on big time.  And if we succeed, well, we’d still probably get crapped on, but it didn’t matter.  We were going in and giving it our all to support the mission, because it’s the right thing to do.

 

The morning went by and we blazed through our paper.  I mean, we were on a hot roll like butter!  Writing, reviewing, correcting, signing and finally issuing. We had done our job and it was time to go home, and it wasn’t even noon!  With no more issues, Sheila, our fearless material battler walked out the door.  “I’m going to check my facebook and then I’ll be out here,” I said as she waved goodbye.  What’s a few seconds to check facebook?  No big deal…  And then, within those precious few seconds, Sheila’s phone rang.

 

I was reluctant to pick it up, for I knew whatever came through the receiver would be pain and suffering, but being a man of honor, I picked up the phone.  Code 133, the government material inspectors, calling at the worst possible moment… and in shipyard terms, right on time.

 

Now, ask me a question about pipe stress, how much pressure’s involved, or velocity and flow, I’m there.  I use Bernoulli’s Equation like sailor’s use profanity, and twice as efficient.  But when it comes to material issues, I’m SOL, and without Sheila, I was cornered, faced with an onslaught of weapons they had no shame in deploying.

 

“We need a Certificate of Compliance for the ball valve…  This is MCD-B Material and must go through RIP-25 inspection criteria with SOC 12 attributes…  The VG SMIC code does not apply to for this application.  This material is cleaned per MIL-STD-1330 and is going into a MIL-STD-1622 System…  The material specifies CRES 304 but the physical and chemical composition leads to CRES 316…”  And on and on and on.  It was like they were speaking some foreign language, and I had to somehow decipher all the mumbo jumbo and get this material down to the shop for work and get it sent out to Guam by the end of the day!

 

Meanwhile, I have the material manager calling me every 10 minutes on my case for why the material isn’t where it’s supposed to be, the shop wondering why they haven’t started work yet, the project engineer putting in his two cents, and my Guam counterpart whom I call “The Yardman” eagerly piling on more work for us.  “Oh yea, Zack and Sheila, those guys can do anything, they’ll support you no problem.”  I appreciate the kind words, but I really could’ve gone for mediocre as I watched the last heat waves of summer slowly fizzle away from my cubicle.

 

The grueling material battle pursued throughout the afternoon, going back and forth, hitting brick wall after brick wall.  Every solution was met a demoralizing threat of losing my job, or being audited, or being critiqued, or being a total piece of crap.  They always have some stupid rule or regulation to rain on our parade with, and there’s only so much a man can take.  I was spent, totally depleted with any will to carry on and fight.  And I’m very ashamed to say, but I was ready to give up the fight.

 

“Oh gee, look at here, this is on the same contract of ball and seat kits we ordered a month ago, this material is ok after all!” Quality Assurance had an epiphany.  I had won, the material finally got sent to the shop, just in time for them to go home after 8 hours of sitting around on overtime.  But who cares? I was free to go, just in time to grab a Jimmy John’s Italian Nightclub sandwich, TBO with hot peppers and catch the 4:20 ferry back to Seattle.  All that was left was a report on our status to the Yardman.

 

“Oh by the way, Quality Assurance has a snubber valve that’s stuck in receipt inspection that needs to be shipped out Monday.  Can we count on you to support?”

 

“Are you freaking kidding me???  No way, not doing it.  Sorry.  ain’t gonna happen. Screw you guys, I’m going home!”  The phrase flowed through my mind as if I had recited it 1000 times before, and the Yardman was going to receive it, whether he liked it or not.  I opened my mouth and delivered the devastating blow, almost in the exact same fashion.

 

“Sure, I’d be more than happy to help you guys out!”  I answered.  Being a young impressionable engineer once again proved to be sucky, adding a two-hour delay to my Jimmy John’s indulgence.

 

It had been 11-hour of straight work, and I barely had the strength to catch the 6:40 departure.  Nonetheless, I putted into the ferry terminal totally drain, but with Jimmy John’s in hand.  I tore into that sandwich, the first grain of ecstasy since breakfast; and man was it good.  The organic compounds secreted into my mouth with each bite, reacting with my taste buds and sending a signal of culinary delight throughout my body.  I ate at a brisk pace, for I did not want this sensation to skip a single beat.

