Author: grizzlychadams

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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Wisconsin: Part 3

It was the night after the Packer game…  And they lost… Big time.  17-0.  But it was preseason, so who cares?!!

 

It was just great to be a part of the game day atmosphere with family and friends and prepare for yet another season of hard hits and epic pigskin battles.  So we celebrated, Wisconsin style…  We went to the bar.

 

We walked into the Harbor Bar in style as if we owned the place, immediately grooving to the top 40 hits blasting through the speakers.  We mingled and drank with the locals; clad with green and yellow face paint all over our bodies, with of course the American Flag bandana wrapped around my forehead.  What can I say?  I love my country!

 

It didn’t take long for the drinks to start pouring, and the dance floor looked more and more appealing with each shot of Yager sliding down my throat.  I looked at Nick, and he looked at me.  We didn’t even have to say anything.  Our 6th sense beams of communication connected and we knew exactly what we were going to do.  “Lets do this,” I said, responding to his nod of approval, and we stepped out onto the waxed wooden floor, greeting a group of bachelorette party goers waiting for some Wisconsin bachelors to sweep them off their feet.

 

Within seconds we began to impress with our vast collection of dance moves, ranging from the Miley Cyrus twerks to the smooth and sensual hip flow from the “Teach Me How to Dougie” Era.  I even made my way back to my roots, the Western Swing, a dance I had mastered at a young age when my partner and I got 2nd place in Mrs. Lyons 6th grade dance contest (I still think we got robbed of grand champion, but that’s a whole other story).

 

It was then when she came up to me and brought her mouth close to my ear.  She had prepared a soft phrase; I think something along the lines of the music selection.  It was either that or my strong resemblance to Aaron Rodgers…  Probably the later.  We got to talking, which led to a drink.

 

“Could this be the one?” I asked myself.  Now this was no boundary babe by any stretch of the imagination, and she had a bit of an attitude, but she was pretty decent looking and was sporting some Packer attire, so I found it in my best judgment to afford her a piece of my time.

 

Her name was Erica, and she was definitely playing hard to get.  But I saw right through the guise and never lost my composure, even with the obnoxious idiot behind us throwing terrible pick up lines towards her.  He was desperate, so I just sat back and watched him dig his own grave.  He couldn’t have made it any easier for me to swoop in for the kill.

 

There I was, just about ready to lay down the finishing move when my younger sister approached the scene.  She’s a great soul full of energy, but still has much to learn, especially from me.  She took a look at Erica and gave her opinion, for which being a patriotic American and supporter of the First Amendment, I totally appreciate.  “She looks trashy,” she whispered in my ear.  Only one problem; her “Whisper” was heard all across the bar, and right into the direction of my new Wisconsin interest…

 

Long story short, that there went my chances.  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bummed out, but no matter what, you always have to side with family in situations like these.  I guess I’ll never know if Erica was truly the one…

 

No matter the circumstance, there was no need to fret over lost love at this time, for come morning it would be my last day in Wisconsin.  And I had to make it count!  Being an established beer drinker, I awoke bright and early at sunup with no consequences from the night before.  I wish I could say the same for little sis, but as I touched on earlier, she is prone to making foolish decisions from time to time.

 

And I’m sorry to say, but she wasn’t fooling anybody when she tried sneaking into the bathroom for a little relief of the bottle flu after a far prolonged sleep session past noon.  I’ll never quite know for certain, but I think it was the sound of her coughing up dinosaurs that bellowed throughout the halls of my grandparents that gave it away; fair retribution for ruining my chances with Erica.

 

“Hey how’s it going?” she tried pulling off with an innocent smile on her face towards mom and grandma…  Right after she had finished barfing her brains out in the toilet.  My mom and I looked at her and laughed our butts off.  My grandma acted like she didn’t know what was going on, but she knew full well the mess that Emily had gotten herself into.  I’m sure she’s gotten herself into a few messes from time to time.  It’s in our blood, and I know she totally related to the experience Em was facing when she blasted chunks of destruction into the transportation sector of Waupaca’s sewage treatment plant.

 

However, with a little help from her family followed by a pontoon ride around the Chain O’Lakes with Captain Brian at the helm, she was back and business and we were off to a great last day in Wisconsin.  The cavalry was out and about across the lake with everyone in central Wisconsin conversing to Waupaca to enjoy their beautiful Saturday on the lake.  And boy was I eating every up every minute of it!

 

It was a fun-filled day of chilling at the lake with our beer and kooskis…  POSSIBLY being a little heavy on the beer.  After sucking a few cold ones down and suffering nibble wounds from the baby blue gill roaming about the lake (the little bastards just kept biting at me!), I was out on the dock rockin’ out with in my Speedo with the ol’ guitar belting out the tunes of Neil Young, Nicki Minaj, and Carly Rae Jepson of “Call Me Maybe” fame.  The passing patrons were loving it, often stopping for a cheer or two, further adding to my confidence level.  And it didn’t stop there.

 

I continued with the entertainment, moving onto the floating dock by showing off my greatest diving board moves, from flips, to dives, and even some mega huge cannon balls.  I was doing it all.

 

Out in the distance, I spotted some honeys passing by on their kayaks.  We made eye contact, and with my 20/15 vision I could make out a slight blush coming from one of them.  It had to be my rock hard washboard abs complemented with my tight fit Speedo that they found so admiring. I guess those years of push-ups, planks, and sit-ups finally paid off.

 

My mind was racing for ideas for my next trick.  They were coming my way at a swift pace.  Impressing them rapidly became my number one priority.  I had almost conceived the perfect flip in mind and was on the verge of execution.  Then all of a sudden, a voice hollered from behind me, disrupting my much important concentration.

 

“Belly Flop!” it shouted.  I turned to my back to find the culprit.  I figured it would be a cowardly being hiding behind the oak trees that guarded the beachfront.  Instead, I saw Nick holding his beer in the air with a stupid grin on his face, proud of his clumsily made comment.

 

“Shut up Nick” I sneered back, but the chants kept on coming, this time from the rest of the cousins.  I was a second from swimming over and beating him up, when I heard more cheers, this time from the middle of the lake.  I looked back and there was a pontoon full of young bucks egging me on.

