Let’s face it. This year’s 4th isn’t going to live up to some of the 4th’s in the past (and believe me, I’ve had some good ones).
Stupid Coronavirus (thanks a lot, China).
Well, let’s just say I’m lucky I got out of those 4th’s with all my fingers attached.
But aside from the Rona, I suppose there’s been some recent events that have gotten people a little riled up. I’ve even heard of some talk about canceling the 4th of July this year. On the surface, I oppose of this, my main reason being that the 4th always seemed to be the epicenter of summer. When I was a kid, it was a time where neighbors got together and celebrated, where people were generally happy, and where there was always a sense of unity among us. And when I got older, it was an excuse to party and act foolish (all in the name of America). But throughout it all, it was like we were all proud to be Americans, at least for one day. And at the very end, there was always a kick ass fireworks show to be seen.
But now as an adult, I suppose it’s time to put away the illegal fireworks and actually have an honest critique as to why we celebrate the 4th, especially since many of my brethren have been doing the same and coming to different conclusions. Is America really the greatest country that’s ever stood on the face of this Earth, or are we a country full of racists, a-holes, and systemic oppressors? It may take a little context to completely understand.
Back in ol’ 1776, we had a bunch of colonialists livin’ life and doing their thing, able to enjoy what could be a peaceful life. But apparently, they were also pissed off about a few things. Taxation without representation, being forced to house soldiers, having to deal with crap judges and injustice, and long list of other grievances (read all about em’ here). Now, most of these dudes were rich white guys who had privileges, and could’ve very well lived out their lives continuing to be rich and privileged, even if it meant putting up with some BS from time to time. But from the looks of it, they believed in something more. They saw what was going on around them and said, “this ain’t right, I don’t care who you are.” So, Tom Jefferson and a couple other dudes were all, “naw, we’ve had enough,” and wrote a Declaration of Independence, then John Hancock (not Herbie), Sam Adams, Ben Franklin and a few other cats signed their names on it and then slapped it on King George’s desk.
In summary they said, “America. It’s our country. Change my mind.” End of story, right? Well, not so fast. For in a world of privileged men, King George, perhaps the most privileged of all, wasn’t so used to not getting his way. Turns out, they had to fight the British Army in order to get what they want.
Though we learned about the Revolutionary War in school, I don’t think the textbooks really do the justice these guys deserve. I mean, just think of the balls on these guys for a minute. For them to say, “Ok, this protesting and Boston Tea Party stuff is child’s play. You and me Britain. Anything goes cage match. Right here, right now,” and to call out the most powerful country in the word to a title match. Like, as soon as they signed that declaration and shipped it off to King George, they knew there was no turning back. If they didn’t follow through, those guys would be royally screwed (no pun intended)!
To put it into perspective, let’s assume that Antifa were actually fighting a “fascist” government, followed through with a revolution, declared their independence and told the United States to “give me everything you got.” Chances are, they’d get their asses handed to them pretty damn quick. And looking at your average Antifa member, I don’t think they’d have the cahones to go toe to toe with a Marine if it came down to it. But the founding fathers did exactly that, and they won. They were willing to risk their lives, livelihood, and essentially put all their chips on the table, all for a belief that all men were created equal, that they were entitled to the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as endowed by our creator. And being that I’m among the beneficiaries of great men who did give their lives for the cause, hell, I’ll take a day to remember and drink to that!
And best part? After all the ass kicking was said and done and George Washington had the chance to be king, he was all, “naw, this belongs to the people.” He straight up turned it down! Tell me another man who would ever do that? Maybe John Cena… maybe, but I can’t think of many others outside of that. A true bad ass there, and we haven’t even gotten to all the war stories, like crossing the Delaware in the dead of winter with his soldiers wearing burlap sacks as shoes, exiting battle with bullet holes all over his coat, and having two of his horses shot out from under him, then still getting back up to finish the fight. We’re talking Undertaker vs. Mankind Hell in a Cell level of badassery, times 10!
Now, I understand the men of that time weren’t perfect, and there were evils of their time that hadn’t been dealt with, most notably slavery. To delve into the details of the contrasting views of slave owners versus abolitionists and the overall sentiment on this issue among the colonies would probably require a lot more research and another couple blog posts to make sure I get all the facts in line. And let’s not forget some of the other issues that hadn’t been settled, such as Native American relations and the right for women to vote, but I believe there was an understanding amongst the founding fathers that there was more work to be done, and they laid out the groundwork in the constitution to ensure future generations could strive to create that more perfect union.
That’s an important phrase, a more perfect union. God knows I am nowhere near perfect, much like my ancestors before me, and I bet you someday, our grandkids are going to look back at us and be all, “grandpa, what the hell?” My initial response would be to smack some sense into them, but it brings forward a solid point. We’re always changing, trying to be better than the generation before us. It’s why honest Abe and hundreds of thousands of others fought and died to end slavery. It’s why MLK led the March on Washington for civil rights, or why our grandfathers fought against the Nazi’s in World War II. They all had their faults, and if your grandparents were anything like mine, I’m sure you’d agree that they were a little rough around the edges and not the most politically correct of folks. But they had an appreciation of the sacrifices previous generations had made, made sacrifices themselves, and were called to continue the fight, to make it better for the next generation, and the ones after.
So, if you’ve been feeling a little down about America lately, just think about this for a minute. What those guys pulled off back in 1776 was nothing short of miraculous. To set up a government stating off the bat, “guess what Karen, I can say what I want, when I want, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” was pretty G. To allow people to own guns and start a militia… whether you think it was the stupidest or most brilliant move ever, you gotta admit, they certainly put their money where their mouth was. And trusting the people to make decisions as to how to live their lives? Hell, I don’t even trust my ol’ buddy Ben Woodward to follow through on eating hot wings with me, and I’ve known that kid for years!
I gotta hand it to those founders, they took some huge risks and fought their asses off, and thank God they did, because it paid off tenfold! Because of the American experiment, I’ve been able to enjoy planes, trains, and automobiles, FaceTime and Instagram, McRibs, Forrest Gump, Nintendo 64, NASA, and a million other things I don’t deserve and would never have the ability to create. I’ve had the privilege of a comfortable lifestyle, thanks to the sacrifices of my parents, ancestors, and the blessings of American ingenuity, most of which I take for granted in my day to day life. And chances are, to some degree, you have too. And it all started with a couple guys in Philadelphia, writing a giant “F*** YOU” to King George the 3rd.
So to me, that’s a good enough reason to crack open a can of Bud, blast some Kid Rock, and shoot off a few fireworks while screaming “Merica!” every year. At the same time, we can recognize the fact that there’s still a lot of work to do in order to make that more perfect union they talked of. It’s a reminder that it’s up to us to put in the hard work and sacrifice to make it happen. After all, they fought, sacrificed, and died to give us the tools to do so. I just hope that when it comes time for me to act and do the right thing, I’ll have half the courage they did back in 1776.
This is a continuation from my previous post, when I went through songs 6 through 10. If you’d like to read about them and why I chose them, see part 1 here. Otherwise, here’s a quick recap:
10. Street Fighter II – Guile’s Theme, SNES 9. The Legend of Zelda – Opening Theme, NES 8. Maniac Mansion – Dave’s Theme, NES 7. Star Tropics – Sub-C Sailing Theme, NES 6. Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball – Gameplay Theme, SNES
Now, without further ado, here are songs 1 through 5:
5. Sonic the Hedgehog – Starlight Zone, Sega Genesis
In the second half of the 80’s, the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) was king. If you were a kid and didn’t have one, then I think there’s a strong case that your parents should’ve been charged with child abuse.
Then, along came the Sega Genesis.
It was hip. It was fast. And upon seeing the first commercial with the old hag complaining about the 16-bit graphics in the 1st Grade, it was all me and my friends were talking about. Man, oh man did we go ballistic when we saw Sonic fly across the screen!
Nintendo would eventually have to step it games up, but until then, Sonic was here, and he came with an attitude. And although the Sega Genesis wasn’t exactly known for its great music, the original Sonic the Hedgehog had a great score full of memorable hooks to accompany our blue hedgehog friend through each zone, my favorite being the theme for Starlight Zone.
Set in the backdrop of a starry-lit city and with the final battle of Dr. Robotnik looming, Starlight Zone acts as the last glimpse of a cheerful experience with our likeable blue mascot before the hard part begins. The music sets the mood perfectly, a throwback to the first time I set foot in a big city and witnessed the magnificence of busy streets, flashing lights and skyscrapers. It brings back that wondrous feeling of living life in the moment, knowing there’s no other place you’d rather be, even with all the surrounding chaos.
It’s a shame that it all has to end at some point. But eventually, we all must move on. We all must face our fears at some point to confront our greatest foes, whether it be a round psychopathic doctor or having the courage to ask that babe out on a date. At some point in our life, we all much step up to the plate to do what we were meant to do. But as we strive for that point, we can still enjoy the moment that is around us.
4. Chrono Trigger – Guardia Castle Theme, SNES
So, funny story about this game. I was at a party once over Thanksgiving break during college at my buddy’s place when his roommate’s Super Nintendo got busted out among a group of friends. The usual hits were brought out, and of course, I crushed it on Super Mario World. Near the end of the night however, I shuffled through a couple of the titles when I came across one that peaked my interest.
“Hey, Chrono Trigger,” I said to my amazement, having feasted my eyes upon one of the most coveted games of the SNES. “That’s supposed to be one of the best RPGs!”
“Oh yea,” replied the roommate, who for the record, was a good dude and a person I really liked, but was also at that moment plastered beyond belief. So, for obvious reasons, I’m leaving a few names out of the equation. “Do you want to borrow it,” he asked.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Me? Borrow Chrono Trigger? This was the gold standard of role playing games, and undoubtedly the most critically acclaimed RPG of all time, even more so than Final Fantasy VII! On top of that, it was one of the rarest! But it was wrong of me to borrow it, to take advantage of a guy blitzed out of his mind who had no freaking clue of the treasure of which he was sitting on. “Thanks, but I can’t borrow this from you. It just wouldn’t be right—“
“Ah dude, go ahead! Take it, and just bring it back whenever.”
“Are you sure it’s cool? I mean, we’re talking Chrono Trigger here.”
“Trust me,” he replied, slurs and all. “You’re a good guy. I know you’ll bring it back when you’re done.”
Approximately 15 years later, that game still remains in my possession.
Over the next several weeks, I played the crap out of that game. It definitely lived up to the hype, and then some. I couldn’t stop playing it, even in the wake of finals coming up. The tight battle mechanics, the balance of characters, the amount of detail the game developers put into creating a story that naturally mends several different time periods, it’s no wonder that many consider Chrono Trigger to be the greatest RPG of all time. And of course, as was the case with many RPG’s of that era, the music was on point throughout.
Though the game had its score of compelling pieces, if I had to single out one, it would be the Guardia Castle Theme, where Meryl, the “female interest” gets sent back in time only to discover that she’s been mistaken as a princess, and the protagonist, Chrono is in danger of losing his life. It’s a great blend of excitement, tension, running, and I love the trumpets that fill in some of the choral elements of the song. It really sucks you in the moment of a medieval quest and provides a sense of urgency to your actions.
There are many more reasons why Chrono Trigger is considered to be such a masterpiece of a game. A large part of that involves its versatile and engaging story, the fact that even the simplest of decisions you make throughout the game actually have consequences that play out in significant ways, leading to several different endings and even the permanent death of the main character if the player is not careful.
But even with all those elements, the story wouldn’t be as memorable without a wonderful score to accompany it along the way.
3. Mega Man 3 – Opening Theme, NES
My father and I bonded over Mega Man 2. We knew that game like the back of our hands. Day in and day out, Bubble Man’s theme repeated itself inside our head worse than Disneyland’s “It’s a small world.” We could breeze through Flash Man’s stage with our eyes closed, even with the slippery surfaces. The first boss level where you fight the dragon and that crazy jump you can only make with the Item-1 upgrade? Easy. Quick Man’s stage still sucked, but at least his music was awesome! Just name the stage and we could start humming the theme song to you right off the top of my head, no problem.
Then came the sequel: Mega Man 3. Nintendo Power Magazine had been buzzing for months about Snake Man, Magnet Man and the rest of the new robot masters, giving us plenty of time to studying their weaknesses and strategizing our attack plan. And what about the enigmatic, whistling… Proto Man??? Talk about an overload of anticipation, way too much for a typical 5-year-old to handle! And as my dad returned from work that Friday in late 1990 with the rented cartridge in hand, my heart was already pounding. This was it, the moment we had been waiting for. “How would it hold up to Mega Man 2?” We were about to find out.
There was nothing special about the title screen. In fact, it was fairly basic as far as games are concerned. But even with all the hype built up over the past several months, I couldn’t bring myself to press the start button. The music had a cool, captivating tone at the onset of the opening credits that furtively transitioned into a bit of a mysterious mood the moment the words “MEGA MAN 3” appeared on the screen. It was as if the game was asking us, “are you sure you’re ready for this?” I thought I was, but for the moment… maybe not. So I stalled and listened, and little by little, the melody grew in complexity, the tone turned darker, all in a build-up into the final hook…
All of a sudden, “BAM!” It hit me in the face with your textbook Mega Man style, to say, “Oh yea! This is what you wanted? This is what you’re getting! I was pumped, and I was ready for another round of blue, 8-bit badassery!
From that moment, I knew Mega Man 3 would live up to the worthiness of its predecessor. And if you ask most critics, they would agree in saying Mega Man 2 was the most critically acclaimed and overall favorite of the bunch. But there was always an enigma with 3 that captivated me, an unknown, yet familiar landscape that was both comforting and challenging at the same time (not to mention the kick-ass opening theme song), making it my favorite Mega Man of the series.
2. Final Fantasy VI – Terra’s Theme, SNES
If I were to mention the name John Williams to you, most of you would instantly recognize him as one of the most famous composers in the world. But what about Nobuo Uematsu? “Nobu.. who,” you ask? He happens to be one of the greatest composers in gaming history, a true pioneer of his craft, and the genius behind the music of the Final Fantasy series.
One thing I find fascinating about him is the amount of work and dedication that he put into creating a score for games in an era where these types of compositions were unheard of. After all, we aren’t talking about a silly Mario Brothers jingle; these are 3 hour sets that have been played with orchestras many times over. Even for those who aren’t avid gamers, it’s easy to appreciate the Final Fantasy games, not just from a musical standpoint, but from their story-telling and by the emotional connection they’re able to make with a player (don’t tell me you didn’t cry when you watched Aerith die in Final Fantasy VII). It’s one of the reasons why so many have come to love the series and have invested so much time into them. Final Fantasy really broke the mold into making a game something more, something that inspired gamers to be greater, and out of all the Final Fantasies, I think VI (otherwise known as III in the United States, but that’s a long story) was the most impactful in my life.
It was the first time I had seen a video game of such depth in its story and with such a diverse group of characters, whose personalities shined throughout the game, some of which you really grew attached to. There was Locke, the “treasure hunter” who would brush off any mention of his true profession as a thief, Cyan, the noble swordsman, Gau with his awesome, primitive theme music from The Veldt, and my personal favorite, Sabin with his Blitz abilities, all with well-rooted backstories. And if I’m talking about characters, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Kefka, the psychotic and sinister villain who fancies himself a God, even going so far as to poison an entire kingdom of people! Heck, to tell you how much detail they put into the music and story of the game, there’s even a part in the game where you participate in an opera! And for the grand finale, you’re rewarded with a nearly 20 minute epic for the final battle!
Though the game is filled with amazing songs, I believe the most memorable would have to be Terra’s theme that runs throughout the game, starting with the opening sequence where she and two Magitek armored soldiers march into the city of Narshe to find an esper with magical powers.
“Wait, who’s Terra?” She’s a half-human half esper with magical abilities. “Wait, what’s an esper?” A magical being from another realm. “What about all this Magitek Armor?” Well, at this point, I would just recommend you play the game to find out. But in all, her theme expertly encapsulates the mood of our protagonist, somebody who doesn’t quite understand her abilities and the magnitude of her skills, as well as the players themselves. There’s a reluctance about her, like many of us who have been thrust into situations we didn’t ask to be in and who don’t quite understand the potential we have within ourselves to be great. But every now and then, we feel called to act, possibly out of necessity, but also because we have to press forward… because it’s the right thing to do. Thus, she embarks on her adventure, not quite sure what of peril she’s walking towards, and we are with her every step of the way with a song helps us understand her plight.