 

I was on the brink of complete satisfaction, down to the last two bites of my succulent sandwich, when a sudden unprecedented interruption thwarted my pleasurable dining experience.

 

“Nice Bike.  That one’s got some miles on it.”

 

I turned in observance of this mysterious voice.  A haggard looking old dude shot me a smile as if he’d just hopped his last train to make it out west.  Scraggily gray hair, a few missing teeth and screws here and there, probably lived under a bridge or two…  Pretty much a spitting image of Ben Woodward in 30 years. 

 

“Oh great,” I thought to myself.  I appreciated the kind words, for my bike is pretty awesome, but I knew all too well that he wasn’t going to stop talking.”  And that’s exactly what he did.  He talked…  About his prefrabricated house he was going to buy, how expensive Seattle is, how he was a Vietnam vet, how Christine Gregoire was a terrible governer, and on and on and on for over 10 minutes.  I waited and waited, listening to this guy, responding with platitudes, just to be polite.

 

“Oh yea, politicians are terrible people,” or “the Seahawks are doing pretty good this year,” or “Yes, Kanye West is the greatest musical genius of our generation.”  I responded, not really knowing if the response were appropriate, but too generic and truth-based to argue against.  Secretly however, I was just praying that the boarding bell would ring so I could devour the rest of this sandwich that was just torturing me as it sat in my hands uneaten. Forget water boarding, this was 10 times worse.

 

Finally as the buzzer rang and I was free from the shackles of the blabbering old man, I bolted on board in the most casual way possible to act like I didn’t care about getting on first, a common theme among shipyard workers while boarding the ferry.  In the morning it’s a mad dash to park your bike and grab your booth before the walk-ons snag it, except obtaining your seat is more of an art than a race.  You see, racing onto the ferry is frowned upon amongst the young professionals, and there’s a fine balance between running to your seat and acting like you don’t care about it, the later being the much more delicate.

 

And if your seat happens to be taken before you get there, you have to pretend like it doesn’t matter.  But deep down, everyone cares.  I mean, I sat and listened to Amarosa vent for over a half hour at work about some dingus who decided to start taking his seat every morning, not to mention the countless times that I’ve been absolutely up in arms because the weird guy whom we’ve named “Blade,” with his ripped up coat and balding hair style that looks as if he took chunks of hair and glued them to random parts of his head waddles on the ferry and snags my spot.  And because making a scene on the ferry is taboo, I quietly find another booth and let the incident eat me up inside throughout the rest of the day.

 

Luckily Blade wasn’t there this time, so I found a prime seat with ease before the walk-ons had their say.  Sadly though, it only took minutes for my position to be compromised as a large family with a dozen rambunctious kids found a booth next to mine. There’s nothing worse on the commute home than trying to take a nap after a punishing day at work with a couple of parents next to you who decided to bring their army of homegrown minions along, untrained in the ways of public obedience.  I could all ready hear the stomps and screams of the young punks raising hell all around my personal space, and had a 6th sense that the parents had no intention of disciplining their children throughout the trip.  I wasn’t having any of that this time. Not on this day!

 

I quickly relocated to a booth on the opposite side, where I was still in the vicinity of a few yappers, but nothing a veteran of the ferry commute couldn’t handle, as I popped in my headphones and dozed off into a slumber to the tropical rock riffs of Vampire Weekend.

 

I procured their most recent CD during my trek from Minnesota to Wisconsin via iPhone (the wonders of technology).  I listened to their hit “Unbelievers” on the car ride to the airport with my friend Cambra, and it got stuck in my head from there on out.  From that point on, I had to listen to it over and over as if it were an ode to my memories in the state of Minnesota, saying goodbye to one journey and hello to a slate of new adventures.

 

To be fair however, that wasn’t the first time I’d listened to that CD.  In fact, I had listened to it during another car ride to another airport with my older sister Alicia driving.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t give it the attention it deserved, for all I could remember of that trip was how bad I had to pee, and the stubborn sister who refused to stop at Hardees so I could relieve myself of the pain, and possibly grab a double XL fully loaded omelet biscuit.  Why not kill two birds with one stone??

