And A Glowing Light Shall Strand Them

“Our first stop has to be a gas station,” he said, glancing down at the golden glowing fuel light on the dash as he backed out of the parking ramp after a full weekend, ready for a long, latenight drive home.

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking at the fuel gauge needle. “And I really need to find a bathroom before we hit the road, too.”

They drove down the main drag, many of the stores long closed for the business day, but confident there would be at least a half dozen gas stations to choose from before the big city turned to lonely road.

A Mobil sign and well-lit parking lot signaled a destination with a solution to the empty fuel tank, and they pulled in, noticing a minor inconvenience.

“That’s one of those little half convenience stores,” he said, motioning to the tiny building that may or may not have had the caffeine he craved for the journey home.

“And they probably have those gross outdoor bathrooms, too,” she added, “where you have to go inside for the key, and then back outside to find the bathroom door.”

He drove slowly through the lot, surveying the situation, and continued out the back exit.

“There will be something right up the street. We still have a couple miles of main street left,” he said.

About a half mile after pulling back on to the main road, he saw a sign guiding him to the interstate highway that would lead them home.

“Isn’t that the way to our highway?” he asked, veering on to the exit ramp before she had a chance to answer. “Looks like an easy way to catch our road.”

As they continued in their new direction, the atmosphere in the car changed noticeably, as he realized what he’d done. And so did she.

“I, um...uh...maybe I shouldn’t have taken this,” he offered, noting his error.

She said nothing.

The lights of the main drag disappeared, leaving the couple to travel into the darkness of the connecting highway. The darkness punctuated only by the now brighter glow of the fuel light, staring up and mocking him for his decision as he drove into the drizzly, chilly, late night.

“Didn’t I just say that our first stop had to be a gas station??” he asked, incredulous at his poor judgment. “We were at...a Mobil…gas station! And we left!”

He watched the fuel light as much as he watched the road ahead, as they drove.

“I have Triple-A!” she offered with a smile and a lilt in her voice, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

He chuckled nervously, and replied, “We may need it!”

The conversation subsided, save for a few more chuckles, as they both thought it best not to vocalize what was really going through their minds.

But they both knew.

Their night might have...just maybe...grown a bit longer.

“We were right there! At a gas station!” he repeated with a laugh, rolling through his brain the predicament he’d put them in.

A few uncomfortable miles down the road, they saw a sign for the next exit, which was still a couple of miles away. Another mile, and they passed a sign for an upcoming convenience center.

“Kwik Trips are open 24 hours, aren’t they?” he asked, not really searching for an answer.

“I think so,” she answered. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they are.”

They approached their exit, the vehicle thankfully still powered by what little fuel must have been left in the tank, and saw a different glow than before. This time...the glow of a Kwik Trip sign and lights shining down on the fuel pumps they sought.

The tension lifted as they pulled next to a pump.

“I thought this was an 11-gallon tank, with about a gallon left when the fuel light comes on,” he said as he started pumping fuel. The gauge went past 11, all the way to 14 gallons.

“I might have been a bit off with my numbers,” he grinned at her, and she laughed.

As they went in to pay, they noticed they’d found one of the biggest, fanciest Kwik Trips they’d ever seen, complete with a latenight clerk who tried to sell them doughnuts and pizza and everything else in the store before ringing up just the fuel. And the caffeine.

They’d found their pot of gold at the end of the driving-on-fumes rainbow. And they turned toward home.

 

“Restore human legs as a means of travel.
Pedestrians rely on food for fuel and
need no special parking facilities.”
—Lewis Mumford

How Long Will My 100 Days Take??

I read a tweet Tuesday from @WritingSpirit, in which she asked about people's goals for the last 100 days of 2009, seeing as how Wednesday was the first day of the last 100 days.

She outlined a 100-day challenge whereby participants agree to do a certain task for 100 consecutive days...whether it be working on a book or other writing project, or sticking to an exercise regimen...and if during the 100 days, one day is missed, then the 100 days starts over.

Good motivation not to miss a day. Would you want to start over after, like, Day 64?!? Me, either.