 

I was pretty upset at this whole conundrum I was in, the most upset I’ve been since my sister screwed me over with this girl named Erica; but at the same time, I was in total contemplation, for now there was a crowd to please.  I still remember the pain I went through at Kelsee Tower’s 6th grade graduation party (or 7th grade, anything before 8th grade is kind of fuzzy) when me, Ben Grimm, and some other dingus (I honestly forget the other boy was) decided to impress the girls with some belly flops in her pool.  Jesus Christ I remember it hurting like crap!  The worst part was, I had to act manly and pretend it didn’t hurt!  I was still a boy, and that kind of thing takes a toll during that part of your life!  Anyway, that was the last belly flop I ever did, and I vowed never to do another one as long as I lived.

 

But now the pressure was on, for another pontoon had shown up.  This time full of drunk buttholes, but still fans nonetheless who fancied themselves with the words “Belly” and “Flop” back to back and repeated over and over again.  It was getting harder to say no, but yet there was still not enough incentive to convince me it was a good idea.  So I stalled, hoping they would grow tired for their chanting and move on to the next thrill.

 

But these alcoholic lake venturers were determined, and the more I delayed, the harder they chanted.  AND to add to my luck, yet another pontoon showed up, further inflaming the excitement of the belly flop mantra.  “BELLY FLOP, BELLY FLOP!”  It got louder and louder, and from all corners of the Waupaca Chain o’ Lakes.  I swear people were reciting it from two lakes down.  They couldn’t see the action, but they knew something grandiose was about to happen, and wanted to be part of the experience.

 

In my world there are two types of pain.  The pain you experience after doing something foolish and not knowing of the consequences of your actions.  And then there’s the pain you experience with the full knowledge that what you’re about to do is going to hurt like hell, but it has to be done anyway, which takes much more courage than the prior.  And by God, I knew this was going to suck, but now with a crowd of 50+ waiting for the big jump and the kayak babes drawing closer in my line of sight anticipating the great performance, it was time to act, to sit up or shut up; and at this point I couldn’t let them down.

 

I took a deep breath and prepared myself for a leap that would send me into great agony, just like many of my heroes from the Green Bay Packers had faced in their moments where they had to make the choice of victory and sacrifice over failure and comfort.  I stepped onto the diving board, took a giant bounce, and launched myself into the air and into the spread eagle position, awaiting a dire misery for what seemed to last an eternity.  I was going down… And down… And down…  To meet my inevitable doom…

 

“PLOP!”  The sound of my bare belly smacking on the lake surface echoed across the lake as the pain of a thousand needles piercing my stomach vibrated throughout my skin, feeling as if I had flopped onto a bed of concrete before submerging into the murky water.  It was a struggle reaching the surface, for I could barely sense which way was up and which was down.  But from a will to see the beautiful Wisconsin scenery for at least a final moment, I miraculously arose from the dark depths of the lake to a crowd gone completely berserk.  Suddenly, the stinging sensation I had felt seconds before became miniscule to the glory I was receiving masked with a rush of adrenaline.  I had made the day of over 50 lake goers, 2 kayak babes, and a group of cousins who had initially summoned me to undertake this magnificent feat.  And with that feat, I was finally able to gather the respect I’d been seeking throughout the Fox Valley region.  My mother looked on, proud of her son and his most recent accomplishment, as if all of my previous achievements, getting my black belt, becoming an Eagle Scout, handing me my high-school diploma, and graduating from college had all lead up to this moment.  Something that Nicki Minaj would famously coin, “A moment she wishes she could have for life.”

 

It was almost a perfect day, minus the fact that I lost at a game of mini-golf that had taken place at the Tom Thumb mini-golf course, a Chain o’ Lake tradition as adamantly advertised at their club house.  Which wouldn’t have been so bad hadn’t it been for my little sister pointing out every time I missed a freaking shot!  “Oh gee Emily, I didn’t realize I missed the shot from the fact that my ball didn’t go into the hole.  Thanks for blurting it out Captain Obvious!”  Needless to say, I don’t need to go into too much detail about mini-golf.  It’s pretty boring anyway.

 

But no matter how unfortunate mini-golf was, my time in Wisconsin was coming to a close.  The next morning I would have to say goodbye to the wonderful state I had grown so fond of over the past week.  All good things must come to an end, but is it truly the end???

 

TO BE CONCLUDED…

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Wisconsin Part 2: The Green Bay Packers

Friday, August 9th, 2013

 

I will never know exactly what drove me to walk into my grandparent’s garage that morning.  I had no purpose to enter, but some supernatural source kept guiding me up the stairs and out the door.  They say the Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways, and could’ve very well pushed me into an event that I would not want to miss.  OR it could’ve been the evil spirits released when Cousin Holly convinced Cousin Erin and myself to use a Ouija Board, a decision I’ve regretted ever since which has cursed the downstairs living room for the past 15 years (I still can’t sleep in there to this day).

 

No matter the cause, I turned the doorknob and immediately sensed turmoil.  I entered to my grandma flailing her arms about in panic as if the sky was falling.  “NO!  STOP!” She screamed in blood curdling fashion, just like in the slasher flicks right before the killer slices his poor victim into pieces.  Part of me wanted to step away from the pandemonium right then and there.  I mean, what if there was a killer on the loose?  I didn’t want to be the next!  But I couldn’t leave my grandma behind like that.  I had to find out what was eating at her soul; what was driving her bananas.  I mean, what the hay…  We’re family!

 

When I turned to my right, everything started to make sense.  It was so crystal clear why she was acting so hysterical, as if she had heard news that Aaron Rodgers had just gotten into a car accident and was in intensive care…

 

My grandpa was attempting to park the Lincoln.

 

For some reason, the Mercury was parked in an awkward position where as the task of maneuvering the Lincoln through the garage and into its normal dwelling proved much more difficult than usual.  I guess I could blame my pops for that one, but then again, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be writing such an epic tale of miscommunication, one of the best recipes for failure in the business world.