 

She was very insistent on performing a hydrostatic strength test of my bladder during that car ride, which in the engineering world, is a test that’s performed on a component at 150% of it’s maximum operating pressure, just as an extra safety precaution.  Usually, these tests last about 5 minutes.  However she was determined to make this a 1-hour test, and I have to say I was getting kind of pissed off!  No pun intended.  Actually, people always say that, and I never took the time to research what the origins of that phrase are, or what it truly means, so I think I’ll go out on a limb here.  There was plenty of pun intended, as it ruined the CD for me for the longest time!

 

But as I awoke from my slumber due to the changes in speed as the ferry prepared to dock (after years of commuting, it kind of acts as a biological clock), the delay of me buying that CD due to my sister’s attempt to blow apart my bladder actually started to make sense in a strange way.

 

Hannah Hunt started playing, a song I had grown very fond of over the last few weeks, and at the exact time the soft piano riff mixed with calypso sliding guitar played into my ear, I looked out over the water and witnessed one of the most beautiful sunsets I can ever remember seeing in a city.  A blood red sky melted over the vast skyscrapers that mended into a purple haze between the cracks of the high-rise buildings, all peering through a small cluster of cumulus clouds.  And to top it off, the reflection of the water bounced off the glass windows of the towering structures, sending a green tint glowing throughout the appropriately named Emerald City.

 

And after a day where it seemed as if everything that could go wrong did go wrong, I finally had this moment of peace and serenity.  The calming tunes flowing through my head mixed with the beautiful scenery of manmade wonders all came together at a perfect time, where suddenly, God stopped the world for just that moment, all for me, after I having such a stressful and chaotic day.  It had to be a sign, and I took it as such, about how lucky I was to be alive in this moment, at this exact place, at this exact time.

 

And it’s funny how at times where your in hell and you think that there’s no way out of the madness that surrounds you, you can find comfort in the slightest things that make you appreciate the beauty of life.  The last time I remember having this feeling was during finals week in college, where I was working at ungodly hours on a project for my thermal systems design class, and I trotted to my partners house in the deep snow, carrying a backpack full of energy drinks to carry us on through the night.  It was a moment free of the tension of engineering calculations that had been polluting my life for the past month.  I looked up at the snowfall, the white mist, and the glow of light from the blanket of snow covering the Palouse at 2AM.  It was so calming, and brought great perspective to the world at that moment, making you realize the things you think are important to you can really be just miniscule in the grand scheme of things…

 

 “If I can’t trust you then damn it Hannah.  There’s no future, there’s no answer,” the lead singer lightly sang as I rose from my seat and proceeded to the car deck to hop on my bike.  Usually at this moment of the ferry ride, I’m pumping some Kanye, getting into the zone and ready to take on the world, when my Co-worker Justin taps me on the shoulder with some worthless remark that I don’t give a crap about.

 

“Hey, did you see the hot girl on the ferry with the backpack?  Huh huh, huh huh…”

 

“Yes Justin, I saw the hot girl, and I saw her the day before, and the previous day, and everyday before that whenever you point her out to me.  Thanks so much again for pointing her out and ruining the moment…  Again.”

 

But not this time.  There was nobody to bother me, and I strutted through the ferry with a stupid grin on my face looking like a weirdo, just like Blade.  I didn’t care the slightest bit.

 

The song kicked into the bridge, where a drum fill sets up a rockin’ piano solo with a burst of energy, all leading up to the grand finale where the singer reprises the chorus, belting it out at the top of his lungs!  I was going to bust out of that ferry terminal with a newfound passion in life, ready for anything to come my way.  I grabbed my bike with only seconds left till the finale.  I was shaking with excitement and anticipation for the chorus, about to have the greatest moment of my life…

 

And there he was.  The haggard old vet.  Staring right at me, as if he’d been waiting for me this whole time…  You got to be kidding me.

 

I prayed that he would mind his own business, as any desperate man does when he realizes he’s run out of options.  It’s all we can do.  Maybe to my luck, he wouldn’t have anything to say, and he’d let me be on my merry way.  But that’s nonsense.  You can’t just ignore the laws of physics.  And just as they proved, he opened his mouth.