1. Donkey Kong Country 2, Diddy’s Kong Quest – Sticklebrush Symphony, SNES
Donkey Kong Country hit the Super Nintendo by storm. The 3D renderings pushed the SNES to the limits of its processing capabilities, and not only did it become a breakout hit, but an instant classic for the SNES, cementing its place as one of the all-time great consoles. As we talked big hype about Sonic in the early 90’s, by the mid 90’s, Nintendo had taken back the crown with Donkey Kong Country. And as a Sega Genesis loyalist, I too had to eventually succumb to the greatness of the SNES, as hard as it was for me to do so.
However, as great as Donkey Kong Country was, it’s hype wouldn’t last forever, for around the corner was the 32-bit era and the advent of 3D environments, lead by the all-powerful Sony Playstation. By the time Donkey Kong Country 2 came out, it seemed as though the SNES was on its last leg. There were no further leaps in graphical capabilities to be made like we had seen with the first Donkey Kong Country. The system had been pushed to its limits, and it was nearing the time for Nintendo to retire the SNES and make way for the next generation of consoles. It was something my friend Matt and I didn’t seem ready for.
It was late January and the year was 1996. While everybody was watching the Super Bowl that afternoon, we had a different motive. As two kids about to make the transition into Jr. High, we knew our lives were changing. Soon, things like girls and sports would occupy our minds over Super Nintendo and other aging video game consoles. But in a way, we were like the famous quarterback Uncle Rico, knowing his best days were behind him, yet still holding on to that vestige of a dream. That realization was hammered into us once we heard the Sticklebrush Symphony in the Bramble Blast level of Donkey Kong Country 2.
I’m not sure how or why they came up with such a melancholy composition for a level where you barrel blast your way through a briar patch, but not only does it work beautifully, you almost forget about the dangerous thorns surrounding you due to the poignancy of the song. It was the very first time I experienced the feeling of nostalgia, that longing for the days of old, when things were simpler, where we didn’t have to worry about the complexity of three dimensions or the ever-changing culture and environments of not just the video game world, but of a kid in transition into a teenager. In that moment, while I was playing through that level and the rest of the world was fixated on a football game, I wanted nothing more than to have that moment of battling the Robot Masters of Mega Man 2 once again with my father, or exploring the islands and caverns of Star Tropics and finally beating the alien nemesis Zoda for the first time. Although I could (and would) replay those games, the feeling would never be the same as when I first engaged them.
While we make new memories, we never quite get those moments back, a comfort that lies in the past that isn’t quite guaranteed for the future. And that’s what Donkey Kong Country 2’s Sticklebrush Symphony represents; that feeling I receive looking back at the games I used to play, a throwback to the 8 and 16-bit eras of gaming. All the songs mentioned above and so many more bring back the nostalgia, the joy of being a kid fulling engaged in a game with not a care in the world except for conquering the next boss in our way, and Sticklebrush Symphony is the ultimate tribute to the greatness of that time period and to the game developers, composers, and pioneers of that era. It’s why it remains my all-time favorite.
I don’t know if it’s just me, but I have a feeling they don’t make video game music the way they used to. There was an art to the simplicity, a repeditiveness that was appealing and comforting. The sense of adventure it brought made games more than just a game, but an avenue to feed our sense of imagine, to explore the limits of our creative minds.
Video game music will never quite get the credit it deserves. You’d certainly never hear any of them being played on the radio or receive a Grammy or any other major award. But perhaps, that’s what makes them so good. They’re special to those of us who grew up with them as if they’re a part of us as it is a part of the game, and as gamers, I don’t think we’d have it any other way.
Now that we’re into our 4th week of quarantine, or is it the 5th… 6th? Man, I don’t even know any more. All I know is, I’m running out of things to do. So, it might just be time to bust out the old Nintendo once again. That is, as long as find time between the Real Housewives of New York (aka, RHONY) and Beverly Hills.
But whenever I do manage to pick up the controller, nostalgia hits me in three different forms.
An intense amount of rage, frustration, and cursing re-emerges.
The obsessive/compulsive side of me awakens to turn me into an unstable psychopath.
I’m brought back to sanity by the sweet and soothing sound of NES music.
The music in video games is a vastly underappreciated fragment of American society. Sing the first jingle of the Super Mario Brothers theme and the person next to you will instantaneously recognize it. Whether it’s Tetris, Zelda, or Street Fighter, those 8-bit melodies have been ingrained in their heads. It’s quite clever, provided the limitations of sound quality, and these retro-era composers don’t get anywhere near amount of credit they deserve.
Having grown up in the throngs of the 8 and 16-bit eras of gaming, I know first-hand how well these tunes add to the mood and tone of any setting. Any avid gamer remembers the moment you finally get to the boss in a level and suddenly, the music turns to a grimmer, edgier, and more frantic. Your heart begins to beat rapidly, your concentration level peaks, and you sit up in your chair to lean into the TV, as in, “this ain’t a game no more. Time to get down to business!”
With such influence on my childhood making me into the man I am today, I couldn’t go without paying tribute to some of my favorite video game tunes from the retro era. Thus, here are a few of my favorites from Grizzly Chadams’ years of young.
Part of the reason why these are my favorite are the personal connection I had to each of the games. I remember details of my childhood, where I was, how it made me feel, and the stories behind playing them. And knowing there are a lot of great soundtracks out there from games I haven’t spent the appropriate time playing, and there are many others of which you may have had your own personal connections with, please chime in with some of your favorites. I just hope you are able to enjoy a few the stories behind mine.
10. Street Fighter II – Guile’s Theme
This was probably the hardest one to choose, knowing that there would be so many other games that I’d have to leave out. Classics like the Castlevania series, Contra, Ducktails, or the entire Super Mario World medley all had great tracks, but eventually, I had to make a cutoff, and before I change my mind once again, I’m going with Street Fighter II.
I’m not sure there was a kid who wasn’t obsessed with Street Fighter II in the 90’s. But thanks to Mortal Kombat, (a much inferior game for a multitude of reasons, but that would require an entirely separate blog), parents were a little uptight about games that revolve around committing acts of violence upon others. So, when one of us were lucky enough to get our hands on a copy of the game, we cherished the experience to its fullest extent, for there was no guarantee as to when our next chance to play it would be.
In a way, the enigma of playing such a game “banned” by the parentals added to the entire experience, but that’s not what made Street Fighter II great. Not only were the fighting mechanics crisp and balanced, but the amount of detail that was put into each character, from fighting style and personality to stage layout and character theme music really solidified the game as the gold standard of the fighting genre. Getting to try out all the characters added to the entire experience, for there was genuine respect for each one (except for Sagat, who was extremely cheap. His stage was the worst!).
And although Ryu was always (and still is) my favorite character, I think Guile wins the award for the most iconic stage in the game. The military setting with the fighter jet in the background combined with the pro-America theme song makes you believe that as soon as Guile’s is done sonic booming you into a crate, he’s going to hop in that plane and ride off to kick some M. Bison ass!
Overall, Guile’s stage and theme song fully represents what makes Street Fighter II the all-time classic it is.
9. The Legend of Zelda, Opening Theme
With most games, there’s always a little bit of a wait before you got to the title screen. They may roll in with some developers credits and a second or two of black screen, a chance to ease in before you press start. Not the case with the original Zelda for the NES.
As soon as you press the power button on your Nintendo, “THE LEGEND OF ZELDA” with its iconic waterfall background pierces your eyes and the theme song blasts you in the face. It’s only there for a moment, as the colors quickly fade as if it suddenly turned to nightfall and a tombish rhythm beats on to tell you the backstory, the threat of Gannon, and how it’s up to you to save princess Zelda.
As a 4-year-old seeing this for the first time at my grandparents’ house, I was petrified at the daunting task ahead of me. “What happens if I fail? I don’t want to die…” Yet, I was much too intrigued to look away… too invested to turn back. Princess Zelda needed my help, and there was no way I was letting her down. So, I pressed start, and the adventure did not disappoint.
Simple and to the point, there isn’t an intro that makes quite the impression as The Legend of Zelda does, not even 34 years later.
8. Maniac Mansion
Almost considered a hidden gem of the NES, you play as Dave, an all-around cool dude who must sneak into a mansion to save Sandy, his babe of a girlfriend being held captive by a mad scientist under the spell of an evil meteor! In order to pull off his diabolical plan, Dave, being the cool guy he is, solicits the help of two friends chosen amongst a group of eccentric teens with various skills to help you break into the house and solve a plethora of puzzles in the mansion and get to Sandy.
But wait? How do you know Dave is such a cool guy? By his theme song, of course.
You see, each kid is equipped with a CD player that repeats a tune that conveniently mirrors their personality. Bernard, the nerd and frankly, most skilled of the group, has a clunky, almost robotic theme while Razor, the leader of her own punk rock band, has as you would expect, a sharp and driving melody the likes of which would send you into the mosh pit. While all the kid’s themes add to the gameplay to keep the action fresh, Dave’s is hands the best one. It’s a cool beat, not to heavy, not too mellow, just a rockin’ tune to keep you cruising through the mansion, closer to your goal of saving your girl.
7. Star Tropics, Sub-C theme
The year was 1991. My dad had just moved us from Mississippi to start a new life and for the moment, we were homeless. So I, along with my mom, dad, and two sisters lived out of a motel in Lewiston, Idaho. All my friends were gone. The land around me was strange and my family’s stress level was rising, but I was not deterred. I was focused. I was determined. And after a year of practice, pain, and trial and error, I had finally delivered the final blow to defeat the evil alien Zoda. In that double queen bed room at the Sacajawea Motor Inn, I had beaten Star Tropics. It was undoubtedly the best day of my 5-year-old life.
Anybody who grew up in the 8-bit area knows how much more gratifying it was to beat a game back then than it is today, but that’s another blog for another time. Having spent 20% of my life up to that point devoted to it, I quickly developed a lot of great memories playing Star Tropics, easily making it my all-time favorite game for the NES. It’s unique mix of adventure style gameplay with puzzles that naturally blend with the game’s environment was like nothing that had been seen before, and something that hasn’t been recreated since. And out of all the different parts of the game, nothing takes me back to the feeling I had as a kid quite like hoping into “Sub-C” and hearing the theme song.
Sub-C is a submarine-like vehicle, your means of hopping from island to island in the game, where the real adventures await. And that’s what the song truly encompasses, the feeling of starting a new adventure, the exhilaration behind it and the intrigue of not knowing what monsters you’ll run into along the way. I love the tropical setting the game immerses you in. It’s a world that’s colorful and inviting, yet full of peril and excitement, for you never know what type of quest each village chief will send you on to help his island people, and what monster await. And each time you hop into Sub-C, it’s off to another village, off to another adventure, and off to more fun.
To me, Star Tropics is a masterpiece of a game, one that I don’t think ever got the amount of credit it deserved. I was so glad to see that it made it into the NES Classic so others could experience its greatness.
6. Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball
It all started on a Spring Cub Scout outing in the 4th Grade. I can’t exactly remember the reason all the Cub Scout Den Leaders met at Alex Barkley’s house on that Saturday, but what I do remember is that Alex had a new Super Nintendo game—Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball.
Me, I wasn’t too high on sports games, for games with adventure/fantasy aspects that escaped the rules of the real world always seemed more appealing. However, because they dared to bend reality just ever so slightly, there were a few sports titles that I was drawn to such as NFL Blitz and NBA Jam. Ken Griffey Jr. was one of those games, and as Seattle Mariners fans, we had to play.
Now, I don’t mean to brag or anything, but that afternoon, I was whooping up on all the kids, including Alex himself! And believe me, nothing was more devastating than having a friend beat you at your own game, especially with the entire Cub Scout troop watching. Well, Alex didn’t take kindly too such a thrashing, and thus began a 20+ year feud between us.
There are many things that make this game the classic it is. It’s simple controls, though they may take years to master, are easy to pick up. It has subtle humor sprinkled throughout and its fast pace helps keep the action fresh. But perhaps its most overlooked aspect is the running theme song that keeps playing throughout the course of a match. Blending in common themes from a Major League Baseball game that utilize the potential of the Super Nintendo’s soundboard, the soundtrack is driving, it keeps the tension up, and it reminds you not to let your guard down, for a game can turn at any point. Simply put, it’s never over till it’s over, a lesson both Alex and I have learned many times over. No matter how many times it repeats itself, the song never gets old, and you can always count on it to get you into the mood for some good old fashioned baseball.
As we went from grade school, to jr. high and high school, we continued to play, and I would win each time, of course. But Alex practiced, and practice some more. Eventually, he got better, and the matches became closer and closer, until one day… he actually beat me.
I couldn’t believe it. Out of the entire history of our feud, it had to be an anomaly! But a few months later, we played again, and sure enough, he won again, and the next time… and the time after that. It was official. He had taken the Ken Griffey Jr. crown, and there was nothing I could do about it. And for the next several years, well into our adult lives, I did not beat him. Alex had developed a respectable win streak, that is, until my bachelor party…
After what could be described as an eventful weekend in Vegas with a solid crew, Alex and I were the last ones left standing. Our bags were packed, and there was less than an hour before we had to check out of our room. “You up for one more game of Griffey,” asked Alex, having strategically brought his SNES classic with him so we could have a match or two. I was a bit reluctant, for I had just been embarrassed with a loss in front of the likes of Austin Moody, Josh Ulrich, and Mike Masters the night before, resulting in a lost bet in which I was forced to drink copious amounts of alcohol against my will. However, I out of honor and respect, I could not say no.
I grabbed the controller, hunkered into position, my eyes narrowed and my postured leaned towards the TV, and as the Major League soundtrack started playing, I locked into focus, vowing that this would be the day the streak ends. My pitches were strategic and effective at producing outs, but so were his. Every time I escaped an inning without allowing him a run, he’d return the favor and deny me the pleasure of scoring. We went back and forth in a defensive clinic of a game that went into extra innings. But that morning, one of the lasts as a bachelor, I did it. It took nearly a perfectly pitched game, but in stunning fashion, I had once again beaten the champion with a score of 2-1.
Now, it may very well be the last time I ever do it, but at least I proved that it could be done, and it won’t ever stop me from trying again in the future. As the years turn to decades and our families grow, our exhibitions will undoubtedly become less and less frequent. And much to my chagrin, he’ll probably continue to having the great pleasure of watching me swear and freak out, as is customary with my video game habits. But even though we live thousands of miles apart, we’ll still find a way to battle. And we’ll still be rocking out to the killer soundtrack until we turn old and gray.
And each time we play, you can bet your ass the emotions will be just as tense as they were that Saturday in 1994 at the Cub Scout Den Meeting.
Desperate times call for desperate situations, and in a world where TP has become the number one commodity, some people will do anything just to get their hands on a couple rolls.
Thankfully, we have good people in the TP making business who are busting their essential asses to ensure the rest of us have clean colons at night. If you see one of those fine people (shout out to my friends at Clearwater Paper), buy them a beer. Or better yet, buy them several.
Despite their best efforts however, there are still shortages, and if you come across a pack, consider yourself lucky… damn lucky. And when the day comes where you find yourself suddenly stranded with nothing on the roll, then it’s time for plan B.
Me, I’ve been known to be a public pooper. I have absolutely no shame in admitting it. I know some get all freaked out about the proposition, but when it’s go time, I’ll plop my cheeks in a considerable number dwellings, provided it meets the criteria. And if you just so happen to be at one of these “essential” places and find yourself in a position where you can freshen up between the cheeks, then damn it, you take it like it’s a matter of life or death!
Forget about the current COVID situation for a moment and look at it from an economical perspective. Every time you plop your cheeks on the potty in public, that’s one less trip you have to make at home and about 55 sheets of TP saved according to the national average (assuming you poo once a day. It’s true! I read it on the internet). That’s straight-up money in the pocket! Feeling guilty about upgrading to supersize? Well don’t, cause you’re about to make that money back in the stall down the hall. And that’s not the only benefit. No extra time spent scrubbing or money spent on cleaning supplies—nothing! In fact, most restaurants pay people to clean those toilets for you. God bless capitalism!
