Juuust A Bit Outside!

Since I started this blog, I haven't done a whole lot of blogging about darts, which is probably for the best, because let's face it...it's not exactly a hangin'-on-the-edge-of-your-seat topic, is it?

But since it's the pastime that actually gave this blog its name, and since I had a chance at that elusive ton-fifty-one a couple nights ago, I figured I'd tell y'all a story.

Tuesday night was my first night of dart league for the year, as I'd skipped the first week for a chance to see one of my new favorite writers who happened to be passing through the state. (talk about a good move! hilarious, popular, engaging writer, or...dart league. what would you pick? I know I made the right choice, and he'll be the subject of a blog post in the next few days.) Anyway...last week our team had a bye, so three weeks into the season, I got my first chance to shoot some darts, after not having picked one up since the season-ending state tournament in Green Bay back in mid-May (where I shot like a second grader, I might add. and that's an insult to second graders! not......a pretty way to end my season.)

I got to the bar a little early, which doesn't happen too often during the season. Usually, I just show up at about the time we're starting, and am ready to roll without any warm-up darts. But I knew there'd be substantial rust to shake off, so I wanted to throw at least a couple dozen before they counted.

And boy was there rust! Every time I tried to shoot a straight, hard dart, it'd fly about two inches above the bullseye, and I couldn't correct it. I resigned myself to the fact that I might be in for a lonnng, embarrassing night.

Thing is...there's something about shooting practice darts vs. shooting darts in a game that counts for league, or in a tournament game. Often times (not always, mind you...or I might be some kind of touring pro by now) I can flip a switch and if the darts count for something, they start to find their way to their intended target with a lot more regularity than when I'm practicing. I think part of it is just because I've been doing it for so long, that when it's time to get serious, it's easy enough to focus and concentrate on upholding my good name as a dart god. (yes, I just wrote that. no, I'm not going to delete it. and no, I'm really not one.)

I must admit here, however, that this psychic, magical power becomes a totally moot point as soon as I cross the county line. I wish I knew why, and how to fix it, but it's been proven over the years. When we were über-serious about our darts, we used to shoot a lot of tournaments on weekends. And anywhere in the county, we were good. Really good. Like, "Run for your lives! Tommy and Gregg are here, they're gonna wear out all the bulls and triples on the board and take all our beer money!" (I'm embellishing just a tad.)

When we'd go to Green Bay or Appleton or Oshkosh to shoot, however, my darts took an embarrassing downturn. I'd still shoot...OK...but I have very few tournament titles and very little prize money during my "career" that came from outside the county. Some, but not enough to brag about. Over the years, our league team has shot state tournaments in La Crosse, Milwaukee, Stevens Point, Appleton, Green Bay, Wisconsin Dells...and we'd always shoot well enough on the weekend to make it to the Sunday morning final round, only to bomb out and pout all the way home.

I guess that's why it's just a pastime, eh?

Sorry. Back to Tuesday.

League began, and my darts were hitting the bull quite a bit more often than when I first arrived. Before I knew it, I had a handful of tons and a couple/few hat tricks and a few wins on the stat sheet. Whoo hoo! I didn't totally sully my image of dart godliness on the very first night. That would have been depressing.

As I hinted up above, one of the hat tricks I had was at the beginning of a game, which meant I was left with (ready for it?) a ton-fifty-one for my second round. A perfect game just three darts away. Not an easy three darts...but three darts, nonetheless.

My first dart of my second round found the bullseye, and.........so did my second. One dart left in my hand. One triple-17 left to hit for a perfect game. One very cool way to start my season.

I wish I could tell you here that I paused for a moment, stepped off the line, closed my eyes and got a mental image in my head of my blog title, gathering up all the hopes and dreams of my dozens and dozens of readers (ok, three) inside of me and as I let go of that dart it guided itself into the triple-17, and lights flashed, fireworks exploded, dancing girls...danced. (and that's how it'll be when they make the movie of my life, I can guarantee you that right now.)

Instead, I let out one big exhale, leaned in and aimed...and let 'er fly.