 

I pulled out my Apple ear buds right before the grand reprise I’d been anticipating ever since that glorious moment of tranquility, as if I were saying goodbye to my son as he boarded the school bus for the very first time.  My heart sunk deep into my chest.  I was completely devastated.  My perfect moment over, and I didn’t have the audacity to break ferry protocol and blow the guy off.

 

Everything that was good about the day, the sunset, the song, the serenity, gone.  Totally evaporated.  Vanished.  Obliterated.  Destroyed!  Demolished!  Abandoned!  Left cut open in the middle of the desert and unable to move while vultures come every half an hour and peck at your internal organs that are baking in the smoldering hot sun, leaving you with a slow and painful death.  And very rapidly, I started remembering all the crappy events that had led up to this point.  All because of this one freaking guy who made me miss the best part of the song!  Don’t even get me sarted on the Jimmy John’s! 

 

I don’t remember a single thing from the conversation I was so mad! All I could think about was how much his words were tearing me up inside due to the fact that I couldn’t listen to the rest of my song and fulfill the glorious moment I was having!  First the Jimmy John’s, now this???

 

ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS LISTEN TO HANNAH HUNT!  IS THERE ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT???  JUST A FEW MORE SECONDS TO ENJOY MY SONG IS ALL I ASK OF YOU!  AND YOU FREAKING ROBBED ME OF THAT!!!  WHY???

 

Well old man, if you’re out there, who knows why you had to talk to me that day.  Maybe you took a look at your life and realized I’m a lot like you.  I hope you enjoy your new pre-fabricated house, because I certainly didn’t enjoy the rest of my day.  Ughz.

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Wisconsin: The Conclusion

A slight drizzle covered the lake house that somber Sunday morning in flawless fashion to supplement the mood of saying goodbye.  I had just spent an almost perfect week in the state of Wisconsin and now the thought of heading to work at 5 in the morning was all ready making my body cringe.

 

I took a moment to breath in a few last molecules of Chain o’ Lakes air, but due to the fact that I was “dilly dallying” (as my mother used to say) the night before, that moment was cut short, and a classic race against time scenario was in play to pack my belongings into my undersized carry-on and catch my plane.  To my luck though, I would find the Appleton airport to be much smaller in size compared to SeaTac, and navigating through security and to my gate was a breeze, turning my crush on time into a non-issue (after the fact that is).

 

I boarded the plane and found my seat, finally getting a moment to relax after the Chinese fire drill that consisted of me scurrying to the airport.  I leaned back and shut my eyes as the flight attendant instructed us of what to do in case we fall to our immanent doom…  And that’s when it set in.  My grandparents were selling the house.  It was the last time I’d ever step foot in that place ever again.

 

Immediately, memories started to flood my head, one after another.  I embraced the opportunity and pondered on each passing one, letting the nostalgia sink in before moving on to the next, further exploring the infinitesimal alleys of the mind…

 

 

I still can still remember walking into that house for the very fist time.  Through the eyes of an 8-year old boy, I saw a gargantuan castle on the water filled with secret passages, built in intercoms, and 1000’s of square feet to provide me with hours of exotic exploration.  Not to mention an arsenal of toys at my disposal: speedboats, inner tubes, noodles, a floating dock, fishing poles, paddle boats, you name it!  This place had it all.  And for a kid growing up in the 90’s, it was a Big F***in’ Deal (to quote our often candid vice-president)!

 

Us kids were wired from the get go the night the Bero’s and the Wohler’s came together for the first time to celebrate the holy union of my grandma and grandpa. Everyone had a lot to prove to each other, especially me.  I did my part by devising a secret scheme with the big boys to sneak into the girl’s bunk and pour water into all of their sleeping bags, leaving them completely miserable for their night’s slumber.  My stunt had gained enough respect from the older cousins that lasted through the wedding, however my cousin Brian and step-cousin Hans had different plans, for my devious plot was pork and beans compared to what they were about to pull off.