And listen, I don’t want anybody giving me a hard time for my bathroom habits, for I know damn well that many of you reading this are planning to retire off the money you’ve made sitting on the pot while you’re on the clock. That is, if you haven’t already. Some of the greatest professionals out there have made well over 6 figures as chief engineer of the public can, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that I’ve made out like a bandit over the years myself.
That being said, while visiting certain establishments, I do urge you to proceed with caution. Despite my best compliments and the fact that all public bathrooms are equal, George Orwell said it best… some public bathrooms are more equal than others.
And perhaps, one is most equal of all…
The day started off on a sore spot as I found out for the first time in my 32 years of existence, I would be wearing glasses full time (It’s official. I’m a freakin’ nerd!). Things didn’t get any better as I felt a wasteful discharge looming the moment I walked out of the doctor’s office. “Can I make it back to work in time,” I asked myself. “Negative, Ghost Rider.” Much to my chagrin, a Sausage McMuffin and Rockstar energy drink isn’t the most compatible combination for your bowels, and considering the walk from the parking lot to the office, that was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. “What am I going to do? I’ll never make it in time!”
Driving down the street, an inviting sign caught my eye. “Jimmy John’s…”
That was indeed a possibility, and not a bad one at that. I mean, it’s crazy how quickly they make their subs. I remember the first time I bought one, it came out so fast, I freaked! And the fact that it’s a sub meant I could order my food, receive it in a timely fashion, save it for later, then go use the bathroom, all within a matter of minutes!
“Dude, why don’t you just use the bathroom before you order the food,” you ask? Excuse me, but you are a guest of theirs. How would you feel if I came to your house and instead of saying, “hi, how’s it going,” just went straight to the bathroom to pump a grumpy? Oh, you wouldn’t like that very much? Surprise, surprise. Have the decency to make a purchase before you use their services! Those guys work hard enough as it is making those freaky fast subs! They don’t need any more anxiety on top of that! Gosh… no respect.
…Now I lost my train of thought. Thanks a lot! Where was I?
Oh yea… So, I had to take a dump, really bad. Time was of the essence, and if I didn’t act fast, it would be Armageddon in my pants. “Jimmy John’s… as in, ‘The John’. Is this a sign?” Well, quite literally, yes, that was a sign, a big one at that.
There were benefits, after all. I would finally have the chance to relieve myself, and I would have lunch made and ready to go for later. The reward far outweighed the risk, a no-brainer if you asked me. And chances were, being that it was only 10 AM, I wouldn’t even have to wait in line. So, it was settled.
I went in for the big dirty.
“Hello, I’d like an Italian Nightclub, TBO,” I told the cashier with determination. He wasted no time with the transaction going straight to work, just the type of go-to attitude I like to see in a young entrepreneur. The kid was going places, that was for damn sure.
As expected, my sandwich came out freakin’ fast, and so far, everything was being executed to plan. He even made it TBO, just like I asked.
Time out. You don’t know what TBO means? If you don’t get TBO, then the mayo makes all the meat slide out of your sandwich when you take a bite and… listen I don’t have time to explain everything. Just do it. There are much more important matters to discuss!
TBO – Tear Bread Out. SMDH… such a rookie.
Sorry, back to the story. Next stop, the bathroom. Vacant, the sign said. Everything was aligning perfectly into place, like it was truly meant to be. Cautiously, I entered the bathroom. Here goes nothing…
Now, I don’t recall what I did that day I fell off the rock, and I don’t know when I officially became best friends with Austin Moody, but like the first time Forrest Gump every laid eyes on Jenny, I do remember the first time I set foot in the sweetest, most beautiful public bathroom in the whole wide world…
I couldn’t help but stare… stare in awe while the threat of poopy pants lingered. I’ve been in a fancy joint with a sparkling bathroom, and believe me, I’ve been in plenty of bathrooms with personality, but very rarely do you see a perfect, aesthetic combination of both. Heck, I’ll be totally honest, this was the very first time it ever happened! Any other day, I would’ve stood for hours in wonder, happily crapping myself in the process. Only the fear of committing a defiling act in such a sacred space led me closer to the toilet.
I hugged the wall, shamelessly observing the many placards that were displayed, a showcase of urination styles depending on personality type. “They really nailed it on the head here,” I thought to myself, as I saw many of those different traits within myself, and recognized a few other characters as well.
I gotta say, I really like Jimmy’s since of humor! I bet we’d be best buds if we ever met. Hopefully someday, we will.
And once I arrived at the golden throne I was quite pleased with the appearance. The toilet seat was clean, dry, and had no signs of those small, dried puddles of urine you’d often see at your typical bathroom. Even the better maintained ones seem to miss the mark when it comes to those small driblets.
Observation two: no signs of fecal matter anywhere in sight. Nothing is more disgusting than walking into a stall only to find somebody had lobbed a grenade, leaving shrapnel splattered across the bowl for the next person to observe. Good luck flushing that away! Or even worse, you find the ones where the previous tenant seemed to have wiping issues, as if their sphincter also served as a paper shredder, leaving a giant, unflushable wad of shredded TP in the middle of the bowl. I never understood how somebody could sleep at night knowing they made a mess of such magnitude for somebody else to clean up. No kidding, the things I’ve seen over the years have been quite bothersome, so much so that I even wrote a screenplay about it (fyi, if anybody is interested in making a movie, HMU at firstname.lastname@example.org).
Alright, enough with the gory details. The point is, with no need to fret about the condition of the toilet, I assumed the position to some much-cherished relief, hanging my head in content. “Boy, I could just sit here for hours, thinking about life, the universe—speaking of the universe, what’s this?”
My feet sat upon a placard of sorts, the type you would see for a dedication, though it was difficult to determine exactly what I was looking at, thanks to my newly impaired eyesight. “I suppose if I were to have a public toilet dedicated to me, this would be the one, but whatever it is, they must’ve spent some good money on it. Just look at the quality of that metal!” It was quite a dedication. No.. not a dedication, but a list of facts. Facts about… Uranus?
Reading interesting facts about the planets while you poo, what a novel concept! Check out some of these facts. “Uranus is windy and can blow at 450 MPH.” I had no idea! Imagine being caught in a Uranus wind storm. No thanks. And how about this one, “You would not be able to sit on Uranus because it has such a low density,” which is crazy, because I always assumed that the density of Uranus was quite high!
Imagine being a 4th grader assigned to write a report on a planet of your choice. Maybe you felt royally screwed with the last pick of the draft after all the other kids went the “cool” planets like Mars or Jupiter, leaving you with Uranus. What are you going to do? Then, you happen to drop into your local Jimmy Johns, and viola, your report is laying literally right in front of you! All that time you would’ve spent doing research can now be spent playing video games! It doesn’t get any better than that!
It was a bit heartbreaking knowing it was time to clean up the deuce residue. I feel a little weird saying this, but I was actually enjoying myself, and that’s saying something given how dreadful a trip to the bathroom can be if the conditions aren’t up to standard or if there’s a premature break. But just like the marriage of Tom Brady and Bill Belichick, all good things must come to an end.
I reached for the roll to begin the process of—whoa, what is this?Double ply all the way… in a public restroom?
Such luxury is unheard of in a fast food joint like this. But once again, where others like them would be tempted to cut corners, Jimmy John’s has risen to the occasion. Incredible.
And talk about a powerful flush! They must have customized those crappers, cause I had never seen so much swirling suction going through a toilet, excluding airplane lavatories, and those things just straight up scare the crap out of me, literally! No wonder they have no problems with left over debris!
Oh, but I can hear all the environmental wackos already complaining. “Ughz, what a waste of water!” I say quite the contrary. Think of it this way. On a typical day, I got about a 50/50 chance of leaving skid marks each time I unload on the John. And as a married man, leaving that type of artwork for your wife is not only unsexy, it simply isn’t an option. Thus, you find yourself flushing twice, even three times just to get rid of the evidence. And God forbid you have one of those sissy European toilets that do half flushes. You’d never survive!
Listen guys, it’s not that hard of a concept. All I’m saying is make the investment. Put in quality work the first time, and you won’t have to go back later to fix your mistakes. You’d be surprised the amount of time, effort, resources, and most importantly, moolah you’ll save.
And no, I did not film the flushing process like many would have liked me to. Sorry to say, but this is a family friendly blog, and that those types of images have not business being in a post like this! If you want dirty, immature content, then I’m sorry, but this blog is not the place for you.
Keep it clean, that’s my motto.
“But why didn’t you just flush it again to show us the proof?” Hey, you know me, I’m not an uptight person by any stretch. But I can’t justify wasting a perfectly good flush just for the sake of my blog, especially after all that Jimmy Johns has done for me. It wouldn’t be right, and well below the set of standards grizzlychadams.com upholds to. So instead, I simply washed my hands and made my way for the door, sandwich in hand.
But I couldn’t let this experience go to waste. “This deserves proof of sorts… a memory.” I whipped my camera out. I had to. You don’t pass up the chance to capture a pivotal moment in life like this.
My head held high, I walked out of the restaurant with a sense of pride that day. In my hand was a tasty sandwich and on my face was a permanent smile that not even the likes of Jay Cutler could remove. I entered my car and drove into work; fully confident I would have a productive day.
And that’s just it. When it comes down to it, a bathroom experience can make or break your day. It can be the difference between a job promotion or meeting that goes off the rails. It amazes me how often this phenomenon goes overlooked in today’s society, considering how often we drop the kids off at the pool. Something like a clean wipe on the first try or a complete intestinal evacuation can leave you feeling elated, as if you had just received a gift from God. It’s something very few businesses outside of Jimmy John’s truly appreciate I’ve come to realize. Simply put, they go above and beyond to make sure your experience lasts, long after you leave the restaurant.
So, in this time of stay at home orders and quarantining, where food delivery is almost a way of life, consider supporting your local Jimmy John’s, if only for the bathrooms alone. We’ll need them when things get back to normal, cause when you’re in a pinch, they’ll always be there to support you.
I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a little sick of this Coronavirus. Like, not sick as in I need a ventilator or because I drank too many Corona’s last night, but I mean, it’s really puttin’ a drag on my style! First, they shut down the pub. Then, they went after the gym. And now, the Governor’s telling me to stay at home!?
I’ve never seen our nation’s capital so lonely…
And honestly, if you asked, I’d say we’re managing. I still have enough stock in the fridge to make plenty of servings of my favorite quarantine dish, of which I would highly recommend, especially for those of you on a budget! No kidding, you can create this delicacy south of $3.00! That’s a steal these days!
It’s also given me the chance to become reacquainted with my old friend, television. FYI, 1917 and the Peanut Butter Falcon—great flicks. 47 Meters Down: Uncaged and Good Burger—not so much. Actually, Good Burger pissed me off a little bit, but I’ll rant all about that at a later date.
It’s a blessing and a curse, the ol’ tube. Living in a single bedroom in the city, TV privileges must be negotiated with the ol’ lady, and I fear my worst fear has been realized. She, to my ultimate demise, has recently discovered her new favorite reality show, Very Cavaleri. Not only is there a lot of seasons to catch up on, but she is insistent that I watch it. Normally, I’d easily acquiesce to the request as I often do with shows like Vanderpump Rules, except it costars her husband, aka, one of the worst human being’s in the world.
Smokin’ Jay Cutler.
I’m sure some of you are asking, “How bad can Jay Cutler actually be?” Let me put it this way. If I had to rank the 10 worst human beings of all time, Adolf Hitler being #1 and Osama Bin Laden being #10, Jay Cutler would easily land himself a #7 spot by the most conservative of estimates.
If you want my honest opinion about Smokin’ Jay’s reality TV career, I’d some it up as one small pain in the ass for a man, one giant travesty to mankind!
Ok, let’s not jump to conclusions, but you can understand how such a predicament can put a strain on a relationship. And with the new season of Real Housewives of the Potomac still two months out, it isn’t going to get any easier anytime soon. There is a silver lining, however. If we can survive until then, then I think we can survive anything.
But I’m afraid the weenie is taking it the worst. I try to shower him with love whenever I can, and at first, it was working. We used to be like two peas in a pod.
But I fear he’s taken social distancing to a whole new level. Often, he lashes out like an angst-ridden teenager unable to escape from the constant and close proximity of his parents. It seems as though his aggressive behavior has taken a turn for the worst, as the usual whining for food has quickly evolved into threats and attacks.
I worry about him. I can see the pain and feel the anger every time he chases me around the house, something that occurs at least once a day. Our only hope is that it eases up very soon, but that depends on the easing of this stupid beer bug, which from the looks of it, ain’t goin’ away anytime soon.
So, what does one do at times like these? How does one keep himself sane when the world is holding you back? How does one cope with the threat of indefinite quarantine?
There was a time… yes, once upon a time, where I had a dream, a treasure trove of thoughts, ideas, and stories to unleash upon the world. A dream like Dr. King’s, not quite as ambitions, but a dream no less to grace the world with these stories.
Unfortunately, to my own discredit, Grizzly Chadams has fallen off the bandwagon the past few months. With a heavy workload, the role of Infrastructure Committee Chairman, and a full-time husband and adopted owner to a Dachshund, it seems I had put my dreams on hold. Heck, let’s not beat around the bush, I’m a busy guy! Think about it… everyday I have to wake up, brush my teeth, get dressed, go to work, go to the bathroom a few times, cook and eat a few more, go out for a run, spend time with the wife and weenie, watch some Real Housewives—that’s a lot to do all in one day! And that’s not even counting if things go wrong, like I step in dog poop, have to go to the grocery store, or dislocate my knee!
But during times like these, we all have to step up. Think of all the medical workers working the long hours, the delivery dudes getting food to everybody, or people like my mom who are in their sewing room making masks, and let us not forget all the good people working at the TP factories around the country. I know a few personally from Lewiston Idaho doing their part to keep our colon’s clean. The fine people at Clearwater Paper making the sacrifice won’t go unnoticed—not on my watch. And one thing’s for sure, I’m definitely buying all their asses a beer next time I see em’!
Knowing I’m not as important as those people, I can at least do my part not to be a total turd during this whole thing. And really, for a lot of us, not being a turd means not squandering the opportunity to do the things we always wanted to do, but couldn’t because of the lack of hours in the day. For me, I suppose that’s getting back on track clearing the backlog of blogs I have up in the ol’ noggin. And believe me, I got a lot of em’ to share, including pristine conditions of your typical Jimmy John’s bathroom, the perfect symmetry of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and the overrated nature of pop culture entities, such as Chipotle, celebrities like John Legend and Chrissy Tegan, Marvel movies, and Ernest Hemingway (and don’t worry, I won’t forget about the underrated things, like Two and a Half Men).
Bottom line, don’t forget about your dreams. There’s a little bit of Grizzly Chadams in all of us, so unleash it unto the world and do what you were meant to do! Stay tuned, cause you got a lot of blogging coming your way.
I understand coming up with a good commercial can be a difficult task. You have 30 seconds at the most to introduce your product/service, explain what it does, and convince an audience, who is already annoyed that their regularly scheduled programming has been interrupted, to buy said product/service. But that’s what people get paid big bucks for. To sell products through advertisement, despite the challenges. And over the years, we’ve actually been blessed with some Christmas classics. Remember the M&M guys?
And what about the Coca-Cola polar bears? Another use of cutting edge technology (well, for its time…) to push a beloved American product.
Both are simple and heartwarming, and in the case of the M&M’s, humorous. At the time they came out, they were recognizable, leaving a lasting impression for years to come. And I’m not a market researcher or anything, but I’m guessing they sold a few products as a result.
So, what does 2019 bring? Surely, an uptick in quality. And with so many good examples, with such a solidified formula for success, you should at least be average, right?