I pondered what I might do for the final 100 days of the year, and how I could make them count. (no, I'm not going to blog for 100 consecutive days. I am a realist, after all.)

My mission is to do something...anything...creative with words. Every day. From now until 2010. Might seem like a simple goal, but with my recent level of slackitude, it's what I need to nudge me back in the right direction.

So blog entries, columns, first drafts, finished drafts, morning pages (popularized by Julia Cameron), poems...they all count.

I have a tiny crutch I can use when I'm feeling only 17 syllables of creativity, which is a 100 Haiku In 100 Days challenge that I'm publishing on Twitter. Check it out if you're into haiku. (and who isn't?!?)

I hope to pay more attention to other areas of my writing during these 100 days, but even if I look back as I begin 2010 and have a hundred haiku to show for this challenge, I'll consider it a success.

Your 100 days can start any time. So why don't you jump in and join me?

You just may soar past me when I stumble on Day 23 and have to begin again.

"Friends are like melons;
shall I tell you why?
To find one good
you must one hundred try."
—Claude Mermet

All's "Fair" In Love and Carnie Games

“I want to see you play a game,” she said as we strolled among the ring tosses and dart games and water gun races at the Manitowoc County Fair recently.

I could say that I was forced into foolishly spending money to play a game I couldn’t win, just to impress a girl and win a prize I didn’t even want.

But I knew I was going to play one particular game as soon as I saw it. This game and I had history, and I wanted to show it that I was still the master.

The game of choice involved three pieces of four-inch PVC pipe, sitting on a shelf about six feet high, with two pieces side by side on the shelf with about an inch of space between them, and the third piece centered on top of the bottom two.

The objective: throw a softball at the three pieces of PVC and knock all of them off of the shelf at once. Aim it correctly, and you’ve won yourself a prize. Nothing to it, right?

That’s what I thought several years ago when I first saw the game at a fireman’s picnic in Sun Prairie.

There was a big, stuffed Tigger hanging there as a prize that year, and for reasons that escape me now, I wanted that Tigger.

So I bought my two balls for five bucks, leaned up as far as I could, took careful aim, and threw the softball with a dart shooter’s motion at a contact point I thought would work. One or two of the pieces fell, and my attempt fell short.

“No, no, no,” said a buddy of mine who’d had a few beers earlier that evening. “You have to throw the ball…get some velocity on it to knock ‘em all down.”

So I backed up a few feet and wound up for my second one, missing my target completely. (I may have had a few beers that night, too.)

I bought a couple more balls, went back to my up-close dart shooter’s strategy, and continued to almost win...two balls and five bucks at a time.

Eventually I hit the right spot, and they all tumbled off of the shelf, and I took home my $20 Tigger.

When I saw the game at the fair, I scanned the back wall of stuffed prizes and saw nothing I wanted to take home. All I knew is I wanted to make those three pieces of PVC drop.

I paid my five bucks, threw my first ball, and didn’t even come close enough to get excited, hitting all three pieces but leaving two of them still resting on the shelf. I slid a few feet over to another stack and threw my second ball, knocking two of them down this time.

“You’re close, buddy! You’ve got the right idea,” said the guy working the game.

Just what I was looking for. False encouragement from a guy who wanted only one thing. Another five bucks.

I paused for a bit, took a few steps back to talk strategy with the girl I was trying to impress, and stepped forward again, plunking down another five bucks.

Same result. Good aim, good motion...ohhh, so very close. But no prize.

Meanwhile, a lady in her 60s with about five grandchildren in tow came walking up and bought a couple balls, too. With a wild-armed throwing motion she missed with her first attempt.

But on her second one, she found the target and all three pieces of pipe went flying off the shelf.

A couple of us who saw it ooh-ed and ahh-ed and clapped for her, and she came over to me and said, “Not bad for an old grandma, eh??” Then she picked out a stuffed monkey/ape/primate-type thing with a T-shirt that said, “I’m bringing SEXY back!” on it, handed it to one of the children and said, “Come on, kids, let’s go.”