 

The adults that night found it in their best interest to separate themselves from their kids, which proved to be a foolish choice after Cousin Brian and Step-Cousin Hans found an empty champagne bottle, in which they proceeded to fill it up with a half and half mixture of 7-Up and Sunkist Orange Soda.  While Step-Cousin Hannah played a dramatic tune on the piano resembling a legato/minor ragtime feel, the two took turns taking pulls from the bottle, simulating the effects of two pre-teens getting completely plastered (pulling it off quite well actually).  It didn’t take long for their slurred words and stumbling about the house to make it to the upstairs in full view of grandma.  She cried out in disgust and embarrassment, especially after they spilled soda all over the carpet in front of the new members of our family, setting a perfect Wohlers example for years to come! 

 

Luckily for Cousin Brain, he’s always been grandma’s favorite, and can get away with just about anything, and Step-Cousin Hans wasn’t officially our cousin yet, so a high energy scolding was waived, and the two were able to continue with their wild antics with little consequence throughout the night, as well as future visits.

 

We learned a many great traits of the lake, including how to tube like a champ, the art of fish filleting with grandpa (in all honesty I never really got that one down very well), and even how to go pee when you’re out in the middle of the lake (consisting of draining the bladder into an old coffee cup and dumping it overboard).  Some of those skills came in handy when my cousin Kimmy and I took the paddleboat out to the floating dock and I caught a nice blue gill in front of a bunch of slightly intoxicated locals passing along in their pontoon (fortunately, I didn’t have to pee that time).  They cheered over my success, only to berate me when Kimmy unhooked the fish for me (I know right.  A girl unhooking a fish? It’s Crazy!).  APPARENTLY I wasn’t man enough to do it myself.

 

And somewhere along the timeline of our childhood Cousin Brain, totally oblivious to his surroundings, walked straight through the screen door in front of the whole family.  Everybody talks of the incident as if it’s the Holy Grail of events that occurred at the cabin, and for the longest time I pretended to know all about it.  But to be honest, I have no recollection of that ever occurring.  Not even of grandma blowing a gasket (And believe me, I would’ve remembered that)!  It kind of makes me mad, the fact that I’ll never fully relate to such an epic tale that will be passed down for generations, and that is still being retold to this day.  Maybe I’ll get over it…  Someday.

 

During one summer, my family and I drove all the way to Wisconsin from Washington, one of the best family vacations we ever had in my book (one where my little sis found the urge to bite into the bottom of a Styrofoam cup, spilling a quart of lemonade all over the Burb’s interior, but that’s a whole other story).  I was cruising in the back seat of our baby blue Suburban with my Pokémon (Red Version) Game Boy game with the mega-hits of the late 90’s blasting through the speakers, which was all I needed to last through the trek.  The hits included Smashmouth’s “All-Star,” The Abercrombie and Fitch Song, Pearl Jam’s “Oh where, oh where has my baby been,” and Six-Pence, None the Richer.  It was the peak of the 90’s Alternative Rock sensation as so elegantly reflected upon the styles of us teenage cousins and our excitement over Woodstock 99.

 

Once we arrived at Grandma and Grandpa’s that summer, the tunes got a little more explicit when I reunited with Kimmy, who had acquired quite the potty mouth since the last time we hung out.  Regardless of her tendencies to speak as if she had the mouth a sailor, we were busy rockin’ out to Limp Bizkit, Blink 182, and any other dirty band that Cousin Holly had introduced us to, for she was full blown into her pop-punk/hardcore phase at that point.

 

And when Cousin Brain showed up, all he could talk about was American Pie, and how it was the greatest freaking thing that ever happened in the 20th century.  For hours he was talking a million miles a minute, babbling on about who got naked, what ridiculous thing this one kid did, who said all the swears, and on and on and on…  Jesus Christ the guy wouldn’t shut up about it!  And I was hanging on his every word, totally obsessed.

 

“Shannon Elizabeth’s boobs?  He does what to a pie?”  Holy crap I was salivating!  The way he was describing it, I figured it was going to be this generation’s Gone With the Wind, and during the next year, I made it my goal to see this magnificent accomplishment of cinema magic, no matter the cost.  And as it turned out, when my best friend Austin Moody got his heart broken later that year, his mom felt bad for him and rented American Pie for us to watch.  It turned out to be everything my Cousin described it to be…  And so much more…

 

Once we finally bloomed into adults (about ten years later), we realized that no matter how much we had grown, some things never change.  With all of the cousins back at the cabin, we could only act mature for so long before something got out of hand.  It probably started during the bon-fire after I spent about an hour chasing Kimmy’s kids around.  “You’re it!” Carson would scream after an unsuspecting tag, followed by a most devilish laugh as if she knew she was going to put you through hell just to tag her back.  Miraculously, they would all tucker out and go to sleep.  But that’s when the real trouble would begin.