It’s like in 2019, they decided to ignore the most basic concept of marketing: determine who your target audience is, or “who is most likely to buy this product,” and build your commercial around that. I mean, it doesn’t take an advanced physics degree to figure that one out. Take this old 90’s commercial for the board game “Crossfire” for instance:
Clearly it’s a game that appeals to young boys, and the commercial takes advantage of the fact. Two kids, or two “cool kids” clad in leather jackets float on hover boards while gearing up for an epic battle. Yes, it’s corny, but as a 7-year-old kid, it was intense. It was radical It had rockin’ theme song, and upon seeing it, the words that came out of my mouth were, “…I want that.”
In other words, it did its job. It worked.
Or how about another golden rule: don’t piss off the people who might buy your product!
None of which apply to the following…
Exhibit A: Mercedes-Benz.
Here we have a kid who catches Chris Cringle in the act of leaving his presents under the tree. Now, what would your average, modest kid do if he saw Santa? “Oh Santa, I’m your biggest fan! Thank you so much for all the presents. You’re the best!”
What does this kid do? This little A-hole decides he’s going to blackmail Santa into giving away his “sled,” aka a new Mercedes-Benz Coup.
For starters, kids may think they’re smart, but they aren’t. Sorry, but they haven’t had a job, paid taxes, been dumped by a babe, or learned any of those “life lessons.” But let’s play along and assume he really did think this was a good idea. “So, let me get this straight. Here’s a guy who flies around, breaks into people’s houses and leaves presents for me every year. And you’re going to screw with him and prevent all the other kids from getting gifts, because you’re a selfish turd? You really think that’s a good idea? Gee, that’ll sure keep you off the naughty list for life!”
Actually, it sort of reminds me of a certain scene from a certain super hero movie…
Think, Timmy. Think.
And to make matters worse, Santa totally capitulates! Like, really? Santa Claus, a man with mythical powers, who has somehow figured out how to get to every child’s house in the world in one night, gets outsmarted by this twerp? What an insult to our intelligence! I don’t care how jolly Santa is, he’s still a man–a bad ass mother who don’t take crap from nobody!
But really, what adult in their right mind would take crap from a chubby bastard like that! In fact, this is a more accurate version of how Santa would react:
“Listen you little shit. You best delete that picture and crawl your ass into bed before Old Saint Nick becomes a lot less jolly shoves a pound of coal up your ass!” Or better yet, he’ll go all Pulp Fiction on his medieval ass. “What does Santa look like? Does Santa look like a bitch? Answer me! Say what… Say what one more time! I dare ya!”
Hmm, that’s actually not a bad parody… something that would make people laugh, something that might actually get people to buy your product. Maybe, if I were Saturday Night Live, or better yet, a competing car company, I’d take advantage of the situation, just maybe…
And what the hell is a kid going to do with a car? Not that Mercedes doesn’t make nice vehicles, and as the owner of a Mercedes-Benz, I can attest to its quality, but what the hell good does getting a present you can’t use do? So, congratulations kid, you just got daddy a new car in which he’ll get hammered and drive to see his mistress before crashing into the median and getting slapped with a DUI, further tearing the family apart. A bit harsh, you say? Apparently, selfishness and screwing people over are values practiced in that household!
And does this commercial appeal to adults? You know, the demographic that might actually be able to afford a Mercedes? No. This is a kid’s commercial, and I’m not anymore convinced that I should be buying a Mercedes over another car after watching this garbage.
Sorry Mercedes, but you really missed the mark on this one.
Exhibit B: The girl with the Microsoft Surface
It starts out innocent enough, thinking there will be a sweet ending with this cute little girl. Then, she makes contact with the reindeer, using the tablet to communicate. Quite a touching scene. “Boy, you can’t really go wrong from there.”
Suddenly, she turns into a treacherous little snoot and starts barking out orders. “How do you guys fly!? What does Santa do in the summer?! Tell me! I demand answers!” Like, buzz off you little snot! And calm your ass down. Santa’s reindeer don’t have to put up with that crap! Man, if my mom would’ve ever heard me talk to others with that type of attitude, you’d bet your ass it’d be a date with the spanking stick! For good reason too! The lack of disrespect in these kids today just blows my mind! And no sense of patience either. Just terrible!
Lucky for us, they cut the commercial right then and there, cause the next words out of the reindeer’s mouth would be, “I don’t have time for this shit,” seconds before they proceed to goring her for being such a brat.
The sad part is, this commercial had potential, by relaying the power that the Microsoft Surface has. Unfortunately, you’re left with a bad taste in your mouth. And to think I was about ready to make the shift back to Microsoft after years of being an Apple man. Like, seriously, can I get a #SMDH up in here?
Exhibit C: The Snow Brawl.
Now, as a kid, I would love this commercial, a snowball fight full of unpredictable action and excitement. It sparks the child’s imagination and gets them hyped for an epic showdown of their own! Pretty much a mini Michael Bay movie.
Only problem is, it’s not a kid’s commercial!
Now, this isn’t a terrible by any stretch, for I can watch this as an adult and understand the filming capabilities of the iPhone. And it’s definitely well shot, but again, to reiterate the point, they could’ve done better at defining their target audience to sell more of their product, the most important job of any commercial.
On top of that, if you’re a parent who’s going to buy their kid a brand new iPhone 11, you may want to rethink your parenting strategy.
Now, normally, I would see commercials like this, and say “well, that’s dumb,” and move on with my life. No need to get worked up over things I can’t control. But then came the outrage…
Exhibit D: The “infamous” Peloton commercial.
A kid leads her mom down the stairs for a special Christmas reveal. “Look mommy, me and daddy got you a Peloton for Christmas!” She’s blown away, for that’s quite the gift. She then begins her first workout a bit nervous, for if you’ve ever started your first anything that involves working out, spinning class, yoga, jiu jitsu, etc., the first time can be a little intimidating. But then she does it, and is comfortable with it, keeps doing it, see’s results, meets her goals, and in the end, her and the husband are reflecting on the couch, watching her videos and reflecting on the work she’s done. And guess what, they are pleased.
Now, this won’t be a commercial we remember for the ages, but at least Peloton did their homework on this one. They found a target demographic, adults who have families and busy schedules who are looking for a convenient way to get a good workout in. And low and behold, here is a device that allows you to have a workout class in the comfort of your own home at a time that’s convenient for them, without the need to travel back and forth to the studio.
In summary, they found a target audience and marketed to them accordingly. Congratulations Peloton, a solid B effort.
But guess what? People seemed to lose their freaking minds! “I can’t believe the husband is forcing his already rail thin wife to work out!” or “This commercial is fat shaming!” or “Look at how miserable she is that she has to exercise,” was just a glimpse of the commentary. And this isn’t an exaggeration. Story after story has popped up all over my social media, the mob taking over to shame this abominable commercial out of existence! IT MUST BE DESTROYED!!!
Why, just a quick search for “Peloton” on the web yielded the following results:
So, this is the commercial America is getting worked up over? A husband buying a workout machine for his wife? Not the fact that we have commercials encouraging kids to act like brats, which actually may have negative behavior effects? What the hell is going on out here?
Is it that inconceivable that there are women out there who actually want to work out, enjoy working out, and would love to have something like a Peloton? Heck, my sister, a very successful working mother has a Peloton, and although I didn’t ask her why, I think it’s safe to assume that one of the reasons is that she values being in shape.
And is it out of the realm of possibilities that spouses communicate with each other in a loving, positive way to encourage each other to workout? My wife and I certainly do, and guess what? We also talk about our fitness goals. Why? Not only do I want to look good for her because I love her and she doesn’t deserve somebody who looks like a slob, but also because I want to make sure I stay healthy for the years to come (And for those of you who are thinking, “what about all those McRibs you eat,” trust me, I run extra hard to make sure to factor those in). And maybe she feels the same. And maybe, just maybe, this couple in the commercial had a conversation that went along the lines of, “You know, I want to work out more, but it is difficult with the kids, work, traffic and all. Having something like a Peloton would help me get back to the shape I’d like to be.”
Whoa! What a concept!
And kudos to a man who buys a Peloton for his wife because she wants to work out more. Cause those things ain’t cheap!
And look, in some ways I get it. You don’t work out, you don’t have a family, or maybe you have the time to go to the gym on a regular basis. No harm, no foul, this commercial simply doesn’t appeal to you. So, what’s the next logical step? Say, “ok, looks like I don’t need to buy a Peloton,” and then… then… get this. You move on with your life.
But for some reason, people have the need to go out and berate the company with the goal of total destruction. We have to assume that this guy is a total jackhole of a husband who demands his wife slave away on the Peloton for the sole purpose of looking sexy for him! We have to get outraged to the point where we create several news stories about it! Like, really? Are people’s lives’ that miserable that they need to take that misery out on others?
This is why we can’t have nice things! We get all pissed off about a guy buying his wife a Peloton, so we get crap commercials like the little punk blackmailing Santa. We have to put up with bratty snoots talking down to Santa’s reindeer.
Oh, and guess what? If all that wasn’t bad enough, we have another terrible Star Wars movie coming out! Remember what happened last time (Disney has officially ruined Star Wars)? I can only imagine how bad this one’s going to be. WHY MUST YOU TAKE EVERYTHING THAT IS SACRED TO US AND CRAP ALL OVER IT JAR JAR ABRAMS? ESPECIALLY ON CHRISTMAS!? ESPECIALLY WHEN–
You know what, screw this. Christmas is cancelled! Good ol’ Grizzly Chadams ruined Chirstmas, again!
I’m going back to Thanksgiving for my beans. My greens. Potato. Tomato. Back to a time when the world was at peace, if only for a moment. Where we didn’t have to put up with any of this crap!
I listened to an old album from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs the other day. I have been fond of the three-piece trio since the first time I listened to their emotional rock ballad “Maps” in college, but it’s their album “It’s Blitz!” that is nearest and dearest to me. As with all albums, the replay value fades over time, and it had been years since I listened to it. But a recent blog post that revisited some of my old, homemade skate videos retriggered it. Consequently, it began playing itself over and over again in my head, a phenomenon that would continue and drive me further into madness until I’d decide to confront it.
As I walked toward the metro for my evening commute from work, I popped in my earphones and shuffled through my musical albums until I settled a picture of flying yoke from a crushed egg. It would be a major deviation from my usual routine of watching Fantasy Football draft prep videos on YouTube, a late summer obsession I had developed, fueling my deeper obsession of beating Mike Gibson this year. Yet, it was a deviation that felt absolutely necessary. I stepped onto the green line, found an open seat, and pressed play.
A driving, electronic beat drove into my ears, and immediately I was taken back. I was a young 23-year-old on the brink of moving to Seattle. My head was buzzed, my flannel collection was growing at a rapid pace, and I had but two desires—to skateboard and party. As I shut my eyes, I could feel my heart pump with the energy I once had as lead singer Karen Oh’s voice opened the first verse, building the anticipation towards the beat drop. My life consisted of counting down the days until the 2009 Sasquatch music festival, waiting for work to end so I could get my daily fix of skateboarding in at the local skatepark, and working for the weekend to get to Seattle for whatever ridiculousness I could pull off with Ben Woodward. It was an exciting time, my first glimpse of adulthood, my first real taste of freedom, and I had the world at my fingertips.
The chorus played out until there was a break in the beat mixed with random synth blips and guitar strokes. It signaled chaos, confusion; the calm before the storm. I braced for it, a beat drop I had heard and yearned for on many occasions. And as the synthesizer released a high pitch squeal and the beat blasted back into play with the advent of the second verse, I reopened my eyes with illusion that I was ready to take on the world once again.
Fast-forward. My flannel collection has been replaced with dress shirts, my hair is grown and styled to form a business-friendly part, and I now have a pair of glasses that accompany my few dustings of gray hair. In the past, my heart may have filled with despair, for part of nostalgia is grasping with the fact that you’ll never have that time back. And in many ways, the Zack of 10 years ago would’ve despised the Zack he had become. But for some reason, on that day, things were different. I was at peace with the past, at ease with the present, and optimistic of the future.
Who knows if I’ll ever have another chance travel across the United States with one of my best friends again. If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be able to recapture the silliness of a ghostly possession in Montana or recreate a wild moment like we had at the 1029 bar in Minneapolis, nor would I even attempt to try! And by miracle of the Holy Father, my brush ins with Josh Ulrich have become surprisingly cordial. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ll get my opportunities to throw in a dig here and there, and he’ll be sure to do the same (I’d expect nothing less). In fact, at the time of this writing, I am on my way back from a quick visit Boise, and I had the pleasure of seeing my good buddy Josh. And let’s just say, we had our fair share of drinks between the two of us (of course I had more… and paid for it as well).
But I no longer crave that type of excitement, at least not on a daily basis. As a married man, my ideal Friday nights consist of relaxing with the wife and the weenie dog, watching a movie with a maybe a cocktail in hand, then turning in early for a head start on the weekend. For how grueling it can be, I actually treasure my early morning routine of carry our little weenie outside so we don’t wake up to a puddle of piddle on the floor. And I know that someday, I may have my own little army of Zack’s running around, which will open up a whole new realm of adventure. I can only imagine the memories we’ll create, the heartaches they’ll cause, and the love they’ll bring to this world. And if that’s not something you can look forward to, then I don’t know what is!
Within the 10 years from which I heard that first driving beat of “It’s Blitz!” to now, there have been many great times coupled with great memories. On the flipside, there has also been a fair share of heartbreaks, lessons learned, and not so good times. And to be honest, it often feels like those hard times not only outweighed the good times, but lasted longer as well. I’m not sure if it’s just a trait I’m blessed with however, but human nature seems to have an easier time clinging on to the good times. And when it’s all said and done, the bad memories seem to fade away in the wake of the cherished ones.
I worked my way up the shoe, tugging on each row of strings all the way to the top, ensuring they clasped tightly against my foot. No room for slippage, just enough to keep the circulation flowing… just the way I like it. In front of me was a 1.5-liter plastic bottle. At one point in the morning, it was full of purified, municipally sourced water. Now, all that remained was a small puddle. I pushed the lid to my mouth and sucked the bottle dry, lubricating the surface area of my mouth. I was going to need every drop to diffuse itself into my body if I were to pull off my next feat.
I rose, standing amongst a scattered room, dark and quiet. We seemed to be left without power for the moment, as a flicker of the bathroom light yielded no results. To reduce the probability of a misfire, I channeled my inner Ben Woodward and peed sitting down, one of the few times in my life I made the conscious decision to do so, then quickly pushed the memory to the back of my mind and snuck out, careful not to wake Bill.
The crisp morning air filled my lungs upon my exodus from the hotel, the first step towards detoxification. Walking across the fresh, dew-soaked lawn behind the Cottonwood Suites, the smell of hydrated grass filled my nostrils until I hit asphalt. This was it… the Greenbelt Trail. With the swoosh of the Boise River to my right, I took a step forward, then another, steps that eventually turned into a brisk pace.
There was a hint of pain—a degree of difficulty to each stride, every bit expected after the abuse my body had taken over the past two days. I welcomed it, accepting it as punishment for subjecting my body to such an overwhelming amount of poison.
It was about as peaceful of a run as you’d expect on a Sunday morning, light foot traffic with the occasional cyclist. The upkeep was impressive, provided the miles long length of trail. I passed through a network of clean, debris-free tunnels and land bridges, accompanied by a solid strip of evenly cut grass with the occasional memorial, dedications to those who made Boise what it is today I could only presume.
Several bridges connected each side of the Boise River. Looking towards the southwest side, several flat, dormitory style complexes lined the adjacent path. It appeared as though I was inching closer to Boise State University. Curiosity striking, I crossed over to explore.
Slowly, the neighborhoods turned from college residential, to academic, and eventually to business. As I closed in on South Broadway Street, one of the main stretches connecting downtown Boise to “The Bench,” I stood amongst a large parking lot, overlooking a large oval-shaped structure. “Albertson Stadium” it said, “Home of the Broncos.” To many, this was the pride and joy of Boise, a nationally recognized NCAA football team often overlooked due to its geographical location. If pressed with a choice, my allegiance to any Idaho team lies with the Vandals. Yet, I couldn’t help but appreciate the marvel of such a stadium in the middle of Southern Idaho. I ran around it, giving it the respect it commanded before retracing my steps back to the Cottonwood Suites.