While it's only about eight feet from the line to the board, sometimes you can tell just as soon as the dart leaves your fingertips how badly you've fucked up. And my dart, sticking in the board about two inches north of the triple-17, was evidence that I'll have to wait for another day to proclaim the great news that I got my six-dart out for the season.

But it sure is fun to shoot five bulls in a row, and have that chance.
I'll get one for ya this year. Hell, I'll get one for me this year.
And you'll be the first to read about it.

"Wit is a treacherous dart. It is perhaps

the only weapon with which it is possible

to stab oneself in one's own back."

—Geoffrey Bocca

Do I Have To Take Your Order??

[OK, one or two more of these blog entries where I cheat and pull stuff from my archives, and then I hope to get back to writing in real time again, rather than copying and pasting. But in keeping with the theme of strangers helping me to write my columns, I wanted to share this one, mostly because of the reaction it got after it was published, which I've included in this entry as an Addendum at the bottom. I have to admit that it made me grin pretty big to know that the story written below was seen by the right eyes. Oh, and the references to the Olympics should make it pretty obvious that this column was pulled from 2004.]

I had originally intended for this week’s column to be an Olympic wrap-up of sorts, touching on some of the big stories of the games.

I thought I’d comment on Paul Hamm’s controversial gold medal (keep it) and the U.S. men’s basketball team and the medal they brought home. (Doesn’t quite match all the bling they wear around their necks, does it?)

But instead, I’ve been inspired to go on a bit of a rant, so join me if you will.

I’d like to use this space to make a plea to fast food establishments everywhere that if you don’t wish to serve food up until the closing time of your posted open hours, then please edit your signage to read as such.

A couple days ago I walked into such a place to buy myself a late dinner. I knew it was getting close to closing, but I looked at the clock and still had a dozen minutes to spare, and I even asked if they were still serving, to which I received a “yes” response.

So I placed my order, overjoyed that I wouldn’t go hungry, or be forced to eat a tube of crackers as a meal.

And then...it began. Tension so thick you could have cut it with an oven mitt. Apparently, what this person really wanted to say when asked if I could still get my dinner was, “Umm, no. If I’m gonna get out of here two seconds after we close, there’s no way you can order anything. Goodbye.”

I stood there quietly and observed as things were not-so-gently flung about, and got the heaviest silent guilt trip laid on me, because I had the audacity to commit such a heinous crime as (stay with me on this one) entering a place of business during its open hours and offering to drop another 15 bucks into its till before it closes that day’s business.

I should be flogged.

The inconvenience I must have caused this person by asking her to do...her...job...had to be monumental.

Now, I’ve never worked fast food before, and I’m sure there’s a closing procedure that gets knocked out of kilter when a Johnny-Come-Lately like me tries to get a bite to eat before things are shut down.

But again...did I show up two minutes after closing and demand that my order be filled? No. I was there 12 minutes before.

This type of customer abuse (I’m scarred for life, by the way) can be prevented if these establishments would only clarify their hours of operation by requesting that all orders be completed 20 minutes before the posted closing time, so that employees can bolt for the door the second the business’s “Closed” sign gets flipped.

And if I did something wrong, I’d appreciate it if someone well-versed in fast food etiquette would point it out to me.

Rather than fanning the fire by refusing my order after it was filled and walking out, or making some sort of formal complaint to management, I simply sat back and took it all in, and thought to myself, “Thanks for the column!”

And by the way...if they add an Olympic customer service event in the Beijing Olympics in 2008, I can guarantee you one American who’ll never even make it to the trials.

“Your most unhappy customers are
your greatest source of learning.”
—Bill Gates

[Addendum: A couple days after this column appeared in the newspaper, I received a voicemail from the owner of three franchises like the one in which this episode occurred. He was concerned whether this took place in one of his restaurants (it didn't), and he also asked me if I would be opposed to him hanging my column on the wall in the back of his restaurants as a reminder to his employees of how to treat their customers (I wasn't). So I can only assume now that the employees of those three restaurants aren't real big fans of the guy who wrote that column, and they look at my byline and ask, "Who the hell is this asshole?" waiting to for me to come in and buy something so they can run the janitor's mop over my food before serving it to me, or replace my "extra pickles" order with extra dust balls instead. I've tried to avoid such retaliation by using the following line when I go into any of these three establishments: "Hi, I'm Bill! I'd like to place an order, please." So far, it's been working.]