And off they all went to claim another prize at another game.

The guy working the game caught my attention and said to me, with a little bit of a grin, “I’ll give you three balls for five bucks. You were so close before. You almost had it!”

And away we walked, empty-handed, and only ten bucks down.

Anybody wanna buy a big, stuffed Tigger? I’ll sell him cheap. Twelve bucks.

“The economic game is not supposed to be
rigged like some shady ring toss
on a carnival midway.”
—Arianna Huffington

Julie and Julia. (they come as a pair.)

Julia Child has come back to life on the big screen this week, thanks to a stellar performance (does she give any other kind?) by Meryl Streep.

I went to see the movie, Julie & Julia, on its opening night last Friday, which had been eagerly anticipated by some, including the foodie with whom I watched it. (by the way, that foodie knows more about food...and words...than I could ever hope to learn. go check out her take on the movie.)

I don’t know if I would place myself in the “eagerly anticipated” category, but the film had Streep, which is never a bad thing; it had blogging as at least a secondary theme, a topic about which I know a fair amount; and it had food, which, while I can’t match the culinary skills of even a C- or D-list chef, I’m a big fan of eating.

So I was game for the movie.
And my two-word review: Great. Flick.

If you’ve seen even one or two of Child’s cooking shows, you’ll appreciate the skill with which Streep portrayed the legend. In a discussion after the movie, I predicted that Streep’s performance will earn her yet another Oscar nomination, but that there will be an as-yet-unseen role that may edge her out for the statue.

Take that opinion for what it’s worth, though, as I’ve been made aware of how little I know about what makes a movie, um...good.

In reading a select few reviews of the movie, I became annoyed as I saw one critic in particular, A.O. Scott of the New York Times, dismiss Amy Adams’ role in the movie as basically unnecessary.

Adams plays Julie Powell, a young woman from Queens who takes on the challenge of cooking every recipe in Child’s classic book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in one year, and writing a blog about her experience.

Scott compares Adams’ acting ability to Streep’s, and Powell’s personality to Child’s, and concludes that the former are bland and lifeless when matched with the latter.

Can we please compare apples to apples here, and not apples to elephants?

Several commenters on Scott’s review agree with him, saying, “the movie didn’t need Julie.” Then might I suggest that when a movie titled, The Life and Soufflés of Julia Child, is released, they buy their popcorn and go sit in the front row.

I may not be a big-shot movie critic for the Times, and I may only see a handful or fewer of movies in the theater each year, and maybe I just don’t get it.

But this movie needed both storylines, and both were entertaining and engaging.

Of course, Meryl Streep acted circles around everyone else in the movie, and of course, the highlight of the movie was Child’s larger-than-life persona. Isn’t that what we’d all expect as we sat in the theater, even before the previews rolled?

And, no, Adams probably shouldn’t spend her time sitting by the telephone, waiting for her own Oscar nod. But the Powell storyline was quite necessary, and her angst over creating 534 recipes in 365 days, along with her excitement of watching a fledgling blog take off and gain a readership, added plenty to the movie.

Go see this movie. Enjoy perhaps the greatest actress of her generation as she portrays such a wild and wonderful personality. But don’t snooze or take a bathroom break during the Julie scenes, or you just might miss something.

I’ll say it again: Great. Flick.

“The only time to eat diet food
is while you’re waiting for
the steak to cook.”
—Julia Child

(photo via metronews)

Torture...In 140-Character Increments

I follow @detroitlions on Twitter.

I don't know why.

Perhaps it's because I enjoy having my pain served to me 140 characters at a time, with a hyperlink added for good measure if I wish to click and endure more.

NFL training camps opened last week, which means that the Lions' Twitter account has seen much more daily activity. And while I'm trying to remain optimistic heading into a new season...some of the snippets I'm reading are making it difficult to believe this year might be different from last. Although...can any team really go winless two seasons in a row? (don't answer that.)