The cool vapors from the river and shade from the surrounding flora combatted the rising temperatures, keeping the remaining trek back to the hotel a bearable one as my body secreted itself with the byproducts of exhausted fuel. We were due for another scorcher… but not quite yet. Propelled by the lyrical selections of Drake and a freshly procured pair of running shoes, I continued the excoriation against my body’s capabilities and made a heavy push towards the finish line.
I reentered the hotel room, a fresh can of Rockstar awaiting me in the fridge. “Still cold,” I told myself, despite the lack of power. I cracked the top and took a giant sip. The citrusy taste of sugar and soda allured my taste buds as sweat dripped down and soaked the carpeted floor; not an inch of my body was dry. Bill still lay in bed, a position he could remain in for at least another hour, maybe two. Enshrouded in silence and darkness, I stood, enervated, satisfied, tranquilized… reborn. I took another sip of my Rockstar. “This is what I live for…”
But it was all a pipe dream. Pat, Lea and Gretch were bound to arrive in the near future, and on top of a long, dark shower, an exorbitant amount packing had to be done before they bid us their final farewell.
It wasn’t much longer now.
Bill and I checked out of our room and headed outside. Though we had been accustomed to the blinding sunlight, there was a slight hesitation amongst us as we walked across the parking lot. “Bill” a faint voice cried out from across the parking lot. We shot a look towards its origin, spotting an open SUV and the silhouette of three bodies, one of which was waving towards us. Our bags in hand, we shrugged off the hesitation and headed towards them, eventually coming into focus.
“Bill, come here. I’ve got something for you,” said Pat as he waved him to the back of his SUV. Bill followed his direction. I was right behind him looking over his shoulder, my curiosity just as high.
Pat dug through the luggage in the back of the SUV until he found an old, weathered box. He opened it and began pulling out what looked to be sets of model construction vehicles. “What are those?” I asked.
“It’s all of Bill’s old toys,” said Pat. “He’s got his truck, crane and farm equipment that he used to play with as a kid. Pretty cool, huh?” Bill gave them a thorough inspection, too humbled to speak. “I thought it’d be a nice addition to his house in Texas.” Pat motioned me over, giving Bill ample time to soak in the nostalgia of his childhood. “And Zack, check these out.” Pat rummaged through the box until he pulled out a photo album.
“Hey, these are old pictures of you guys,” I said.
“Here’s us at the cabin in Pony,” said Pat as we guided through the album.
“Oh yea, I’ve been there!”
“And here’s one me and Lea after a race.”
“Man, you were looking pretty fit back in the day!”
“Well, I suppose I didn’t have as many fried pickles to munch on back then. Now that I mention it, I still don’t…” He just had to put in a dig, didn’t he? “And here’s a picture of Gretch with a can of Coors Light.”
“I guess not much has changed!” Pat and I shared a chuckle, with a few snorts coming from Bill.
“Oh, you guys,” said Lea, trying to hold off the urge to laugh. We managed to squeak a slight grin out of her, despite her efforts to hide it. I caught a glimpse of Gretch through my peripheral. She didn’t look the slightest bit amused.
“Why don’t we take a picture of you guys?” suggested Pat.
“That sounds like a great idea,” I replied. “We’ll add another picture to the memory box!”
Bill and I moved into position. “Hey Gretch, why don’t you hop in,” asked Pat.
“Ah, that’s ok—“
“Gretchen, right now!” scolded Lea. Gretch moped her way into frame, barely willing to lift her head.
“Okay ready?” asked Pat with his phone in place. “On the count of three, everybody say, ‘fried pickles!’ Heheh, just kidding Zack. Alright, one, two and three! Great picture guys. Except you could’ve smiled a little more, Gretch. By the way, when was the last time you check the oil in your car? I think we should check it before we go, just in case you need oil. Gretch, did you hear me? Let’s add a little oil–Gretch, where are you going? Gretch, come back here—Gretch!..”
We watched as Pat and Lea left the parking lot of the Cottonwood Suites to become one with the endless blue sky that would accompany them along their journey north. They had given us their final goodbyes, a departure that was subdued, yet humble. Who could blame them, given the climactic events from the previous day? Pat blamed it on fried pickles, but it was a mood that lingered amongst all of us, judging by the lack of dialogue. The sun was back in full force, striking from all directions as heat radiated from the asphalt. Out of all the places in Boise that morning, the powerless Cottonwood Suites was not among the most desired. Something had to give.
“Are you guys hungry,” I asked. My question was met with moderate agreeance.
“You thinking Chilis?” snapped Gretch. “Half-priced Apps on Sunday.” I had a suspicion she’d be apt to the prospect, a coveted tradition held since the 2015 Beer Olympics. Hence, the suggestion.
“Let’s do it,” said Bill. With no objection, we hopped into Gretch’s car, making our way to the nearest Chilis, right across the street from Albertson Stadium.
Recognizing a song on the radio, Gretch turned up the stereo volume. “Oh, this is a good song,” said Bill.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s the new, Blink 182, duh,” shot Gretch.
“Yea, they came out with a new CD,” added Bill. “You didn’t know? It’s pretty good.”
I sat in the back, pretending too like the song. I’ve always been a big fan of the pop-punk trio, their influence only second to Modest Mouse or Kanye West, but there was something off about it.
Save your breath, I’m merely Bored to Death, and fading fast… Life is too short to last long…
I continued to listen and give it a chance, enduring Gretch’s emphatic rendering of the chorus.“Just listen to Gretch, singing out loud, thinking she’s so cool. Who cares? ‘Life is too short to last long?’ That doesn’t even make sense! Stupid—Hey, what’s that place?” My eyes pulled towards a large construction site on the outskirts of downtown. A massive spectacle of engineering and architecture stood near completion, its oblique, structural elements and long, transparent windows making this a more fitting destination in Disneyworld’s Tomorrowland rather downtown Boise. Curiosity struck, hoping for the chance to set foot inside for a look into the future, a new era of technical progression.
“It’s the new Simplot building,” said Gretch.
“Simplot… I’ve heard of that before.”
“Yea, they do a lot of agricultural work. The new building is supposed to have all their farm equipment in there too. Should be pretty nice once it’s all finished.”
“I heard they’re looking for engineers too,” added Bill.
It was true, for Mike Gibson had mentioned it during a lecture about moving to Boise. “Let me just throw out a couple names of some companies that have headquarters here. You know… reputable places that, I don’t know, you may have heard of…” He said in a mocking tone. “Hewlett Packard… Micron… Simplot… Just a few small-time engineering firms, no big deal…”
Despite the harsh language, he truly was trying to get me to move down to Boise where he was residing at the time. However, there could be no signs of weakness, for the Gibson cannot win. He can never win…
“Cool.” I responded as the sign for Chilis came within eyesight. Simplot… I’ll remember that name…
“Well hello,” said the bartender in a peculiar manner as we settled into a high table at the bar. “Will it be the usual? A large margarita to start?”
“A large margarita?” Bill and I shot each other a funny look. “Gretch?”
“Uh… er… um…” She stalled. “Not today—I mean, Margarita? I don’t know what you’re talking about—I never drink this early… sure, one large margarita.”
Bill and I looked at each other, on standby for a snarky comment. We’ll just let her have this one. Just this one time…
“Do you know what else you’d like,” he asked again. We scoured the menu, not wanting to wait a few more minutes for the bartender to return.
“I’ll do an order of Potato Skins,” said Bill.
“I’ll go for the California Flat Bread,” added Gretch.
“Those boneless buffalo wings look good, and… and… hmm, let me see here—hey, fried pickles!
“Great,” said the waitress. “And how are we splitting this up?”
“You can put the margarita on my tab along with the flatbread,” said Gretch. “Unless you guys want some of this too…”
“Well, I was going to share some of the potato skins, but if you want something for yourself, then maybe we should—“
“Put it all on my tab,” I interrupted. Bill and Gretch swung their heads in disbelief. “…It’s just easier that way.“ They settled into a nod of agreement, quickly coming to the realization that arguing wouldn’t do them any good.
“Alright, those will be right out,” said the bartender before heading back to his post.
“Josh just texted us,” said Bill. “He wants us to meet him at Payette Brewing after this.”
Josh… I gave the thought a short ponder. It would be a while until Josh and I dueled again. Besides, Bill had talked highly of the Payette Brewing Company before, and with my strong penchant towards beer, I was amenable to the idea.
“I could do that. I do like beer after all.” Moments later, we received our food and finished out our meal, the simple communion of friends driving the experience to satisfaction.
Josh stood at the helm of the Payette Brewing entrance, patiently waiting as a child would, knowing full well he’d have free reign upon the opening of the candy store. “Hey, what’s up guys? Come on in,” he bellowed as we exited Gretch’s vehicle. “They have some cool stuff in here!”
We followed him into the brewery, a modern facility with an open, clean, and appropriately decorated tasting room, bridging Idaho’s historical predilection to the outdoors with a modern look that Boise was trending towards. I toured the room with wonder, channeling memories of the Surly Brewery of Saint Paul, Minnesota, evidence that the Payette Brewing Company was quickly emerging as a staple of the Boise community. However, I did have reservations about their incredibly high urinals, so high that I was forced to whiz on my tippy toes.
The lengthy line of taps required a brief conversation with the bartender before I could settle on my selection of the Fly Line Amber Ale. Bill, Gretch and Josh listened in and settled on selections of their own liking. “That’ll be four dollars each,” said the bartender.
“You can put them all on my tab,” said Josh, beating us in the race to pull our wallets out. I paused for a moment, ready to object, but regressed to a head nod out of respect.
“You guys wanna check out the brewing facility,” he asked as he motioned over to a set of glass doors behind the bar where only a steel staircase made from traction flooring and a large hopper in the background was revealed. “Follow me,” he said, leaving his seat at the bar without looking back. I did as I was directed, intrigued with the mystery behind the closed doors.
We came to the edge of a small industrial terrace, overlooking the peaks and valleys of brewing equipment that reached far beyond the depth of sight. An endless network of pipes, valves, hoppers, tanks, and boilers stood before us, capable of transporting, heating, and manipulating massive amounts of water and ingredients with the purpose of creating thousands upon thousands of gallons of beer. Josh and I leaned over the railing, taking a moment to examine each section of the brewery, like it was a lookout along one of Idaho’s highways, or better yet, a portrait taken from one of Josh’s mountain adventures.
“Hmm, that seems a little strange,” I said, fixated on a series of valves in front of us.
“What’s that?” asked Josh.
“They have three valves in a row right there.” Each of us stared at the assembly in front of us, as if we were a pair of mathematicians attempting to solve an equation that filled a blackboard. “One of them looks like a check valve, while the next one could be a regulator of some sort.”
“What do you use a check valve for?”
“Well, it makes it so a fluid only flows through one direction. And if any crap tries to get in from the other way, it gets blocked and stuff.”
“Sort of like a diode.”
“Yea, it blocks the flow of electrons, so they can only flow in one direction.”
I pondered his analogy for a moment, then took another sip of beer. “You know, I think piping systems and electrical circuits have a lot in common.”
“Well, don’t they both control some form energy,” Josh asked.
“Yea, the voltage in a circuit is sort of like the pressure in a pipe. A couple volts here and there isn’t going to kill ya, but you don’t wanna get blasted by 1000 volts or anything like it. Same goes with pressure.”
“And the current is probably similar to the speed of water in the pipe, or flow rate, or whatever. And isn’t there a formula that relates the two?”
Josh shot me a baffled look. “You tell me. You’re the mechanical engineer.”
“I’m talking about electrical stuff. Voltage and current.”
“Oh, you mean Ohm’s Law.”
“Yea… I sort of remember that one from back in the day…”
“What about capacitors. What could those be?”
“…I guess capacitors could be like pressurized tanks. They just hold a bunch of energy ready for disposal. Or maybe it’s like a spring…” Josh shook his head and each of us took a sip of beer at our own volition. We studied the marvels of human ingenuity for a long while, only breaking at the realization that our two friends downstairs were waiting for our company. Given the limited amount of time I had left in Boise, it was a sacrifice we were willing to make.
Back in the tasting room, Bill and Gretch were checking out the merchandise section, doing steady work on their own beers. A particular shirt had caught their eye, a collection of pint glasses, mugs, schooners, tankers, snifters, and more in the shape of the state of Idaho. Unfortunately, an incorrect shirt size prevented him from making a purchase.
“Have you guys been outside yet?” asked Josh. We turned our heads to the opposite side of the tasting room where large, glass windows revealed a courtyard full of lawn games. “C’mon, let’s check it out. The field held a resemblance to an old battlefield, calm and peaceful, yet filled with scars, remnants of action and excitement during a previous time. A hammock sitting at the southwestern edge of the courtyard grabbed Bill’s attention. Gretch followed. Josh and I left them alone with their futile attempts to successfully lay on it while drinking beer.
“Well, look what we have here…” Josh pointed to a pair of slanted planks standing about 15 feet apart, each with a hole at the upper edge.
“Great,” I mumbled. “Cornhole…”
“Wanna play a game?”
“Are there any bean bags?” The question sent Josh on a bean bag hunt. After a short search and a quick conversation with the bartender, however, Josh returned to the courtyard, his head low and shaking side to side. I had a feeling he wasn’t able to secure any beanbags, an outcome I was completely at peace with.
“Well, that’s lame,” said Josh.
“We’ll come back someday when it’s a little more hopping. And who knows, maybe I’ll even let you be on my team…”
“Ha, sure. We’d probably slay the competition.”
Bill and Gretch rejoined us, having given up on the hammock. They lobbied for a table inside, of which Josh and I were acquiescent to. Another battle for another day I suppose.
“Geez, that’s one beefy chair!” said Bill as he pried the high bar stool back from the table like he was pulling King Arthur’s Excalibur from the stone. The struggle was real, for it even took quite the effort a muscled wonder like Josh to pull his out from under the table.
“That must be solid steel! Stainless by the looks of it,” I said after I joined Bill in a thorough inspection of the legs.
“Nice, sturdy weld job too,” added Bill.
“How were they able to get the sides flush?” I asked. “Look, they got the welds on the cross supports, but somehow one of its sides is solid with the vertical legs.” I looked at Bill. He was just as flabbergasted as I was.
“Easy, they just make a butt weld, then machine it down so it’s flush.” Bill and I gave Gretch’s explanation extensive thought, as if we were trying to find an excuse to dismiss her argument.
“That actually makes sense…” We took another sip of beer and sulked in the refreshing taste.
“Someday, we should do something like this…” said Bill.
“…You mean, start our own brewery?”
“Yea, why not? I know how to make the recipes and stuff. And you guys are engineers. You can figure out how to make all the equipment work.” Josh and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Neither one of us could argue.
“And Gretch could be the bouncer,” I injected. “She’ll get in anybody’s face!” She shot me a look. I was unable to tell whether she was flattered or pissed. “…In addition to your management and bookkeeping duties, of course. Those are top notch, and a necessity for the business aspect of it all!”
“It’s settled then!” fired off Bill.
“Wait a minute,” I retorted. “What?”
“Dude, we’re gonna start a brewery!” followed Josh.
“You have a problem with that?” snapped Gretch.
“Ugh… no, I mean…” I stalled for a little bit. Just imagine, reliving this entire weekend over and over again for the rest of our lives. Could I deal with it? Could they even handle it? “…No. Not at all! Just as long as we get one of those punching bag mach—“ The room went quiet. Suddenly, I was met beading eyes all around. “…I mean, an endless supply of fried pickles.” Phew. Close call. I raised my glass in front of me. “Here’s to our brewery.”
“Cheers,” said Josh.
“Cheers,” said the rest of us before we clinked our glasses together and finished off the rest of our beers.
“You guys up for another one,” asked Josh. I looked at my watch, suddenly overcome with a wave of despair.
“Don’t know if I can. My plane leaves in about an hour and a half.” I could see disappointment in Josh’s eyes, but received no reprimands. He understood, with full sincerity. We settled for a few extra minutes of conversation.
At the car, Josh and I stood a body apart, facing each other in a moment of silence. An electronic field of anxiety filled the void, the subtlest of word combinations having the chance to spark disaster. “Josh… overall, it was a decent weekend.” I stuck my hand out.