Good Times...Noodle Salad

[The following column was written four years ago, after spending about five minutes next to a curious, clueless individual at a deli counter.]

There’s an old business maxim that says, “The customer is always right.”

Not a bad rule to promote a successful business. But what if the customer is crazy?

I was waiting in line at the deli counter at an area grocery store the other day, and was lucky enough to observe a girl trying to buy noodle salad who would have tested the sanity of even the most tolerant of those in the customer service business.

First, she wasn’t certain what size container she wanted. The half-pound container was too small, but she didn’t think she wanted the one-pound container completely filled. There’s a fraction in between there somewhere, so she settled on a three-quarter-pound purchase.

The girl even pointed to an imaginary mark exactly where she thought she wanted the noodles in her not-quite-filled one-pound container to reach.

“How much will that cost?” she asked, before the clerk could start scooping.

“It’s a dollar ninety-nine per pound with your savings card,” was the clerk’s reply.

“So that’d be like...Wait, how much was this again?” she asked, grabbing the half-pound container off of the counter.

“That’s the half-pound container that you said was too small,” said the clerk. “That would be a dollar.”

“OK, so this one not quite full would be...a dollar fifty?”

“Is that enough for a meal?” was her next question.

I know customer service people are supposed to have all the answers, but how was she supposed to know the appetite of this girl that was causing her so much grief?

“Umm, I dunno,” was the clerk’s indifferent reply.

After confirming the girl’s request, the clerk disappeared into the back with the empty container to get a mystery salad that wasn’t at the counter.

Miss Picky continued to browse the deli selections, unaware of the people standing near her...namely, me. Soon I felt the awkward closeness of a personal space invader, and tried to lean a bit to make it not quite as obvious.

That just brought her another nudge closer to me. After a few more clicks to the left, I realized that I couldn’t lean at a 45-degree angle without falling over, and I figured one person causing a scene at the deli counter was enough, so I took a small step backwards and out of her way.

That’s all the opening she needed and she moved right in, as she wasn’t going to let a 250-pound roadblock like myself deter her from getting closer to the seafood pasta and mustard potato salad in front of me.

The clerk emerged soon after, and presented a beautifully packed container of noodle salad...not too full, not too empty, and as level on top as you can get without borrowing carpenter’s tools.

“Oh,” was the customer’s first reaction, as she studied her selection. “That looks like a lot. I think...umm...yeah, I think I’m gonna keep looking.”

“So you don’t want it? You want me to put this back in the case?” the clerk asked, as our eyes met briefly and I could tell that we were both sharing the same thought. I only hoped that she knew that I was a single customer at her deli.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Off went the clerk, back into hiding for as long as it took, I can only assume, for Miss Indecision to move along to Aisle 3.

As I was placing my order, the girl went back to her routine, this time with another clerk who was trying to fill someone else’s order.

“Miss? Miss?” she said, pointing. “Is this any good, this Oriental coleslaw? Is that like Mexican, or what does it taste like?”

“It’s kinda sweet,” said the clerk.

“Ohhh, so it’s like Chinese food,” the girl said with a giggle. Maybe she thought all Chinese food was sweet, or maybe she had just then realized that Oriental coleslaw and Mexican food were on two totally different sides of the plate.

I wasn’t about to crawl inside her brain to try and figure it out. I was having my fun just eavesdropping and taking mental notes. A lot of them! Quickly.

Anyway, that clerk went about her business of filling the order she had originally been working on, and the girl was again left alone to ponder.

I got my order filled...14/37 of a pound of Mexican-flavored Oriental potato salad...and was on my way. I wanted to hang around for the exciting deli conclusion, but that might have made me late for work Monday morning.