 

 “To the left!  Stop! Back up! NO!”  My grandma was barking out orders so fast and so furious she could easily be mistaken for that Chef Ramsey guy on TV, and was driving my grandpa to shear madness.  He had endured a lot through the war, and she was inching him to the breaking point.  Her words and actions were becoming a giant blur.  Heck, even I was getting confused, but at the same time impressed at the sight of an 85 year old moving her arms and legs in the fashion of a Richard Simmons workout on crack!

 

My grandpa however was a different story.  All this bewilderment had pushed him to the edge.  “Screw it!” he mouthed through the windshield of the Lincoln right before he blasted his foot down on the pedal.  What followed was the sound of metal crushing on metal and a brand new streak of scratched paint etched onto the Mercury.  That was when all hell broke loose…  And my grandma lost her freaking marbles!

 

She was making noises I never knew existed!  The closest thing I could describe it to were the sounds in “Alien” where the baby alien pops out of the guy’s stomach.  But it was when she started smacking herself in the head with both hands when I knew action had to be taken, common sense for any person with an ounce of courage.

 

But that’s not what I did.  I just froze.  The world was crashing down all around me and I stood there, petrified.  “I couldn’t move a muscle!  “Wake up stupid!” I said to myself.  I needed a catalyst, something to strike a reaction to get my blood flowing once again.  Then came cousin Brian, true-blooded Eagle Scout and captain of the pontoon.  He maneuvered past grandma’s flying fists of fury and to the Lincoln to guide it back to its customary state.  Just the spark I needed.

 

With grandma’s attention diverted, I slothed across the garage and made my escape to the outside unnoticed, miraculously unscathed from the mayhem.  After taking a moment to digest what had just happened, I was reduced to the emotional condition that any man goes through after a near brush with death.  I started giggling like a little schoolgirl to the point where tears nearly streamed down my face.  And I couldn’t stop!

 

It’s one of the surreal survival stories that you just can’t make up.

 

I guess life throws us for loops sometimes, but we have to bounce back quick in order to press on and make it in this world, which can be said of the mangled Lincoln incident.  We had to move forward, for me, my sisters, Cousin Holly and her domestic partner Nick were on our way to see the Green Bay Packers at Lambeau Field!

 

Man we were all so excited.  So much that my older sister was almost charged with shoplifting at the supermarket right before the game.  Her mind was just racing like a racehorse at the thought of stepping into the great arena of beer, cheese, and athleticism.  Luckily for us, the people of Wisconsin are kind and understanding, and let us off with a simple warning, knowing how important this moment was for us; something you just don’t see in the other NFL markets (no offense to the other teams).  And thank God, for that!  I would’ve pulled a grandma if we missed the game just because she got sent to the pin!

 

Most people have heard of Green Bay because of football, but don’t understand and would never understand its captivating appeal unless they visited, for it’s unlike any other city with a professional football team.  It’s barely considered a city with its 100,000 residents, where the whole state of Wisconsin travels far and long to converge and watch their Packers on game day.  Where the towering skyscrapers surrounding the stadium in a metropolitan city are replaced with farmed planes and a suburban neighborhood, and your parking lot is a family’s backyard, located a  block away from the stadium.  You are greeted with open arms and are invited to use their bathroom, cook on their grill, and even join them for a miller light or two.  It doesn’t even matter if you’re rooting for the other team.  The Packer nation welcomes anybody with the respect they deserve, as long as the same decency is returned.  That is, unless you’re a Bears fan (Don’t even get me started on them.  They’re awful.  I kind of want to throw up thinking about it right now.  Yuck.  UHUAGH!).

 

Come game day, church’s rearrange their scheduled sermons, stores shut down, and the city of Green Bay along with its neighbors gather around to cheer for what is truly their team.  Not a team owned by a mega billionaire or controlled by corporate interests who give ridiculous names for their stadium just to promote their obnoxious products or company (Mall of America Field?  Gillete Stadium? Century Link Field? Sorry Seahawk fans but I mean, c’mon!), but a team that is bought and paid for through shareholders made up of members of the Packer nation, for which I am proud to say that I am a part owner.

 

The people’s team.  It’s what’s taught to the children of Wisconsin and decedents of Packer fans.  Bred in green and gold, they learn early on about the significance of their team, and what it means to be a part of it.  It is the only small town team that could withstand the turbulent years of the NFL when money was not accessible and the talent pool was lacking They were able to survive as an NFL franchise when no other small town team could, with its dignity still intact no less.  In fact, when the team was on the verge of going broke, the city came together and pitched in to cover all of the bills and expenses in order to keep the team alive.

 

Then there’s the legend of Vince Lombardi, a man faced with prejudice his whole life for having an “i” at the end of his name.  A man who fought tooth and nail to follow his dreams and become a head coach in the NFL, even if nobody was willing to give him the chance.  A man, who for when all the odds were against him, took a rag tag group of grunts, the worst in the NFL (and the only team that would take him) and turn them into the greatest championship powerhouse the game has ever had, all while becoming the most respected man in the history of the sport.

 

Or the countless stories fans have to share about their team passed down from generation to generation.  Spend enough time in Wisconsin and you’re bound to run into somebody whose family stories date back to the days when Curly Lambeau founded the team and can tell you of innumerable experiences of traveling to Green Bay to endure the freezing temperatures just to watch their boys battle it out on the frozen tundra; the most memorable being the Ice Bowl, an infamous game in which the Packers clashed with the Cowboys over a field that was completely frozen over with a wind chill temperature of nearly -50 degrees; a game where the Packers miraculously came back and scored a touchdown at the final seconds of the game to send them onto Super Bowl II.   A game that my grandpa attended, in which he had help enduring thanks to a bottle of whiskey.  I am still in awe whenever he tells of the story.