Here is a sampling of tweets I've received on my phone in the last couple of weeks. The first few can kinda drag a fan down, but after half a dozen or so, you learn to chuckle and use the old standby excuse of, "Same...old...Lions."

Louis Delmas nervous as he signs with the Lions.

Jim Schwartz: Training camp will be just like the rest of the offseason program, except with pads.

At first team meeting, Lions' Jim Schwartz pokes fun at a rookie.

Sammie Hill, two other flunk Lions' conditioning test.

Lion's Bryant Johnson involved in golf cart accident.

GM Martin Mayhew: Lions have "areas of concern."

Landon Cohen celebrates his birthday by pushing people around.

Today's 7-on-7 drill was the worst of the Lions' camp.

Damion Cook goes on IR, a dozen other Lions are sidelined.

Lions' drill: Quarterbacks work on throwing the ball away (really).

Doesn't exactly inspire, um...hope...for a winning season, does it?

To be fair, there are some positive tweets to come out of Lions' camp once in a while. Such as:

Scott Linehan on Lions' Matthew Stafford: "I don't feel like I'm coaching a rookie."

With 40-some million guaranteed, and 70-plus mil at the top end of the contract, it's probably a good thing that Stafford doesn't look like a "rookie." For that kind of dough, he better be doing his best savior impression, and get the Lions a double-digit win total.

But that might be wishful thinking. First let's start with a couple/few more victories than last year, OK? And a few tweets that make me smile as a fan...instead of chuckle.

"I quit because I didn't feel like
the Detroit Lions had a chance to win.
It just killed my enjoyment of the game."
—Barry Sanders

The small town that makes me “ooh” and “ahh.”

[Apologetic Note: This blog entry begs for photos. It screeeams for at least a couple photographic examples of what I witnessed, moon-wise and fireworks-wise, over the Fourth of July. However, I’m not currently too skilled at nighttime photography, and I was also on a crowded pontoon boat where setting up a tripod and immersing myself in experimentation mode wasn’t exactly an option. So, um...please use your imagination. Thank you.]

There’s something to be said for small-town fireworks. And on the Fourth of July, that “something” was, “Ooh.” And, “Ahh.”

We watched the fireworks from what is quickly becoming my favorite place to see the night sky light up...on a pontoon boat on a small inland lake in northern Wisconsin.

Three times I’ve been a passenger as we slowly make our way over the glasslike water shortly after dusk, passing the silhouettes of the trees and buildings surrounding the lake as the last hues of pink and orange and salmon disappear from the sky.

And one of my favorite sights is even before the fireworks begin, as we move to join the armada of already anchored boats on the water’s surface, their guide lights identifying them, residents and visitors to the lake preparing to be bedazzled by the light show to celebrate the holiday.

This year we had to wait until about a half-hour after dusk, but I didn’t mind the wait, as others grew a bit impatient. I just soaked it all in, and stared at the brilliant moon disappearing behind the clouds, and then peeking back out again through a hole that seemed to be expertly positioned in the clouds just to give us one more view.

Part of the fun of being out on the pontoon boat is hearing the reactions of the handful of kids along for the show.

The “oohs” and “ahhs” aren’t the same if they’re not sprinkled in with one little girl’s reaction as she sees her first-ever fireworks display. She must have exclaimed, “A fiyah-wook!!” a couple dozen times as the sky lit up.

And no matter how excited I was to see them, I cannot duplicate the expression of a 4-year-old boy watching a colorful explosion in the sky and then screaming, “That was AWEsome!!”

I’ve seen some impressive fireworks displays in my years, from the days we’d spend all day on the beach in Two Rivers and then at night could see three sets of them going off down the lakeshore...from Two Rivers, Manitowoc, and, faintly, Sheboygan.

And Kohler has a great homey Americana feel to its celebration, with the Kiel band and just the right number of people in its small bowl-shaped park.

I don’t know if the small lakes in northern Wisconsin received a chunk of the stimulus package to spend on holiday celebrations, or what, but...the only display I’ve seen that was more impressive was on opening night of Summerfest a few years ago.