 

Tony (Kimmy’s Husband), Nick and I stumbled upon a stash of fireworks in the water sports shed after we had polished off a few brews.  “Yea!  Let’s light them off!  That sounds like a fantastic idea in the middle of the night!”  So we did…  ending up waking half the lake in the process.

 

The next morning, I walked into an overflow of verbal abuse at the house.  “What were you doing lighting off those fireworks?” my grandma sneered.  1: She didn’t have to scream and embarrass me in front of all my aunts and uncles.  I go through enough crap as it is.  2: She had absolutely no proof it was me who lit the fireworks off!  As soon as I walked in, she just ASSUMED I was the one who lit off the fireworks.  This is America for God’s sakes!  Innocent until proven guilty!

 

Yea, I lit the fireworks off, so?  I’m always the guy taking the blame, no matter what!  Maybe it’s me who causes the most trouble around the cabin, but regardless, it’s still a bunch of bull crap if you ask me!

 

Not all the trips to the Chain O’Lakes were of the recreational sort however.  In fact, some of those trips proved to be very humbling experiences.  One such occasion was when we joined together to mourn the death of my Aunt Cathy, who had passed from a long and painful struggle with cancer.  I’ll never forget the storm of emotions floating around that cold January weekend in 2011, all leading up to the NFC championship between the Packers and the Bears.  That Sunday, we gathered at the grandparent’s house and we watched the Packer game as a family, hoping and praying for a win, some type of sign to let us know that her spirit was still with us.

 

And when BJ Raji intercepted Jay Cutler’s pass and ran in for a pick 6, we went ballistic!  We recreated his famous “Teach me how to Raji” dance, and jumped all around the house, hooting and hollering, performing silly dances, doing push-ups…  Well, I think I was the only one doing push-ups and stupid dances (I don’t quite have all the details nailed down), but the one thing that was for certain was the explosion of positive energy that surfaced in that house when the Packers defeated the Bears, sending them to win Super Bowl 45.

 

After moments like that, I think it’s only natural to wonder if your loved one’s had a hand in that game.  Now it’s unlikely that the good lord meddles in the affairs of NFL teams, but victories like these remind us that our loved ones are always watching out for us, as was Cathy during the game, and will continue to do so throughout our lives.  It reminded me of her positive and easygoing spirit, for she never got too worked up over things, knowing that life was too short to waste getting upset over things that don’t matter in the long term.  Even in her final hours, we were told she was still cracking jokes doing her best to keep us from worrying about her fate.  I think she understood that this was just one step in a grander picture, and that we would all be reunited with her in heaven someday soon.  And until then, we should enjoy the small victories like seeing our favorite team reach the Super Bowl.

 

And as it turns out, it is those small things that will stick with me the most.  My grandpa’s off-colored jokes, for which it seemed as if he’d always have a new one ready for us to crack up at each visit.  Listening to that Rihanna song (Oh na na, what’s my name?) during my work out and runs around the lake, and enjoying happy hour every 4 PM at the house with the relatives, devising new tricks to getting under grandma’s skin (I should add that I have a pretty high success rate).  It’s as if they all come together in a grand picture to make up a culture, where it might not be just a single memory that you miss, but the overall feeling of being in a place you hold dear in your heart where so many special things have taken place.

 

And nothing cut deeper into my heart like the times when I could sit on the dock and watch the hot summer sun set on the lake, reflecting the golden rays of light back on the lakefront property.  There’s an amazing phenomenon that happens during a sunset, one of those things that settles the soul and brings serenity to your life at that very moment.  As if time slows down, and no matter how hectic life gets, you always have time to sit down and reflect on it whenever that great ball of burning mass lowers itself from the sky.