 

And even after attending one game (even if it’s only a pre-season game where they lose big time, or a playoff game where they go 16-1 for the season and then blow it), you realize that it’s more than just a game for the people Green Bay, Wisconsin, and Packer fans as a whole.  It’s a way of life.  A supportive culture of people who will go out of their way to make you feel at home and who will risk life and limb for their team.  It’s because the Packers are as much a part of them as they are to the players, coaches, staff and executives, and without their contribution, the Packers most likely wouldn’t even exist.  Green Bay would just be another small mid-west town, and the team would’ve moved elsewhere and would be just like any other big city team, which makes visiting Green Bay during a Packer game and going to Lambaeu an experience you can’t find anywhere else.  An experience I hope to share with lots of friends and family for years to come, and a tradition I plan to pass down to my children someday, as it has been passed down to me from members of my family.

 

So here’s to the beginning of football season.  Here’s to the memories it brings.  The good feelings, the bad feelings…  Here’s to the Green Bay Packers.  GO PACK GO!!!

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Wisconsin: Part 1

Is Wisconsin the best state in the Union?  Well, I don’t know if I can answer that with honesty since I haven’t been to every state, but this last trip to the badger state really left an impression on me.  And when I say impression, I’m talking the first time you listened to The Dark Side of the Moon impression.  Yea, it was that good.  Now you’re probably thinking Wisconsin’s just another typical Midwest state with a bunch of cheese.  But it’s so much more that, and nearly impossible to capture it’s prominence in just a few paragraphs.  But hey, I’m always up for a challenge, so here it goes.

 

I rolled into Wisco on a Tuesday morning, meeting my family at a paradise called the Waupaca Chain O’ Lakes where my grandparents reside in house on the lake with a little cottage on the side which has remained nearly untouched since its creation in the late 19th, early 20th century.  Now, a house with 150 feet of lake front property plus a cozy cabin on the side would be a dream for any American to own, which was the case for my grandparents.  However, their ever-increasing age has prevented them from being able to keep up with this beautiful piece of prime real estate.  Therefore, it must be sold, and knowing it was the last time I may ever get to step foot in such a place that has been such an amazing part of my life, I had to make this experience count, in the best way possible.

 

Shortly after my arrival, I took a seat at the fire pit located halfway between the beach with a floating dock a short swim away and the porch of the cottage.  Sitting across from me was my mother, and I believe we were discussing the hit song of the summer “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, which happens to be her favorite song right now.  Now back in my high school days, she would’ve slapped me for listening to such a song with lyrics like “What rhymes with hug me” and whose music video has naked girls running about, but she seemed to be well aware of both scenarios, and was ok with it, which still baffles to me, but that is neither here nor there.

 

Down the stairs from the deck of the house comes my cousin’s daughter, Taylor, one of the toughest cookies east of the Mississippi.  The kind that doesn’t take crap from anybody.  My previous encounters with Taylor have resulted in dirty looks, where she squishes her face and sticks out her tongue, disgusted at the sight of a strange relative attempting to make conversation.  And who can blame her?  I can’t imagine what a 2nd grader of her stature has to put up with during school hours with all the unruly kids running amuck.  She has to have an attitude in this day and age.  It’s the only way they survive.

 

It is even rumored that she once beat one of her classmates up, just for the fact that he was a boy.  I can’t confirm the story to be true, but I have no reason not to believe it.  In fact, I do believe it.

 

But even the mightiest of 8 year olds occasionally let their guard down, even if it’s only for a second.  She approached my mother and I and shot me a look of confusion. I sat there, anticipating the devastating insult that would soon be thrown in my face.  “Just get it over with,” I thought to myself.  I knew it was going to hurt, but how much?

 

She opened her mouth and I braced myself for the finishing blow.  The subsequent words pierced my heart as if it was made of warm butter.  A phrase I would never forget for the rest of my life.

 

“Are you Aaron Rodgers?” She asked.

 

Aaron Rodgers.  The quarterback of the Green Bay Packers, and critically agreed THE best quarterback in the NFL today.  It was a question so innocent, so sincere, and so genuine.  A smile formed from ear to ear across my face, for it was quite possibly one of the greatest questions I’ve ever been asked.

 

No matter how mean she can be, how many times she bosses people around or intimidates you with slaps and bruises, Taylor will always be ok in my book.  And from that moment on, I knew it was going to be one of the best vacations ever!

 

Shortly after the infamous incident, I joined my older sister along with her newly pronounced fiancée to the harbor bar, a local watering hole that I’d be frequenting often during my stint in Waupaca, where you could pull up by pontoon and be served right there on your boat.  It was awesome!

 

There again, I received another comment on my resemblance to Aaron Rodgers.  This time from a 50+ year-old cougar.  She wasn’t exactly my type, but nonetheless I was quite flattered, so we chatted about all of the famous NHL players she lived next to and how I should check out all their houses and stop by for a drink and say hello.  Yade yade ya.  I wasn’t really paying that much attention.  I was just stoked on the fact that I had been in Wisconsin for less than 4 hours, and everybody I ran into thought I was Aaron Rodgers.

 

Now in Wisconsin, the Packers are more than a football team, and people loose their freaking mind over Aaron Rodgers.  But I’ll talk about that at a later date.  I could write a mega novel about Aaron Rodgers and the Green Bay Packers that would make any piece of Ayn Rand literature look like child’s play.  The important thing to understand is that all of this Aaron Rodgers talk made me brew up an idea.  An idea that was too good to pass up.  Now a lot of my ideas spring up at the whim of a moment, and most of the time when this happens, and after I’ve had a little while to think it through, the idea ends up being bad, and the consequences are brutal.  This was one of those times, except I didn’t have time to think.  I just had to act, even if it meant receiving a giant scolding from my mother.  It was a risk I was willing to take.

 

I walked up the staircase to my grandmother’s living room and got into character.  God bless my grandma, I love her to death.  BUT she can be ruthless sometimes, and for that reason, I make her life a living hell whenever I’m around.  It’s the only way I know how to tell her that I love her and that she’s the best grandma I still have.  And she loves Aaron Rodgers to death.  More so than all of her grandchildren.  Combined.

 

I enter the house in a state of gloom.  My grandma looks at me with concern.  “What’s wrong honey?”  She asks.

 

I delivered her a stare that would slay the likes of Chuck Norris.