“Glad you could make it down,” he replied, meeting my hand halfway and grasping it with a firm handshake. I leaned, succumbing to the natural habit that once plagued the fate of a green Polo-wearing boy in Roddy’s. There was no turning back now. Oh, no! Not the bro-hug…
I felt a heavy pat on the pack, followed by the thud of two pairs of flexed pectorals bumping into each other. “Engineering brothers.”
What in the… I stood for a moment, perplexed, then embraced the gesture and returned the favor. “Engineering brothers,” I replied. We released, giving Josh the go-ahead to say goodbye to Bill and Gretch.
“Well, you ready to head to the airport?” asked Gretch. I hesitated for a moment. “No,” I wanted to say. I wasn’t ready, not in the slightest.
“…Yea. I’m ready,” I said, lying through my teeth. I had to. There’ll be another day, Boise…
We gave our last wave, took our last looks, then hopped in the car, is if on cue from the movie director of life. I watched Josh drive away, on his way across the Boise landscape and back to normal life. Then it was our turn, starting with our journey to the airport, ample time to reflect.
…You know, maybe we’re all more alike than we actually think…
They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. I never doubted it, but never had any concept of understanding it…
Not until that night.
The sun, though millions upon millions of miles away, surely has no trouble dealing punishment to anybody brave enough to set foot in Southern Idaho. She is a relentless bully, one that’ll leave you burned, dehydrated, and if careless, completely miserable without a flinch—our sweat-drenched, energy-deprived bodies proof of its inexorable ways. But even the fiercest of warriors require a respite between battles every now and then. And there we were, survivors of the night, still standing after everything she had thrown at us; enough fuel in the tank for one more round.
A sharp pop from my beer interrupted the faint trickle of the Boise river, a few rocks throws away from our hotel room balcony. I took a sip then turned the can, taking the time to examine its exterior, already suffering from severe condensation. Coors Original. Hard to believe we considered this a delicacy once… I took another sip and melted into my chair, the taste a refreshing contrast from the IPA’s and microbrews I had become accustomed to in recent years.
Bill stepped outside, laptop in one hand and the remnants of a six-pack in the other. To make room, he stacked his beer on top of a can that had been left on the table from the day before, as if it were the base of a beer staff, minus the duct tape. The practice can be witnessed at your typical college party, as students and party-goers alike will walk around with staffs several cans high, adding a link after each consumed beer. I may have participated in the ritual a few times, but not like Bill. Every once and a while, him and Jay could be seen strutting around the University of Idaho campus, proudly wielding their staffs and causing a ruckus. Each outing wasn’t complete until the staff towered over each of their heads—a rite of passage for any partier, the main requirement if the rank of wizard was to be awarded by the end of the night.
Jay… The name gave me goosebumps. Bill grabbed one of the beers, popped its top, and lifted it to his mouth. I followed his lead, taking another sip of my own. Man, the times we used to have drinking this stuff… I looked up to a sky littered with stars, imagining Jay’s figure forming in a cluster of them, watching over us amongst the giants. I lifted my beer to the sky for a toast—just in case. I miss ya buddy. You left us way too soon.
I took in a full breath of air, anticipation for a long speaking engagement. They were all too common on nights like these, especially with Gibson. Add in a pack of cigs and a cheap case of beer, and you could count on it! Just be careful not to bring up politics.
I couldn’t count the amount of times we had staying up late with a beer in hand, exploring the reaches of each other’s conscience on a variety of topics, ranging from football, to philosophy, and every once and a while, women. In fact, once, I discretely remember him staying up with me until 4 in the morning, just to make sure I got over a girl. The night was much colder, but similar to this…
Before I could speak, the soft plucking of an acoustic guitar came from the computer speakers; a simple rift, slow, but familiar… and comforting. Ugly Casanova—Babies Clean Conscience.Bill has played this before… A gem from our youth, written and performed by the front man for Modest Mouse, yet hidden for 15 years under a pseudonym. Turns out, it’s become one of our favorites…
My words stalled, searching for the right moment to interrupt. The rift repeated itself for a few measures, the sound of a lazy summer day, stocks of wheat brushing against the side of a barn; two friends sitting beside it, embracing youth and its eternal state. A small break in the plucking signaled the entrance to the chorus. I prepared myself.
…This reminds me of home. I didn’t say it. I hadn’t the will to speak.
I’ve got a babies clean conscience, I walk around with my head off, And in the state of the big sky The ground holds on to my grandpas…
My eyes drifted down my arm as the song led into the first verse, following a contour map made from layers of perspiration and dirt, soaked, then dried, then soaked again throughout the course of the weekend. I continued, down my sweat drenched shirt and to my dirt-stained cutoffs. My hand, wetted with condensation sifted through my hair, separating the knotted strands adhered together by an emulsification of sweat and river-water. My gaze floated upward, eventually locking once again with the glowing night sky.
We’ve been here. Many times…
It had been over a year since we had arrived in Pony, Montana, but the sights, scents, and feels remained. The air was crisp in that small Montana town, barely changed since the frontier days of its founding. And with as many horses as cars and a local bar where a beer only costs you 2 dollars, granted somebody doesn’t buy one for you first, it would stay that way for many years to come. And on the night of our arrival, Bill, Gretch and I stood outside the Dutcher cabin, gazing upon a starry spectacle, so clear that streaks of the Milky Way were visible to the naked eye.
Within the blink of an eye, the world had been transformed—a world enshrouded in darkness, all but for the cluster of stars above. Atop a bed of water, we gazed upon the majestic sight, soaked in the benefits of isolation, the central tenant of the Boundary Waters experience. Protected by a solid wall of timber, a tributary of lakes, and two Boundary Babes by my side in the small corner of Northern Minnesota, we knew that nothing could harm us. Nothing could corrupt us. And in a world filled with evils and wrongdoings, we knew that for that moment, we could live in peace.
I took another sip, my gaze still commanded by the stars. Here’s to you, Lauren. The spirit of the Boundary Babe lives on…
A short gust of wind pressed against the surfaces of our exposed skin, reminding us of the soothing presence of stagnant air—one of the many comforts of an Idaho summer. Even in the dark of night, a t-shirt and pair of shorts is all you need, much like it was at the gateway of Hells Canyon the night Jimmy Dawson, Collin Morlock and I sat and watched a shower of meteors broke the calm of a crystal-clear sky, our minds consumed with pinpointing each instance of the astrological phenomenon. Known as the deepest canyon in North America, all it takes is a few minutes inside the naturally sculpted channel, carved through millions of years of geological turmoil to forget that a world actually exists outside the canyon walls.
The memories flowed, hundreds of them it seemed, one after another as the sound of a strained guitar waned forward, one descending note at a time. It repeated itself over the song’s original rift, a musical line that would eventually lead to a conclusion. I listened and stared, petrified in total awe at the infinite ceiling, much like that night on the Palouse, hoping that somehow, I could be frozen in time.
It was another pounding of snow over the plot of fertile farmland that spreads across the southeast border of Washington and Idaho. Perfectly timed during finals week at Washington State University, I furiously trotted through the snow, dead set on a mission across campus to fetch a case of energy drinks in what was anticipated to be another all-nighter. Our thermal systems design project was on my mind, and time was running out. “We still have calculations to do. We’ve barely started writing the report… There’s so much work—how in the world are we ever going to get this done? We’ll never make the deadline—“ I stopped dead in my tracks. Gasping for a breath, I looked up to the heavens, ready to make a desperate plea to God. Instead, flakes of snow fell on my face as I stared up through the fog. There were thousands of them, each making a soft puff as they hit the ground, the only audible sound throughout the neighborhood. Above it all was a bright, yellow orb glowing in the sky and lighting the snow-covered planes of the Palouse. I stayed there for several moments staring, too awestruck to move. “Oh, my God. What a beautiful sight.”
I savored that moment as long as I could, but as soon as that thought entered, another one sifted in. I just hoped there was enough time fit everything in…
Cruising up Bryden Canyon Road to another summer party at Josh’s parents, an event that I was destined to get kicked out of. “I’ve had 20 shots, and I’m not even drunk,” he’d say, believing that his farcical taunt would be enough to get me to take another shot… which it usually would.
Countless music festivals at the Gorge—one giant, three-day party smack dab in the middle of Washington State. Overlooking the mighty Columbia River Basin and surrounded by tens of thousands of other concert goers taking it all in, it was easy to get lost in the spectacle, believing whole-heartedly that we were in the happiest, most beautiful place on Earth—and you’d be right.
Sitting in the basement of the Sanden’s house with Brandon, Shaun, and the rest of the crew after a long day of skating, wasting away with a video game after a long day of skateboarding in the Lewis-Clark Valley, waiting for the next day to do it all over again. I took another sip and stared into oblivion, letting the familiar feeling sink in once again—the feeling of absolute bliss.
It must’ve been a night just like this when Bill and I met. And it wasn’t just Bill. There was Moody, the Drizzle, and a whole slew of us. We were merely just a couple kids then—kids with nothing to lose, nothing to worry about, and nowhere to look but up. And in that little oasis they called the Lewis-Clark Valley, two towns on the Washington/Idaho border separated by the Snake River sat a skatepark—the perfect place for a few strangers to share a common love, establish a bond of trust, and over many seasons standing atop a piece of plywood with a set of wheels, form lifelong friendships.
Too most, it was an abomination. Its ground was crusty, the obstacles uneven—not even making sense at times. There was a rail, “Big Red” they’d call it—much too high for the amount of runway that was provided and pushing required to hit it. Miraculously, nobody ever racked their nuts on the thing—except for Ben Woodward, of course.
But the park had personality. We knew how to ride it, knew ever little crease—how to hit each transition to maximize pop. It was our park, our sanctuary from the symptoms of teenage angst… thus, it was so much more than a park. It was a place where legends were made.
We screamed and cheered at the Hot August Nights Comp when Kevin Lentz pulled a 360 kickflip over the hip, only to be outdone by Nate Pasch’s melon off the wall and over the quarter pipe. Many a times we stood shoulder to shoulder when unwelcomed visitors tried to start trouble, or when there was a prank or two to be carried out on innocent bystanders. But perhaps most precious of all, once our bodies were enervated from a day of skating and shenanigans, we’d sit along the side of the park, imagining the thrill of sliding down a handrail, or soaring down a flight of stairs—whatever combination of flips and grinds our minds could devise. We’d sit on a park bench without a responsibility in the world, silently scanning each obstacle spread across the crusty asphalt on a warm, starlit summer night, and we’d dream.
…I could remember it all as if it were yesterday.
The song resolved into oblivion, the dreams fading from my memory bank as the obfuscation of reality set in. We sulked in the silence—the stillness, left frozen in the night. Now, it seemed like an eternity, this familiar feeling, this look that was commonly donned during a simpler time and this prosperity we sought, abundant in life, but lacking in materialistic desires—the successful career or the Mercedes-Benz, all part of a life that I was forced to return to in less than 24 hours…
A life that had been slowly transformed over the last 15 years.
Suddenly, I felt numb, like a frog slowly accustomed to boiling water. The skatepark was gone, replaced by a newer, sexier model. It had been years since I seriously stepped on a board, unable to feel the magic of riding out a smooth transition, rediscover the thrill of grinding down a ledge. And the friends… people you’d spend every waking hour with, now lucky to see once a year, if that.
Sitting on that balcony at the advent of my thirties, gazing upon the endless sky, I couldn’t help but battle a tear, pondering a cold reality.
My God, how so much has changed…
I turned my head ever so slightly, in fear of creating disorder in the universe. Through my peripheral, Bill peered into the darkness, the ambient sound of a running river filling the void. He wouldn’t dare move a muscle—wouldn’t dare disrupt the comforting force that gravity exerted on our bodies. And like me, he was destined back to Texas, back to his own version of a career-driven reality.
Age does wonders to the soul. Whether we realize it or not, it develops wisdom within us, one that makes us cringe at the mistakes of our past, better informs us for the future, and eventually, for the sake of removing ignorance, helps us realize when it’s time to move on. And after a weekend engaged in conflict between friends, enemies, and the forces of nature, it helps us realize what a rarity moments like these are… that it’s never too late to clean your conscience. We’re never too old to sit back in wonder.
…We’re never too old to appreciate the calm that comes after a long, summer day.
And in that small pocket of time and space, overlooking a small aggregate of flora amongst the rugged landscape of southern Idaho, maybe… just maybe, Bill was thinking the same exact thoughts as me…
“Hey Bill,” I said at the risk of destroying the ambience we had carefully crafted. It was the first words spoken since we had returned to the hotel. He paused for a moment, cautiously waiting for the follow-up. “…Play that song one more time.”
Bill reached for his computer. With a few clicks, the simple, acoustic rift once again blotched out the sound of running river water. He sat back, took a sip of beer, and braced himself for another round of deep introspection.
I sat back in my chair, my head forward, staring into the abyss. I took a sip of beer, and smiled.
We left the pub that evening, I a bit wiser, Josh a bit smugger, and Pat with one less friend. Against her will, Gretch had left with her parents, and once again, I was back to face the world, alone but for a single ally, and even that was on shaky ground.
“What’s wrong Zack? Looking a little tense don’t you think?” I thought about it, long and hard. For the moment, I could see it with clarity, a knuckle sandwich beautifully delivered smack dab in the middle of the nose. But Josh had the upper hand, two beer tokens in his possession… two tokens that he was still willing to give me. And up to this point, my disdain for Josh hadn’t quite topped my affinity for free beer.
“C’mon buddy, don’t be so sour,” he followed with a firm grip clasped upon my shoulders… shoulders that clenched upon contact. A man on man massage. Gee Josh, you sure know how to ease the tension. “Dude, Zack…” He switched tactics, this time putting his arm around my shoulder, making it easier to justify the knuckle sandwich. “We’re friends… buddies, right?”
“I’m not… your Buddy!”
“It’s ok bud…” Really? You just went there again? “Hey, don’t feel bad about me and Pat giving you a hard time… You know what your problem is? You take things a little too personally.” Oh, he’s asking for it! Just give me those beer tokens so we can settle this once and for all!
Josh held those tokens tight in his man sack like it was an impenetrable fortress. It would be another several minutes before we’d make it to the Tubapalooza block party, several minutes of which Josh was unable to process that his constant contact was unwelcome, no matter how many passive-aggressive hints were given.
A heaping sound of garbage grew in direct proportion to the density of drunken adults sporting 90’s fashion. Scattered sightings had been creeping about since dinner, and Josh’s incessant reminders of how we should’ve participated assured us that we were heading in the right direction, at least for beer anyway. “Dude, we could’ve done that,” was the typical response after each Spice Girl and Fresh Prince of Bel Air look-a-like we spotted. His eyes grew with delight as he spotted a group of tacky outfits, splattered with bright colors as if they were living out the characters from Clueless. He even had a positive comment for the girl sporting a midriff with a pair of Jenco Jeans, expressing sincere remorse for our lack of conforming attire. Lucky for all of us, cooler heads prevailed.
A few blocks and a dozen office buildings later, we approached the 10 Barrel Brewery, the company responsible for all the racket polluting downtown Boise that evening. The entire block was roped off with a stage near the entrance, and patrons poured in and out like kids at a funhouse. I recognized the mantra coming from the stage as we entered. “F— you I won’t do what you tell me…” the lead singer repeated over and over again, the ultimate plight for anti-authority popularized by Rage Against the Machine. The teenage version of Zack would’ve reveled in the singer’s stance. Once in sight however, 30-year-old Zack wasn’t too impressed with the crapily covered, washed out cliché to pander to a crowd of intoxicants, or his exposed beer belly for that matter. Sadly, many in the crowd thought differently, and continued to unwittingly feed the singer’s ego.
To my left was Josh. I shot him a glance and he met me halfway with the same, flat expression. We were going to need those beer tokens ASAP if we were to endure this crap.
Yes, it’s inexplicable, but on rare occasions, Josh and I have been known to be on the same page a time or two
“You know what Boise,” yelled the lead singer, his obnoxious behavior unhindered. “We’re not supposed to play anymore. They said our set ends at 7 O’clock. Well you know what?” What? You already said it once… “We’re gonna keep playing. You know why?” Oh gee, enlighten us, please… “Because we don’t give a s— about authority,” he continued, with strategically placed profanity between every other word. “We’re gonna stand here… and we’re gonna party!”