And that’s Milwaukee! To open the biggest musical celebration in the Midwest. Up Nort is most definitely not, um...Milwaukee.

This show had everything required for a spectacular display...the big explosions that seemed to fill the sky from top to bottom, the little fizzly ones that made curly, quirky patterns, a few good white-light boomers, plenty of static cling-sounding choices, and everything in between.

Plus the bonus of being right on the water, among so many other small boats.

At about three different times during the show, we thought it was coming to an end, and at one point I even said, “That’s the exclamation point on a great fireworks display!” But then...they kept going.

And my buddy a few seats away said, “No, Gregg. That was just a comma.”

How true, punctuationally speaking.

Because when the finale came...oh, we knew it! And it was AWEsome!!

So where’s the best place you’ve ever ooh-ed and ahh-ed?

“All architecture is great architecture
after sunset; perhaps architecture is really
a nocturnal art, like the art of fireworks.”
—Gilbert K. Chesterton

Where Have You Gone, Steven Page?

It probably doesn’t take too great of a leap to agree with the statement that, when listening to live music, the lead singer makes or breaks the experience.

But let me give you a bit of a back story as one example to the contrary.

Many years ago when I saw Sister Hazel for the first time, at the county fair in Wausau, the band was arriving very close to the starting time of its performance, and for whatever reason, the lead singer was on a different flight than the rest of the group, and his flight was delayed.

The event organizers pushed back the start of the concert for as long as they could, but eventually a decision had to be made, and Sister Hazel came out on stage, sans one lead singer.

“Great,” I thought. “Drove a couple hours to see a talented new band, and what am I going to see?”

Turns out, the rest of the group came on stage and rocked the crowd. The performance was definitely missing a certain unique voice, but the other band members covered surprisingly well, and to this day I joke about what a great performance Sister Hazel gave the first time I saw them…minus one very important member.

Fast forward to last weekend. Summerfest.

We’d discussed going down on Saturday, and a Barenaked Ladies concert at 10 p.m. was going to (hopefully) be the highlight of that day.

After a group of us made plans to meet on the Summerfest grounds, a buddy sent me a link late last week to a story that lead singer Steven Page had left BNL a few months earlier, after charges of drug possession were brought against him.

While I’m a pretty big fan of BNL, this was the first I’d heard of this change in the band’s lineup.

This news brought me even more concern than learning years before that I’d have to hear Sister Hazel without its frontman, because BNL was already well established, and had a dozen or so very big hits that depended heavily on Page’s unique lead voice.

But I had faith in the other members of the band, and we were all ready to give them a chance to keep us secured among their fandom.

The threat of rain kept us from getting to the stage at an early enough hour, and by the time we showed up, about 45 minutes early, the bleachers and tables and aisles and rows were all filled.

So we hung out in back, and then moved way off to the left side to get barely a glimpse of the stage, and when Barenaked Ladies finally came out, it was easy to tell very early on that they weren’t the same Barenaked Ladies.

They stuck to much of their newer music, which only the most dedicated fans could sing along to. Among the first five songs they played, we knew one, and even that one was a bit...flat...without Page belting out the vocals.

A buddy of mine who had no interest that night in seeing the BoDeans, tapped me on the shoulder during the fifth song and asked, “Wanna go over and check out the BoDeans?”

And that was the end of our BNL concert experience. I doubt we missed much during the next hour of their show. And until they fill the gaping void that is Steven Page’s absence, I may spend my time enjoying their music through my headphones rather than through giant loudspeakers next to a stage.

The BoDeans put on an impressive musical performance for those in the group who hadn’t seen them before, and they played two of my favorite songs as encores, so it made for a good move.

And coincidentally, a few of us hung around into Sunday and went back to the grounds later in the day to see (dramatic come-full-circle pause) Sister Hazel. With lead singer planted firmly in front of a microphone, and not on a late flight in.

Because of course, the lead singer really does make or break the musical experience.

Usually.

“When we started I wasn’t the singer.
I was the drunk rhythm guitarist
who wrote all these weird songs.”
—Robert Smith