 

“Oh grandma, you didn’t hear?  It’s all over the news…  Aaron Rodgers just got in a car accident.  He’s in critical condition.  He may be paralyzed…”

 

“OH NO!” She replied in a most somber fashion as she lowered her head into her arms, tears ready to burst from her eyes at any moment.  She was absolutely devastated.  Within the two seconds that I could stand to contain myself from bursting into uncontrollable laughter, I saw her age about 10 years to the point where I nearly gave her a heart attack.  But I couldn’t resist the temptation.  I fell on the floor and laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.

 

“You little Sh**!” she scowled at me in fury, waving her arms in a shooing motion.  If you ever make your dad swear, you know you were in trouble.  Your mother, you best be running for the hills, because your ass will be met with the spanking stick… IF you’re lucky.  But every time I’ve made my grandma swear, I feel as if I’ve received the Medal of Honor.  I smugly trot about and brag about the incident, while others around me hang off my every word from the back-story of receiving such a prestigious award.

 

To be fair to my grandma, she was in disbelief at the fact that I had once again fooled her after years of torment.  She ought to know better by now, but it’s those few determined souls whose creativity flourishes to find a way around, time and time again.  If I could, I would visit my grandma every day, but unfortunately I fear that she would drop dead after a month of relentless grief.

 

That night, after having a fantastic fish fry at my Uncle Mike’s followed by some serenading songs on the guitar, and probably one too many old fashions, I took a moment to sit at my grandparents dock to reflect upon the events of the day. Out in the distance across the lake, something caught my eye.  It was a glitter of flashing lights in the distance towards the east as if there was a rock concert smack dab in the middle of Appleton Wisconsin.  But why Appleton?  And why was it so big?  “Oh well,” I said to myself.  I just didn’t care enough to investigate the situation and thus made the decision to retire into a deep slumber…  A decision that I would soon learn to regret.

 

3 hours later, I awoke to disorder.  Violent chatter, blinking lights; I had no idea what was going on, for my mind was functioning at a half-conscious state knowing full well that chaos was hammering me from all directions, but at the same time, I was still dreaming.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t talk.  I couldn’t wake up…

 

I was freaking out man!

 

Pounding rain continued to blast the walls, and the sound of 1000’s of gun shots tormented me continuously minute after minute.  With my mind running a million miles an hour I tried to make out where I was, but from the evidence I could gather from all the pandemonium, the most logical location I could muster in my head was a mix of being trapped in a tent at the boundary waters during a flash flood that was being pummeled with World War II mortars, sending the tent walls crashing down at any moment.

 

“BOOM!”  A thunder crash sent me kicking and flailing in the upstairs bedroom of the cottage.  I glanced out the window.  Lightning was flashing so fast it look as if there was a mega-sized strobe light pulsating in the middle of the lake.  From the sound of horizontal rain drops slamming against the cottage and wooden debris ripped from trees that have stood their ground since the colonial times, the most rational idea would be to get the hell out of there, cause this place was going to tear apart at any moment.  But I couldn’t resist.  The sight was just too intriguing.  I had to watch.

 

The sky was perfectly layered with clouds swirling about like the Milky Way galaxy.  Rain shot at the windows so fast I was amazed it didn’t shatter the glass.  “An alien invasion” I thought to myself.  I honestly thought for a moment that aliens were coming down to take us over, and the worst part was that I was content with it!  But I knew better.  I saw the debris of busted up sidewalks and uprooted trees in Minnesota, and have heard of such phenomenon in recent days.  This was a good ol’ fashion Midwest storm; one that caused a blackout across the Fox River valley of Wisconsin.

 

I was in awe of the havoc rustling about, and stayed up for over a half hour watching as Mother Nature destroyed the weak vegetation standing in her wake.  With the natural strobe light erratically gleaming and an occasional howl of thunder, she would toss around the lakeside remains at any and all manmade structures sprawled around the shores of the lake, sending a message to remind us that she would always be in charge, and never be stopped…  No matter what.

 

It was quite a show, but the storm started to die down to a manageable rate whereas I could slip back into bed.  It was then that I had an epiphany.  I shot up, my mouth agape, heart pounding.  It was a realization that paralleled the invention of the light bulb by Thomas Edison, and the light bulb burned bright in my mind, guiding me towards my next move.

 

“MY CLOTHES!” I exclaimed as I scurried down the steps out onto the porch…  and into a giant puddle of water.  The porch, only protected by a screen, had let a flood of water seep through, covering everything in its path.  And it was on that porch where my entire catalog of valuables laid…

 

My clothes?  Completely soaked.  Guitar?  Drenched.  Dad’s super crossword puzzle book?  Destroyed.  Hot sauce?  Lost cause.  iPad?  Too bad.

 

What a bummer buzzkill to an almost perfect first day in Wisconsin.  But if you know me, I never let the turkey’s get me down for too long.  My iPad survived, and my clothes along with the guitar eventually dried out.  I was rocking and rolling again in no time, and the Armageddon hot sauce still had enough kick to send me into a hallucinogenic state the day after when applied to my famous hot wings, in which I would end up sitting against the wall uncontrollably shaking, mumbling gibberish of how much I loved my Grandma and that I’m going to miss her when I’m gone.  You know, the type of stuff you say right before you’re going to die.  So all’s well that ends well!

 

But it wasn’t quite over yet.  Soon, myself along with a few choice family members would venture to a land of sacred ground and significance to the people of Wisconsin.  The Mecca of the Mid-West.  Lambeau Field.  We were going to see the Green Bay Packers…

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

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The Boundary Babe

The Boundary Waters, an ecological paradise located in the remote wilderness of northern Minnesota near the Canadian border, where most forms of technology, including motorized vehicles are prohibited, and for good reason. To travel, you must canoe from site to site in which expeditions can take multiple hours, and sometimes a full day. This includes the occasional portage, which involves carrying your canoe over your head along with all of your belongings over treacherous terrains and distances that can be nearly a mile long, depending on your location.

This type of trip is not for the timid. However, the accolades of completing such an excursion are beyond the capacity of history’s greatest minds, including Steve Jobs, Albert Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Benjamin Franklin, Kanye West, and William Shakespeare.