For some reason, the crowd roared, egging him on to lift his arms and flex his non-existent muscles. He nodded his head and brandished a stupid grin across his unshaven face like he was God’s gift to the town of Boise. “More like Satan’s toilet paper if you ask me.”
“Ok, here’s a classic for you guys.” Oh, please don’t ruin another one for us… The band got set, waiting for the lead singer to que them off. “…Youuuuuuuuuuu know you make me want to… SHOUT…” Oh, MOTHER F—
It was only a year prior that Bill pulled off his epic rendition of the Isley Brothers classic at Beth’s wedding. With a few drops of liquor in his system and the music flowing through his veins, he commanded the dance floor and led everybody in an ensemble of song and dance for a night soaked in sweat and laughter.
And within an instant, that memory was forever tainted by the drunken animal on stage, all for the sake of a few cheap cheers. The three of us moved quickly to the closest beer vendor, a young lady sporting a sharpie drawn mustache. It was a decision undoubtedly pressured by the event coordinators; one she was soon to regret. As we sipped on our beers, listening to the banal band and its belligerent lead butcher the classic, it was almost as if at that very moment, every terrible deed Josh had ever done unto me could be forgiven.
“You know what Boise…” said the lead singer… “You know what Boise?” What? What in the hell could you possibly bother us for this time?? “…I said, ‘you know what, Boise?” Jesus Christ. Who does this guy think he is, Kanye West? “Our set ended 10 minutes ago. But we don’t care! We’re going to keep playing!” The more he insisted on playing, the more convinced I was that there was a reason he was asked to stop at 7:00 PM on the dot. “…And just for all you 90’s kids out there, we got a classic just for you!” …Wow, could you be any more generous???
“Dude, how much you wanna bet they play the ‘This is how we do it’ song?” I asked Josh.
“What makes you think they’ll play it?”
“It literally happens every time I go to a party. They even had it on that stupid insurance commercial!” I’d seen it several times before, the college party band forced to revert to covers in order to keep the interest of the crowd. And almost by decree, they choose the Montell Jordan classic, if that’s even a proper word to describe it.
“Naw, they won’t play it,” said Josh. “You just jinxed it.”
“Hmm…” Josh was right. He knew I was always superstitious about these things. “Yea, the band’s bad, but they can’t be this bad—”
“THIS IS HOW WE DOOOO IT…”
“Oh my God,” I scoffed, hiding my head in disgust.
“This is how we do it, yea… yea. This… this is how… how…” the band continued to play, yet the singer stuttered into silence. He shifted back and forth, left to right, looking for relief from one of his bandmates. Blank stares were all he received. For the moment, it had seemed as though the once cocky singer was at a sudden loss of confidence.
“Um… this is how… we… um… Hey!” he screamed, having reached an epiphany. “Uh, who wants to party?” A few audience members cheered in response. “You know what? Let’s get some people up on stage! They say we’re not allowed to have anybody up here, but we like to party!” Well, well, well. What do we have here, a rebel? “Who else wants to party?” He hollered with a shaky voice, screening the audience for potential partiers. “You guys look like you want to party,” he said to a few members in the front row before waving them up. The security team stood by in apathy. If they were truly upset about people coming up on stage, they had a strange way of showing it.
An ordinary woman caught the lead singer’s eye on her way to the stage. Nothing remarkable set this aging millennial apart from the rest of the crowd, though she seemed to be singing along to the music with relative ease. The two conversed for a moment while several instrumental measures passed. The singer, wide-eyed and head nodding, ushered words of encouragement, and after a few back and forth twists of his torso and a couple of finger points from the stage, to the band, to the crowd, and to back to her, she finally nodded back.
“Ok here we go. You guys ready?”
“We’ve been ready since the beginning of the damn song!”
“Why does that girl have the mic?” asked Bill. Secretly, I think he knew the answer to his own question. But like the rest of us, he wanted to believe otherwise. She lifted the microphone to her mouth and began to speak.
“This is how we do it, It’s Friday night, And I feel alright, The Party is here on the west side…”
“Are you kidding me?” I blurted. “He doesn’t even know the words to his own song?”
“Lamest band ever!” said Josh, with a giant gulp of beer. I joined him, watching this singer groove around on stage like he was still the center of attention, throwing out a “yea,” or a “c’mon” to keep relevant. We backed away from the crowd in disgust, venturing as far from the auditory sewage as possible. At the moment, the 10 Barrel Brewpub looked to be our surest bet.
People poured in and out of brewery like wine seeping through the cracks of an overfilled barrel. No refuge was to be found. So far, the promotion of 10 Barrel had been shoddy at best, and intolerable at its worst. Adjacent to the brewery was a paved indent, possibly the site of a demolished building. A brick and mortar wall stood tall, protecting us from what lay beyond—the desolate elements of the wild; dangerous, yet intriguing. We stared out into the distance for a moment as if Idaho were daring us, calling upon us to free ourselves from the ignorance and safety nets of society. Vacant but for a few festival vagrants, we entered.
At the edge sat an empty inflatable slide, much like an outdated carrousel ride in your typical city center. The lack of use was relieving, for any parent who’d bring their kids to such an event are probably an incident away from a child services encounter. In front of it laid a large sheet of astro-turf littered with hula-hoops and a few brave individuals using them. One girl twerked her body in a smooth, continuous motion like a professional belly dancer, allowing the hoop to slither down to her knees, up past her chest, and back down to the waste with ease. The others… well, I couldn’t exactly tell if they were drunk or didn’t mind looking lame, but judging by their lack of coordination, I imagined it was a combination of both.
“Wow, that girl’s pretty good,” mentioned Bill.
“I dare you to challenger her to a hula-hoop showdown,” I said.
“God,” he replied, speaking in a scoff. “I suck. None of us could beat her—“
“Hold my beer!” barked Josh, extending his arm to me, eyes locked on target. I didn’t look to see how Bill reacted, only lifting my hand to let Josh’s beer fall into it. If he was anything like me, he was as stunned as I was. “And if you take a drink, I’ll kick your ass!” he threatened, strutting to the nearest hula-hoop. Immediately, I took a giant gulp, a necessary evil for the tragedy to come.
A minute was all we could take. No matter the number of fruitless attempts, no matter how hard and how fast he wiggled, the hoop couldn’t quite wrap around his waist more than once without falling to the ground. Bill and I took in another gulp of beer. At least he’s fitting in…
“Check it out,” said Bill, looking over his shoulder. Behind us was a table with a pile of wooden blocks, the remnants of a failed architecture model. He turned around and began rearranging them, as to create his own.
“What about it?” I asked, watching as he stacked the nearly identical blocks higher and higher until it formed a large, square tower three blocks wide, each layer angled perpendicular to the layer opposite of it.
“It’s Jenga! Wanna play?”
I thought about the proposition long and hard. Bragging rights were on the line, and though I was confident in my skills, there was always the remote possibility—What if I lose? Can I handle even more harassment from Josh? Hell, even if I win, I’ll still endure a mouth full of berating. It’s like he inevitably finds a way… “I don’t know man. The way I see it, I’m in a lose-lose situation, even if I end up having fun—“
“Hey Zack, I bet you aren’t man enough to hula-hoop,” yelled Josh, staring as he reached for the hoop that had just fallen to his feet. “How much you want to bet you can’t beat me in a hula-hoop contest—“
“What the Hell,” I said to Bill before taking another swig of Josh’s beer. “Let’s play.”
Having built the tower, Bill started the game off, as was traditionally done, pulling a block from the end of a row near the middle of the tower and setting it on top—easy pickings for the first round. After giving me a nod, I calmly approached the tower and did the same. No need to play it dangerously, no need to get cocky, and certainly no need to get tense… yet. “Easy. Your turn Bill.”
Bill followed suit, finding another loose block in the middle of a row and pushing it out of the tower until it stuck out halfway. With little care, he reached around, pulled the block the rest of the way, and set it on top. It wasn’t so much his careless demeanor of which he completed the first row, but more of the arrogant grin he delivered that made my stomach turn. “Your turn,” it said, standing in conceit all Tom Brady-like, as if he had the game in the bag. I know it’s my turn. Who cares?
I copied his favored strategy, quickly finding a loose block near the middle of the tower and throwing it on top like I wasn’t even trying. The tower had a slight shift before it stabilized on its own, and there I was, standing before it, shooting Bill a deep grin. He scoffed back with slight disgust and continued.
The next couple of rounds went by with relative ease. Only a few shakes disturbed the tower’s stability, though a few irregularities in the cuts made for tricky block removal, not to mention each block was double the size of your ordinary Jenga block. Perhaps the handicap was a blessing in disguise, enough to direct our attention away from the abomination coming from the stage… enough to distract us from the humiliation consisting of Josh and a hula-hoop. I can’t believe he’s still trying, after all this time!
“…Careful,” mentioned Bill, letting out a sigh and a grin. “Wouldn’t want the game to end so quick…”
“Don’t worry about me. I like to take my time, and I don’t get cocky, like some people I know.” Bill dialed into the layer near the top of the stack, having eyed a partially removed block since last round.
“You just need the magic touch,” he said, pulling at the outside block. “Pull it out, and—“
The tower wobbled, sending Bill into a state of petrification, his hand glued to the half-removed brick as it oscillated back to stability. But for a sudden gasp, the sound of his heart thrashing against his chest was the only thing reminding us that he was still a sentient being.
“Ohhhhh, you looked a little nervous on that last grab,” I said as the tower finally settled. Bill muttered a scoff and pushed the brick back into position before examining the tower for a new brick to pull. He pulled for one in an untouched row near the base of the tower, removing it and placing it on top in silence. “Geez. Not sure why you’re so serious about this,” I commented, making my way into position. “It’s just a game…”
I stepped up to the plate as Bill stepped away, thus completed the excruciating affair. Alright, this is it. Now it’s personal. No more messin’ around.
I walked around the tower for a thorough inspection, carefully feeling the edges for a brick that could easily be removed without violating structural integrity. My head close and my grip steady, I took my time pulling an edge brick near the middle of the tower. Provided its delicate state, the least I could do was give it the respect it deserved. I just wished my counterpart had done the same.
It’s ok. I’m gonna take good care of you. The words never left my mouth, but anybody watching knew full well the amount of care on display as the brick was seamlessly freed from the tower, like a brain surgeon carefully extracting a tumor from a child. With minimal sway, the brick lay back on top of the tower, completing yet another row of bricks. Slowly, I stepped away. It was odd, but Bill stepped up to the tower, not having a word to say. Actually, he hadn’t spoken a word since last round. It was almost as if he were… nervous.
“Thank God,” he finally chimed in. “The way this is going, we’ll be lucky if we finish the game by the time we head home.”
“What a snipe,” I thought to myself. “But, nice try, Bill. Can’t throw me off my game, ya dingus!”
He walked around and gave the tower a thorough inspection…. that damn copycat… He bent at his knees, settling into a squat, eyesight level with the tabletop. He’s not attempting what I think he is… is he? His hand crept toward the very bottom. No… he can’t be… It was a dangerous, yet shrewd maneuver from my former road trip partner, a man I could trust with all my heart… until now.
Taking a brick from the bottom row is seen as desperate in some competitive circles, though a successful removal can reap high rewards—but not this time. There was no way, given the uneven weight distribution of the enlarged bricks that it could be pulled off. I was amazed, however, at how well Bill was able to keep his composure, even with the tower leaning off-kilter; slowly lifting the bottom brick as if he were an artisan baker placing the cherry on top of his latest culinary masterpiece. The brick touched down and Bill stepped away, the tower settling back to stability. Oh my God—I can’t believe—son of a fried pickle… He pulled it off. He… he—
“Whoa, whoa whoa—wait, what the hell is this?” I blurted.
“What do you mean?” countered Bill, acting totally baffled.
“Oh gee, what do you mean,” I replied in a mocking tone.“Don’t play dumb with me! How am I even supposed to put a block up there like that?” I pointed to the top brick, strewn across the top of the tower diagonally across.
“I mean, I just thought that—“
“Yea, that’s your problem. You thought. Listen, that’s going to require extra adjustment, pretty much grounds for disqualification if you want to get technical… Lucky for you this is all for fun, so I’m going to let it slide… this time. But don’t you go cheating on me!” Bill looked past me, unable to acknowledge I was right. I shook my head in disgust. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s playing with cheaters…” After a giant sigh, he adjusted the blocks accordingly. “See, that’s all I ask for. So much for being a nice guy…”
Ideal behavior? Not by a long shot, but much like Mike Gibson and politics, you have to take what you can get and move on. It’s the only way a friendship like that survives…
I took another sip of Josh’s beer in the way Indiana Jones feels out a bag of sand before snagging his treasure. Having found the right balance between concentration and a loose touch, I set the beer down and carefully examined the tower. Jagged planks stuck out, crooked and non-uniform at each level with bearing loads staggered about each millimeter of contact. It was as if I was looking at an architect hell bent on artistic expression, aka an engineer’s worst nightmare. There was absolutely no way this was going to hold…
Below the top level sat an aberration, a small glimmer of false structure, the sleeper on the fantasy football waiver wire that everyone had overlooked. I went in for the kill; it was my only hope.
I grabbed at the block sitting on the end—it wouldn’t budge. “Too much friction. Careful Big Daddy.” I watched the tower wobble and let it settle before my second attempt, guided by a solid educational background from Washington State University. My extensive knowledge of static forces and moments would provide an advantage over Bill’s gut feel—every time. “Remember, a little force goes a long way…”
I poked at the middle block—slightly looser. It wasn’t ideal by any means, but workable—it had to be, or I’d be doomed. I inched the block further out, using every precaution not to cause a severe disturbance. Easy does it now, nice and slow, and… The block stopped. I gave an extra push—too much. The tower leaned, a gradual crash imminent. Quick, other side!
I ran around the table with a roll in my feet, mimicking a speed walker. Even the slightest vibration could spell doom. “Jenga,” Bill uttered into my ear. The distraction failed. “Jenga,” he repeated. Nice try, Bill. I reached the opposite side of the table and grabbed the pultruding block and held the tower in place. Balance to the force had been restored.
Guiding the tower back to a rigid state, I wiggled the block into freedom, eventually gliding out of the slot like a well lubricated piston. A giant, uncontrollable grin leaked from the corner of my face as I placed it on the appropriate spot on top of the tower. “Your turn Bill,” I said after taking another drink of Josh’s beer, my grin undeterred. His lips quivered, sweat drew across his brow, and his head shook side to side in disbelief, the absence of movement most baffling.
Indeed, it was Bill’s turn to act… and he was royally screwed.
He staggered forward in abject fear. “Ohh, what’s wrong Bill? You gonna cry?” The heckles continued, each one more vicious than the previous, a series of invectives Bill tried so desperately to ignore as he stared at the ugly mess in front of him. It was hopeless, the mangled tower looking more like the remains of an animal carcass picked apart by a pack of hyenas, leaving only scraps for the maggots to feast. “You gonna cwyyyyyy?” I continued. “Awwww, don’t cwy…”
Bill’s eyes lit up with the prospect of a relocatable block in his sights—or so he thought. He shimmied it in place, testing the limits of stability. “Oh, here we go, he’s going in, he’s in for the move, he—“ The tower took a hard lean. Bill reacted with a hard flinch, having severely misjudged the friction between the blocks. “…Shanks it! AHA!” A repulsive laugh left my mouth—a laugh representative of the most vile of heels. Bill stepped back to reevaluate his decision, frustration mounting, barely keeping his ugly sneer contained.
“What are you losers doing?” asked Josh, sneaking up from behind.
“Don’t bother us, Josh,” I said, giving him more acknowledgement than was deserved. “We’re in the middle something important.”
“Pff, Jenga? That’s a child’s game.”
“Right… Why don’t you go back to playing with your hula hoop?”
“I should. It’s better than this.” I shook my head and took a sip of beer. Josh did the same, staring down at his afterwards. It had appeared that he had found an anomaly. “What is this, amateur hour or something?”