 

And for a final time one evening during my vacation, with an old fashion in hand and the new Daft Punk album pumping into my ears, I was able to do just that; Reflect, and write…   About life, love, how blessed I was to be in such a beautiful setting, and whatever else was going on in that crazy head of mine.  I reminisced about the importance of family and how my grandparents had provided us grandchildren with the ability to acquire such wonderful memories over the past 20 years.   A place where I truly felt at home and could flourish with my talents to unlimited bounds.  A place I had grown to love and would have to come back to, retaining the sprit of the Chain O’Lakes with me wherever I would go.

 

I thought about all of those memories and so much more on that plane ride back to Seattle, for so many things occur inside the human brain in such a short period of time, far too much for us to ever understand.  Your thoughts and senses cause reactions that send signals through your body that release different chemicals, causing us to react a certain way.  Whether it’s pain, happiness, anger, you name it. The brain controls it.  And the usual emotion that comes from reliving great memories in your life is a bit of sadness and depression, for you may miss those days, or possibly be horrified at some of the choices you had made.  But for some reason, I didn’t feel that at all.  Instead, after looking back at my time in Wisconsin, I felt an emotion that hadn’t been felt in a long time…

 

I became inspired.

 

I realized how much I had taken the lake for granted over the years; the cabin, all the toys, the boat, and the property itself.  All of that didn’t just appear for my family one day.  It came from the expense of hard work and sacrifice from my grandpa, who had a dream.  Working through the ranks in his career, and through his sincere dedication, he eventually became the president of his company and was able to provide his family with an unimaginable gift that we were able to enjoy throughout the passing years.  A place where my grandparents got to watch us play out on the floating dock, take us on pontoon rides through the lake, and send us to their secret fishing spots around the lake to come back with bucket full of blue gill for the evening’s fish fry.

 

A place where we would get in trouble and have the opportunity to learn from our mistakes, whether it’s lighting fireworks in the middle of the night, using an Ouija board and forever haunting the downstairs living room, or walking through a screen door in front of the whole family.  A place where we could laugh and love by singing songs and doing ridiculous tricks in your Speedo for passing boaters, or gather around the campfire to share your words of wisdom, such as the greatest movies of the 20th century, or just sit out on the lake during a summer sunset to appreciate the magnificence of life.  But most of all, it was a place that my grandparents could watch us kids grown into self-sustaining adults, forge life-long memories, and make us realize the importance of family and how great life can truly be with it.

 

It took me 20 years to realize how precious this gift was, and how grateful I was to be able to spend the time I did in such a wonderful place.  I didn’t want to see it go, didn’t want it to be the last time I’d ever see it.  So I became inspired; that someday, I could work hard and utilize my talents to become successful, just as my grandpa had.  That someday, I could maybe find my own special little place where I can bring my family and watch them grow up; where they can create their own memories to pass down to their children.  It inspired me to create my own destiny, that I can someday find my own house and cabin on the Chain O’ Lakes.

 

And while I’m finishing this post, I find it appropriate that I’m sipping on an old fashion, a perfect Midwest cocktail to compliment the memoirs of my epic Wisconsin trip.  It’s made up of a mix of cherries and oranges, two fruits reflecting the attitudes of the people of Wisconsin; a certain quaintness and sweetness that you just can’t find anywhere else.  The whiskey, which allows us to let loose every now and then, for there’s no need to be overly judgmental in the Badger State.  Add a little bit of 7-up, to provide a little excitement, in the same fashion every Wisconsin trip brings.  All poured over a cup full of ice to remind us how strong and lumber the people of Wisconsin are when they go through the great pains of enduring freezing temperatures and harsh winters to support the things they love and hold dearest to their hearts, kind of like they did during the ice bowl many moons ago.  And to top it off, add few sprinkles of aromatic bitter, for yes, life throws us curveballs from time to time, but mixed with a supporting family of tasty ingredients, we take it all in and remember that life is good, and will always be good in this gem of the Midwest.

 

So with my old fashion in hand, I would like to propose a toast.  Here’s to the great state of Wisconsin.  A state I can’t wait to come back to and make even more fantastic memories for the many years to come.

 

Till next time Wisconsin.  I’ll see you soon…

 

Grizzly Chadams

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