And perhaps the greatest of these accolades is gazing upon the appearance of true majestic elegance. A vision that makes the heart instantly skip a beat and the stomach swell with butterflies that have been given lethal doses of meth-amphetamine. I’m talking about the first time you lay eyes on the exalting figure of a pure specimen in her natural state. I’m talking about, the Boundary Babe…

So what is a boundary babe exactly? Well, if you look up the definitions, you’ll find the following:

Boundary: Something that indicates bounds or limits.

Babe: A girl or woman, especially an attractive one (slang definition)

But a Boundary Babe… Well, I wish it were that easy…

You see, it can take years, even decades to fully understand what and who a boundary babe is, but only mere moments to appreciate their presence. Babes come in all different forms.  They can be of the sort of a girl in the workout room in a spandex outfit with big bo… eh, ahem, ayayaya (see The Girl in the Workout Room)… OR a cutie, who despite her poor attitude, you give her the time of day for sporting the colors of the world’s greatest football team (which is the Green Bay Packers, just to be clear, see Wisconsin, Part 3 for full context). However, one thing is for certain… You never forget the first time your see a boundary babe. And trust me, you will know instantly the moment one crosses your line of sight.

If you ever come across a Boundary Babe consider yourself fortunate. Two, now that’s rarity… and a blessing.

 

***

 

To be a boundary babe, you must be ready to accept adventure at the whim of an instant. It may take a wild one who is able to gracefully walk out the door with only two hours of sleep, gladly accepting the challenge before her.

They are tough, driven, and determined, and can endure any type of hardship or weather. However, they also have heart and understand that weaker members of their party may need a little extra energy and encouragement from time to time. So asking them to stop at a Hardees in Hinkley, Minnesota for a double XL fully loaded omelet biscuit may not be the most ideal, but will be an acceptable sacrifice in order to build morale and productivity for the group as a whole.

A boundary babe will never give up… under any circumstance. Though fatigued and malnourished, she will navigate through violent waters for hour’s non-stop until she finds the perfect spot to settle for her crew. And when it becomes apparent that the outfitter has failed to provide her with the basic necessities for survival, she does not panic. She does not fret. And most importantly, she does not complain. The boundary babe is forever thankful for the gifts that Mother Nature has provided her, and does not need the luxuries of cooking stoves or other modern amenities to produce fire and provide her party with dinner, for she will survive with the resources laid out in front of her with comfort and glee. She will even go as far as to share her last portions of puppy chow to satisfy the less experienced of the group, if absolutely necessary.

There is no portage too long, too steep, or too difficult for the Boundary Babe to conquer, for she will risk life and limb to carry a 70 pound canoe on her shoulders across a land mass of steep cliffs, piercing trees, and limited visibility without hesitation. If she happens to falter, you dare not ask her for help, for this task is hers, and hers alone to accomplish, and she will carry on with honor and pride, as if her name is Atlas, holding the world upon her shoulders. Only this Atlas will never shrug off the weight… under any circumstance.

One must understand however that a boundary babe will not always deliver you a warm reaction. They do not put up with incompetence, nor do they take unnecessary crap from anyone. They may demean you for actions such as forgetting how to tie the knot that holds your canoe to the Subaru, or waking up multiple times during the night for water because you may have decided to drink a little too much Jagermeister before bed, causing a ruckus in the tent where the team dwells. And don’t even think about asking them silly questions such as “are we having peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch?” Especially if it was you who packed the lunch and you all ready know the answer to be a firm and astounding, “No.” You will only trigger a fiery response so fierce and demoralizing that it would bring tears to the eyes of the most stoic of grown men.

This attitude is not meant to belittle or disparage, but instead intended to make the rookies of the group grow stronger in their boundary experience. They know that only the durable and mighty can survive out in the boundary waters. Aka, no room for wussies (Ben Woodward’s), and they will do all that is necessary to toughen you up, testing you every step of the way until you have proven that you are able to endure the challenges that the Boundary Waters will bestow upon you.

And if you manage to overcome the challenges faced along your adventure, your hard work and determination will not go unnoticed. The boundary babe believes in redemption, and will reward you for your efforts to become worthy of such an experience, in much the same was you felt as a child, looking out with wonder upon a freshly placed mountain of presents under a tree on Christmas morning.

This feeling can come in the most common form of being within a natural habitat, watching a sunset cross over a pristine lake that has barely been touched by the fouls of civilization. It is so crystal clear, that you can see an impeccable reflection of the sky, untouched forest, and surrounding geography to the point where you can hardly tell which way is up and which way is down. All of this complimented perfectly by the company of two babes who have prepared the perfect thanksgiving meal, in which no words need to be uttered to express your thanks… The simple beauty that surrounds you is the only explanation needed.

And when the night falls, they will take you on a boundary cruise, canoeing through a pitch-black field of liquid purity to gaze upon a blanket of stars laid above them across the sky. They brush the possibility of death; navigating with a natural, pinpoint precision through blind waters just so you can discover the elegance of God’s creation. This magnificent display, both out of this world and sitting in a canoe next to you makes you realize that it’s moments like these that make life worth living for; moments you will cherish for the rest of your life, with the hope and possibility that one day, you may once again experience a similar glory that has been bestowed upon this Earth.

And once the journey is over, and you’ve stepped out of your canoe for the final time, haggard from the arduous trek back into modern society, you take a glance at the Boundary Babes following closely behind. You see their arms caped in red, bulging bumps from the non-stop attacks of blood-lusting mosquitoes, their legs covered in scrapes and scratches from their odyssey across thick tree brush to gather as much firewood as possible to offer temporary comfort after a long day of scouting for camp sites, the knotted state of their hair from days without a proper shower, and the dirt smeared all across their face from the hell they have endured in order to reach a destination that resembles heaven on Earth…

It is a sight like this that takes your breathe away, for you realize that the Boundary Babe leaves the Boundary Waters in a state more stunning and more dashing than the moment when she first entered the canoe to venture out into an unknown landscape that so few have ever had the luxury of ever witnessing. It is then when you realize the potential of true beauty. Not from plastic surgery and globs of make-up, nor from an advertisement of a paper-thin model plastered across a billboard, but from the inner beauty that blossoms from the euphoria of observing an area of the world so unadulterated and unknown to the human race, mixed with the beautiful smile of a soul who has been freed of the toxins polluting the modern world.