“What are you even talking about?” I responded, showing as little eye-contact as possible.
“Look, I’m almost done with my beer, and you’ve barely started yours!”
“…Yep, looks like I have some catching up to do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a game to win.” I redirected my attention to Bill. “Welp, looks like someone’s about to lose. Ahhhhhh, you gonna cry? Please Bill, don’t cry. Uh oh! The block is up, the tower’s set, going down… going down… going… going—”
The tower stood firm, having one block relocated legitimately from the bottom to the top. To its side was Bill, brandishing a look so smug it would make the likes of George Clooney jealous. “Ohhhhh, looks like it’s your turn Zack,” said Josh with an emphasis on the obvious, a childhood habit I wish he’d break.
I took to center stage and studied the abominable erection for any weak points. Very few could be found, each staggered block augmenting the intimidation factor, already abounding. I poked around at prospects—none afforded me any opportunity, far from an ideal situation in front of the likes of Josh Ulrich. “Jenga…” whispered Bill into my ear.
“Ohh, c’mon Zack. Jenga,” Josh whispered in the other, the first in a long line of interruptions, anything they could do to break me. “Jenga… Jenga…” The words penetrated, circulating the blood flow and driving the exhale of carbon dioxide from my lungs at rapid pace. I could feel it as it took over, controlling all aspects of my mind. “It’s gonna fall, Zack. Jenga…”
“Yea Zack. Jenga…” The phrase wouldn’t leave my head, it’s attack persistent, vicious, determined to see me fail. “Jenga… Jenga…” Shut up Josh.
“Jenga… Jenga…” Shut up Bill.
“Jenga… Jenga… JENGA—”
“Whoa whoa whoa, back off!” I screamed, the ferocity of my voice nearly tipping the tower on its side. Bill and Josh took a step back, their faces long and offended, yet too afraid to show it, as if they had just witnessed a daddy hit mommy moment. “I mean… Just give me a little space, that’s all. I got this…” I took control, stepped back towards the tower, cool and collected. “I got this…” I spotted a block near the upper levels of the tower, already poking slightly—my best hope. I wiggled it in place, feeling the friction between two other blocks grasping its hold on the tower. Maybe if I just pinch the top a little bit, I can relieve some pressure, then viola! Brick’s free. I placed my finger at the top of the tower, applying pressure to the top of the tower and pried away. A scoff of disgust came from my backside. I removed the block and turned. It was Bill.
“What? Do you have a problem with the way I’m conducting business?” I asked, attitude abound. Bill stood there, wanting desperately to blurt his objection, though his unwillingness to protest denied him the opportunity. “I don’t sit here and tell you how to play the game…” I set the free block on top of the tower and walked away, my head stuck in a steady shake throughout the entire process. “Give me a break. Standing there, criticizing how I play the game… no respect…”
Neither one of them could believe it. They stood in a stupor, unsure how to respond. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought they were insulted. “Go on Bill. I’m waiting…”
He stepped up to the plate, taking several minutes to carefully examine each individual block, a tiring, yet halfway amusing affair. He tugged at a block near the middle, near the top, near the bottom and all in between. None gave way. Again, he went for a block in the middle, giving it a slight push. The rest of the tower moved with it. “Jenga…” I teased. Bill did his best to ignore.
Bill made his way around to the other side of the table and picked at another brick. “Jenga… Jengaaaaa—JENGA!” I screamed like the spokesman in the old SEGA commercials. The brick didn’t budge. Shut up, Zack! He wanted to say. His dignity disallowed him from making a scene. So, he continued in silence, picking at the crumbling infrastructure, sucking the last leaflet of life from a dying tree. “…Jenga… Jenga…” Each pull and push caused an even more severe tilt to the already deficient structure. Bill took his time, believing wholly in his heart that there was still a chance. There was no room for error, not even for the most skilled of Jenga competitors like myself.
“Jenga… Jenga!” Beads of sweat dripped off Bill’s forehead. He’s breaking, little by little… “Jenga… Jengaaaaaa Jenga Jegna Jenga—JENGA!” Bill twitched. The chain reaction had begun.
“Jenga…” The tower leaned towards him—too much pull. He pushed back with an unnecessary amount of force. “Jenga!” The tower tilted the other way; Bill directed his attention accordingly. “JENGA!” He pulled it back. The tower leaned… and leaned… and kept leaning. “JENGAAAA!!!”
A giant mitt swatted at the tower, sending a loud crash and a wave of bricks flying in all directions like exploded shrapnel—quite the fit for my explosion of laughter. Bill marched about the mess, pouting, sweltering, steam rising out of his ears and nostrils. He avoided eye-contact; another look at my sardonic face would result in an ugly outburst.
“Ahahaha! Loser cleans up!” I couldn’t contain myself. Bill turned to face his demon, his reputation shattered beyond repair.
“That’s bull shi—“
“Whoa whoa whoa… Watch your language how bout ya?”
“You cheated! You totally cheated!”
“Cheated? What an accusation!”
“It’s a valid accusation!”
“It’s off the rails! Just like you!”
“Are you kidding me? I saw the whole thing! You held the tower down in place—”
“Hold the—“ I paused, unable to properly respond. My head shook rapidly, as if I were trying to remove a film of dust atop my hair, for the libelous allegation of cheating would throw any honest person off guard. “Pff, that’s not cheating! And if it was such a big deal, why’d you wait until now to say it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Cheating is cheating! Josh even saw it.”
“Yea, Zack, you did put your—“
“Josh, your mind was still on playing hula hoop with all those little girls! Besides, how can you have a clear head with all that beer you drank?” Josh was speechless. He knew as well as I that a credible response could not be drafted. Still, I patiently waiting for a rebuttal of substance, plenty of time provided to pound the rest of my beer. Nothing ever came. “…That’s what I thought. And how would you feel if you saw a drunk guy playing hula hoops with your daughter? Creeped out, I hope. Now do me a favor and get me another beer. Looks like you got some catching up to do.”
“Dude…” he said, lifting his chin, his pecks deflated. I disregarded the plea and continued my case, forcing Josh to disappear into irrelevancy. It was his only constructive move.
“Now Bill, I really don’t appreciate these aspersions on my integrity. I mean, we’re like… almost… best friends… at least I thought we were…
“Well, I don’t appreciate my ‘friends’ cheating on a game of Jenga!”
“Alright then. Let’s settle this. Bust out the Jenga rule book and show me exactly where it says you can’t use the other hand. Show me. Right here, right now.” Bill threw up his hands in disbelief. Even if he could produce what I was asking, I could sense some serious doubt in his charge. “That’s what I thought. Now just accept it and we can move on. I’m the better Jenga player.”
“Nope. Won’t do it.”
“Bill… You got outplayed.”
“I will not!”
“Because you’re a terrible friend…”
“Yea, I said it!”
“You take that back, you son of a b—”
“You’ve ruined this whole trip!”
“Oh, me ruin the trip? Like you’re one to talk, Mr. Loose Lips!”
“Don’t even put that on me! You’re mad cause Gretch is always outsmarting you!”
“How… Dare you!”
“She does it every time.”
“I’m warning you…”
“I mean it. Every. Single. Word of it!”
“Hey!” A jolly voice echoed across the astro-turf. Bill and I turned to a brunette babe walking towards us wearing a Green Bay Packers shirt, potential love at first sight type of stuff. “Are you from Wisconsin?” she asked.
I looked down. Indeed, I was wearing a similar shirt with the words “Green Bay Packers” spread across, the same shirt Gretch saw me buy… so she went ahead and bought the same exact one. “Uh, well, um, yes—no, sort of—my family’s from—I go there—next month I… I like Wisconsin… Yea. I am from Wisconsin.”
“Oh no kiddin’! So am I!” Jenny… from Janesville.” Jenny stuck out her hand for a shake.
“Hi Jenny from Janesville. I… my name is…” Now normally, I’d consider myself an honest person. I would never, ever tell a lie, barring an admission of friendship with Ben Woodward. Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to protect Bill from potential embarrassment, or perhaps it was something a bit more sinister. Or maybe, just maybe, the approach of a beautiful Packer babe, while heating up certain functions and elevating flow rates in the human body, has quite the opposite effect on the brain. Left in momentary petrification, I blurted the first name my mind produced. “…I’m Josh.”
“…Jo—yea, Josh! Josh…”
“Well, what do you do Josh?”
“I… I run—“ Bill shot me a dirty look. Don’t even start with your new running shoes… “…I run uh… the car wash!”
“The car wash?”
“You know… the car wash… in Oshkosh.”
“Josh who runs the car wash in Oshkosh…”
“That’s right, Jenny from Janesville. I’m Josh who runs the car wash in Oshkosh!”
A huskier man walked over to greet us, a true Wisconsinite if I ever saw one. “Hey, Greg, I’d like you meet Josh,” said Jenny from Janesville. “Josh runs a car wash in Oshkosh!”
I extended my hand for a shake. “Nice to meet ya. Jenny tells me you’re from Janesville.”
“Well, not originally,” he answered. “Greg… from Green Bay.”
“Oh, no kidding? My friends Ashley and John moved to Ashwaubenon!”
“My mom’s from around that area too!”
“Yea! My mom Deb—“ An epiphany stopped me in my tracks. Though it was true my mother grew up near Ashwaubenon where my imaginary friends Ashley and John resided, I resisted the temptation to spread the information. What are you doing? You can’t just give out your mother’s personal information like that! “…My mom Deb… from Detroit.”
“Oh…” Replied Jenny from Janesville and Greg from Green Bay, unable to mask their disappointment. “…Deb from Detroit…” After an awkward break, Bill jumped in.
“Hi, I’m Bill.”
“Let me guess. Bill from Beloit?” inserted Jenny from Janesville.
“…No…” replied Bill, his tone several shades somber, head drooping into his sternum before raising his chin to answer. “North Korea,” he said with a straight face, as if he were mustering the courage to block years of torture and hard-labor from his mind.
“Oh…” replied Jenny from Janesville, her face elongated, any excitement the two may have previously held erased from their countenance. “Well, it was nice to meet you two.”
“You too, Jenny from Janesville, and Greg from Green Bay.” They backed away with a steady nod, each step taken in caution, not to wake a sleeping giant, until they dissolved back into the crowd under the spell of awful music. Bill and I turned to one another, a slight smile seeping from our faces—the first one in a long time. “Dude, did we get in a fight?”
“Did we? I don’t exactly remember…” A moment passed with a few shrugs thrown between the two of us. We turned back our attention towards the madness—back to Josh who had reemerged from the abyss with a fresh set of beers.
“Dude, Josh, you got another beer? We’re about to leave!”
Josh lifted his head, opened his face, and arched his spine ever so slightly. It was the look of bewilderment with a side of displeasure. “Dude…”
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you drink it.” I snatched each beer from his hand and handed one to Bill. “Just be lucky you have such good friends.” Josh stood there in shock, again lacking the right words for a response. “…Look, I think somebody wants to play Jenga with you.” Josh caught a glimpse of a girl behind him, examining the oversized Jenga blocks. He receded behind us eager to set up a game and cement his dominance.
Bill and I took sips of our newly procured, freshly brewed beer and surveyed the crowds, commenting on the spectacle before us like a pair of generals watching the final moments of a victorious battle. “Bill, you know as well as I do that I’m not a cheater.” Bill didn’t speak, didn’t shift his attention, didn’t show any signs of deference or derision to my words. He remained forward and listened, like a man of honor would. I continued. “And honestly, if there were ever a time that I happened to break the rules, it certainly wouldn’t be wittingly.
“…I believe you,” he responded, giving a slight head nod. I took a good sip of beer.
“I’ll tell you what. I don’t want to be a cheater. I don’t even like the idea of being thought of as a cheater. You know how I feel about those people. The lowest of the low!”
“I hate em’ too. I wish they were never born.”
“And if we’re going to be real with each other, I honestly didn’t think I was doing anything wrong during the game. So, if any illegal actions were made, it’s wasn’t out of negligence, because let’s face it, when was the last time you played Jenga?”
“…You’re right…” Bill took a deep swallow of beer before the next words came out. I waited patiently. “Look, I’m sorry for calling you a cheater. I lashed out at you, and I shouldn’t have. That was bad on me.”
“We all make mistakes.” We both nodded and took a good sip. “I’ll tell you what. I probably won’t go out of my way, but if I come across the rules, and I finf out that it’s an illegal move to use two hands, you’ll be the first to know. Deal?”
Bill delivered a steady nod with an amicable smile. “Deal.” We bumped glasses for a cheers and took a good sip. I turned around. Josh had taken a reprise from tower building to tend to his phone.
“Now c’mon, we better get Ulrich back here before he embarrasses himself again. Hey Josh, I told you, there aren’t any Pokemon around here! Get off the App!” Josh shot his face up to a trio of babes snickering past him. Josh’s head lifted, his chest puffed, then exhaled into a slouch, his eyes stuck in a destructive glare. “Don’t worry about those babes. Nerds aren’t even their type. How about we get out of here, huh? You’re driving of course. Obviously, you haven’t been drinking as much as we have. and you better not play any of that emo music you made us listen to earlier. I swear if I wasn’t a teenager I’d have cut myself by now…”
July 23rd, 2016. 10:00 PM
Grace was in the air. A few hours had past, and somehow, in the weening hours of the day, we had all made it back to each other, gathered around a pocket of cool air settled in Megan Mills’ backyard. We laughed, told tales of the day and of previous days, and took our shot at polishing off the rest of the kegs. Beat down from an afternoon of sun and alcohol intake, not one among us was in a position to disrupt the mellow mood percolating in Southern Idaho. For the first time all weekend, I think everybody had a smile on their face.
And to think, Bill and I were at each other’s throat ago over Jenga… JENGA for God’s sake… The name brought back an ugly memory, one I had hoped to forget. Oh yea… Jenga. In my hand was the power of knowledge, with only ignorance standing in the way. I gave Bill my word. Damnit, why did I give him my word? I can’t go back on that, not if our friendship is worth a hill of beans!
I surveyed the scene. Lea was next to me, the center of attention, as predicted. I liked Lea. Heck, I still like her, to this day! And to be honest, her favorability was on the up and up as long as Pat was crying about fried pickles. But sitting beside her was no longer an option, not if I wanted to keep the ruse of anonymity.
To the left was Gretch, sitting on one side of the two person swing. If I make my move, she’ll surely vacate the premise! So, I made my move.
“I think I want to sit on the swing,” I blurted, interrupting Lea mid-sentence. The result couldn’t have been any more pleasing. Gretch jumped off the swing like a bat out of hell. Finally, a little privacy up in here.
The conversation continued. I pulled out my phone ever so slightly and shifted my eyes about. Nobody had suspected a thing. I opened Google and began searching. Jenga Rules. I clicked on the first link that appeared and started reading.
The player who built the tower goes first. Play passes to the left. “Check.”
Carefully remove a block anywhere from BELOW the highest completed story. “Check.”
Use only one hand. “…Well, that could mean anything, really. I remove the block with one hand. Technically, I didn’t use both hands…” I continued with the rules.
Remove and stack only one block per turn. Remember — only ONE hand can touch the tower at a time.
It was crystal clear. Bill was right. I was wrong. “I have to tell him.”
I took a deep breath and braced myself.
“Hey Bill.” The porch went silent. “I… I…” I took a gander. Taylor and Megan Mills… hmm, I wonder if they’re still mad about that time I fed their dog Doritos? Lea and Pat—oh, look at Pat just ready to pop like a zit with another fried pickle joke. Then there’s Gretch—good God, not Gretch, Miss “I’m too good to sit next to Zack…” My eyes wandered even further… further down to a strand of ginger hair and sculpted pecks. …Josh…
“What is it Zack?” asked Bill.
“Oh, I… I was just checking some of the cabs for a ride home.”
“Are you guys leaving?” asked Gretch.
“No… not yet. I just thought… um…”
“Is there something you want to say?” asked Lea.
“Well, uh. I just wanted to… no.” The group shot me a funny look, expecting a follow up. “There is absolutely nothing I want to say.” I put my phone back in my pocket and silently sipped on beer for the remainder of the evening.
Sorry Bill. Looks like I’m taking this one to the grave…