The truth is, I could write an entire thesis describing the grace and refining qualities of a Boundary Babe, and it still wouldn’t do the justice she deserves. The only way to truly know who and what a Boundary Babe is, is to experience the Boundary Waters yourself with one by your side (or two if you’re EXTREMELY lucky).

So I encourage anyone with enough will and enough courage to create your own adventure out to the Boundary Waters, to find your own Boundary Babe, and to make your own memories that will forever change your perception of beauty; memories that will change your life… memories that you will preserve for the rest of your days until the Great Father takes you home.

 

***

 

So how do you answer the question, “What is a Boundary Babe?”

Easy. The best kind there is.

 

-Grizzly Chadams

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The Legend of the WIng King

When confronted with defeat, there is one of two roads that your enemy will travel.  The high road is the one of acceptance, where after a long fought battle, giving it their all to the very end, they know that they have been beaten by an opponent whose strength and wits overcame their own.  You may not like this enemy, but damn it, you most definitely respect him.  Both parties leave battle more hardened, knowledgable, and as stronger opponents, looking forward to their next meeting.

The other road is one in which the loser kicks, screams, cheats, lies, and does everything they can not to accept their defeat, even after the battle has been long over.  These are the sore losers, the one’s that rob you of an honorable win and the piece of mind one deserves when they know they fought with integrity and honor, but just came up short.

That night, nearly a year ago from this day, I realized that I had met the most atrocious of these enemies.  They made sure that I would feel their defeat for days to come.  So there I laid, sprawled out across the bathroom floor, trembling, arms grasped around the toilet as if I was holding on for dear life, which I was.

“JULIAN!” I cried out to my roommate below me facing the same sort of pain.  He couldn’t her my cry, for that pain that was coming from the disintegrating walls of my stomach turned my cry into a mere whisper, much in the same fashion as Rose cried out for Jack at the end of Titanic while floating in the ice cold water.  Only hers could never compare to what us soldiers went through on that horrific evening…  The day we took the 7-7-7 wing challenge.

That’s 7 7-alarm wings in under 7 minutes.  Sounds easy right?  Not so fast.  Even our months of training with the hottest of hot sauces, including Widow, Dave’s Ghost Pepper, Rectal Rooter, Death Wish, Hot Ass Devil Juice, and Ass Reaper just to name a few couldn’t have prepared us for the dread that was to come.

It was a warm and sunny first Wednesday of August, proved by my polo shirt drenched in sweat from the two mile bike ride up the notorious pike street hill from work.  The 2012 Summer Olympics had begun, the United States kicking ass as usual, led by the swimming sensations Missy Franklin, Ryan Lockte, and Michael Phelps.  No time to think about that however, for Big Sean was all ready yelling obscenities for my tardiness, and Tristan was well into his bottle of whiskey, the only way to cope with the stress and nervousness the big event.

I quickly changed from my work clothes to a tank-top and cut-offs.  Julian, Tristan, Big Sean and myself were ready to go.  Quinn would be meeting us at the locale.  The only thing left was to rendezvous with our comrade Ben Woodward.  I made the call, but there was no answer.

“Julian, have you heard from Ben?”  I asked.  Apparently, Ben Woodward had gone AWOL, and had not been seen or heard from all day.  Multiple attempts to contact him had only resulted in failure, and it seemed as if our once trusted ally had turned his back on us, leaving us to face our challenge one soldier short.  It was one of the most infamous acts of cowardice I had ever witnessed in my lifetime, and although I was utterly disgusted at his actions, I did what any great commander would do, and lead our platoon into battle with strength and courage.  Besides, we don’t have room for sissies like that.

The team walked into the Wing Dome: Zachary Michael Andrews, Julian Strait, Quinn Obenoff, and Tristan Clayson-Porter with our body-guard/manager Big Sean to fans all ready in attendance cheering us on.  They included Sara Thompson, Zoe Lammar, Laura Calriaso, and Reva Keller among others.  Our demeanor was calm, but our nerves on edge.  Our months of practice and preparation had come down to this moment.  There was no turning back.

“What would you like to order?” The waitress asked.

“We’d like to take the 7-7-7 wing challenge please,” Julian replied.

“Haha, you can’t be serious?”  Every one of us shot her a look as if she had just offended our recently deceased grandmother.  We weren’t joking around, and frankly, were quite annoyed at the attitude our waitress had presented us so early into our meal.  My eyes grimaced into hers, ready to snap at any moment from such crummy service.

“Oh, well, its just I don’t know if the cooks will be able to set up the challenge, we’re short staffed and don’t have enough ovens working tonight.”  Bull crap.  What a sorry excuse for redemption.

“Could you please check mam?” I responded.  Although she was quite rude, it would not falter our emotional stance, for we had worked too hard to let one terrible individual ruin our night.  Besides, you never piss anybody off that’s handling your food.  Any ol’ dingus knows that’s a bad idea.

After a 10 minute break and a signed waiver, she came back with four plates of the 7-alarm wing concoction: A habenero chili pepper soup with 7 chicken wings buried inside.  The challenge was to eat the wings, soup and all.  This waitress was pissed, and she was going to take it all out on us.

There the plate of liquid death lay in front of me.  My heart was beating faster than a jackrabbit, but for the sake of my fellow allies, I kept my composure.  It was go time.  We gave each other the ready look, then TING.  The timer sounded.  We were off to the races.

First wing.  Easy.  This challenge was going to be a cake walk.  Sure it’s spicy for the untrained mouth, but we had been serving ghost pepper wings for ages now, and there’s no way these were going to stop us.

Second wing.  Now things were heating up.  I glanced at my fellow members who were chowing down in the zone.  The wing zone.  This one was a struggle, but nothing I wasn’t prepared to handle.  So down it went.

I bit into the third wing…  And then it hit me…  Like a wrecking ball to the face.  Thousands of fire ants gnawing away at my lips, mouth, face, and any other region of my body where the wing sauce had landed.  The pain was nearly unbearable, but I proceeded on, slowly but surely.  Each bite exponentially more devastating than the prior.

In my ear was Big Sean, pushing me to endure the pain and to press on with moral support.  Only his words were in the form of “C’mon you wimp,” and “Don’t be a pansy,” and just replace “wimp” and “pansy” with other obscenities that I would never dare say in front of my mother.

I looked to my left.  Quinn was totally motionless, on the verge of cardiac arrest.  It was his only defense excruciating pain of liquid lava pouring down his throat.

Darting back to the right was Julian, waving his head back and forth like the head bobbing kid in class, trying to do everything in his power to keep awake during the lecture.  But no matter how hard he tried, it’d only be a matter of time before he’d pass out and make an ass out himself in front of the class.  As was the case with Julian.  He wanted this bad, but he was going delusional.  He would’ve gone to the death, but a last string of wisdom seeped through his glorious Fabio-like locks and into his head and told him to stop.  The great sexy Julian had had enough wings for one day.

3 wings down and I braced myself for the impact of a fourth atomic explosion inside my body.  I looked at the waitress and she pointed to the clock, shaking her head with shame.  There were only three minutes left, and I had 4 wings to go.  “Damn it!” I cried out as I banged my fist on the table.  The little snoot was right.  I could put my body through unnecessary torture, but there was no way I was going to win this challenge.

I had nearly lost all hope.  I’d almost rather die than have that twit of a waitress prove us wrong.  But as I looked up to accept an inevitable defeat, there was Tristan, nearly 5 wings down, and from some Godly act of prowess, still powering through.  The rest of his squad wiped out, he stood alone, defending his post.  He would only accept victory, just like John Bastione 60 years prior fighting the Japs in the Pacific Theatre during World War 2.

2 minutes and 2 wings to go.  The whole restaurant eye’s were glued to this one man, including mine.  And the swears were flowing out of his mouth faster and more violent than the Mississippi River during flood season.  A father and his son watched in amazement.  Any other situation would’ve resulted in complaints and ear covering.  But the father knew that his son needed to hear the battle cries of a true hero, and the little boy looked up at this hero; for one day, he would strive to be as courageous as the man devouring the death wings before him.

Less than a minute down and he was on his last wing.  We were sweating bullets.  We needed this, but more importantly, he needed this.  For glory, and for honor.  A scoop of the lasting fiery soup was forced down his throat along with a few scraps of chicken meat.  Nothing was left, of the meat, of the death soup, and of Tristan.  He had dropped into convulsions, his only movement  being bounces from the boiling acids reacting with the killer crushed peppers inside his stomach.

Then he stopped.  The crowd looked in despair at the fallen solider.  He could not move a single muscle in his Coma-like state.  The father held his boy tight at the horrific sight in front of them.  A tear streamed down the face of the waitress, knowing she had spent her life putting down the people she needed most.  Nobody was sure of his survival.

“What have I done?” I blurted.  We all held a share of responsibility for the suffering of our friend.  The patio was dead silent, so much that you could hear a pin drop crystal clear.  The tension so tight, that it could be cut with a butter knife.

“Was it really worth it…  For this?”

A few sputters left his throat and entered our hearts in the form of hope.  He wobbled up from his dazed state, emerging back to prior position, the crowd at the edge of their seat.  Big Sean raised his arm, and the restaurant went nuts, more so than when Missy Franklin won the 800m women’s freestyle a day before.  Our friend, had risen victorious…  Risen a king…  A wing king…

OUR KING, TRISTAN CLAYSON-PORTER!!!

A standing ovation ensued, well deserved.  Most people will never have the luxury of witnessing a milestone of mankind’s ability to endure pain and promote courage, let alone see it again in their lifetime.  And there we were, standing proud next to a symbol of greatness.  He had put the team on his back, just like Marshawn had done.

Moments later he will have given a once pristine restaurant bathroom a coating of projectile, spewing like ol’ faithful as the demons were released from his body, and off we were to our home to rejoice in his victory.  The celebration was short lived however, for it would be only a matter of time before our enemy would retaliate from both the northern and southern front.

And retaliate he did, in an ugly fashion that could be classified as nothing but unpredictable.  He had crept up on us during our slumber and launched a final offensive, blasting away at our insides.  I crawled to my respective post as did my fellow soldiers and waited in horror as the wave of attacks ensued throughout the night.  It truly was hell inside my body, so I equipped myself with a bottle of pepto-bismol and suffered until the enemy had lost all of its juice, finally blasting itself out of my body once and for all.

I awoke that morning in awe that I had survived, still scarred from the battle the day before, but able proceed forward.  I thought about the pain and suffering that I had endured, and realized, it was only a fraction of what the wing king had suffered through that same night.  But there he was, standing tall, showing no sign of weakness, like any great king would.  It was then and there where I thought to myself, “There’s a man I would follow into battle.  A man that is worth fight for, till the death.”

It has been nearly a year since that fateful night, and the flashbacks still haunt me to this day.  I would never want another soul to go through the same pain and suffering as we had on that dark day of history.  But, if there ever is a time that the we are asked to return to the battlefield, I would answer that call in a heartbeat, as long as I could stand side by side with our fearless leader to do what is necessary.  What is right for the sake of humanity.

Long live the wing king.

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Where to start…

So looking back at my brief stint on this planet, I’ve ran into a couple interesting encounters with people, places, and lifetime events.  Sometimes, I try to tell them, and most of the times it comes out as jibberish.  So I thought to myself “Hey, I’m a much better writer than speaker, so maybe I should start writing these stories.”

So that’s what this blog is about.  A collection of stories from the past, present, and hopefully much more to come in the future, written in a way that I hope will make you laugh, cry (hopefully not too much, I’ll try to keep it joyful most of the time), and think about life when necessary, kind of like the movie Forrest Gump (My favorite by the way).

So read and enjoy!

 

GrizzlyChadams

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