And I knew that with what I had witnessed, I had way more than my requisite 600 words for this week’s column.

Another old adage states: “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
Ya think?

“There is only one boss. The customer.
And he can fire everybody in the company
from the chairman on down, simply by
spending his money somewhere else.”
—Sam Walton

Yes...I Always Do That.

Uncle Kracker has left the building!!

(or...at least moved out of the way, that if you aren't totally sick of looking at him for the past month and a half, you have to scroll down to see him again.)

Hello?

Helloooooo...hellooooo...elloo...llo...lo...lo.

Dammit, just what I thought. Empty.

— • — • —

As some of you may know, I write a weekly column in the paper for which I work. Kind of along the same lines as this blog, where I can write about whatever strikes me, and whatever I find to ramble about for six or seven hundred words.

Thing is, the big difference between my column and this blog is that if I don't submit a column every week, it won't take too long and I'll lose it. And that space will ultimately get filled with an AP story on luxury taxes for the middle class or a recipe on how best to prepare hog jowls for the holidays.

If I take a step or two away from this blog...and then return eons later...it's still here, waiting for me. Of course, all my readers have vanished, and I'll have to go and purchase new ones now. But the blog, that's still intact.

[Wanted: People who enjoy reading, and who have internet access, to commit to a blog whose author is fully committed to updating at least once a we..uhh...once a mo.......is committed to updating on his own personal whim. Topics of conversation include hot dog gluttony, spam poetry and gospel music. Come one, come all. Next entry to be posted any time before February. Comments always welcome.]

Sometimes coming up with a column topic is about as easy as admitting aloud that I'm a Lions fan. It hurts more than a little. The weekend comes, and I start thinking I better find something to write about, and before I know it it's Sunday afternoon, and Sunday evening, and after obsessing over football scores and highlights, I think, "Uh-oh. Column!!" You can write only so many columns bashing Britney Spears or commenting on unseasonably warm weather before the natives get restless. They want content...good content. Or else they'll sue!! (I made that part up.)

But sometimes...just by going through life and keeping my eyes and ears open, my columns write themselves, with the help of some unknowing citizens. Remember the blog entry (decades ago?) about the drunk woman at the wayside who couldn't find her Saturn? I didn't drive away from that thinking, "What a kook!" The first thing that popped into my head was, "Score! My column's written!"

That's happened to me more than once, and in the interest of easing back into this blogging thing after being gone for a while, I'm going to post a few examples over the next few days in which being in the right place at the right time, and observing, got me a free pass for my column that week. Those are my favorite ones to write, too. The ones that I'm not expecting.


The first one happened a couple months ago, when I walked into a convenience store to buy a few, um, conveniences. A bag of Gummi Bears and a Vitamin Water (the yellow "energy" flavor, if you're interested in trying something that'll immediately turn you into a Vitamin Water addict).

I walked to the cashier in the tiny store, and as I placed my two items on the counter, she looked at me and asked, "Do you always do that?"

With a blank stare, unsure of how to answer her because I had no idea if I did or didn't do whatever it was she was asking, my reply was something like, "......huh?" (a scintillating conversationalist, I am not.)

"Do you always shuffle past the first item and take the second or third one behind it?"

Apparently, she'd been watching me take the Gummi Bears off of the peg. I had scanned the clear front panel of the first few bags and settled on purchasing one a couple bags deep.

"Oh, that," I said. "I was just looking for the bag with the most red and orange Gummis in it, and while I know it's probably not true, this one looked like it had more."

After a short pause, I continued, "But...yeah, come to think of it, I do always do that!"

"I do that with evvvrything," she said. "Everything."

"Well, that first one's just for display. Nobody wants that one, right?"

"Yeah," she said. "Everybody touches that one."

After our brief exchange, I walked out the door, knowing she'd just written about 80 percent of this column, and all I had to do was let it spill out of my brain. But I began to wonder how often I really do bypass the first item for one behind it or below it or next to it or...wherever.

I did it with the Gummi Bears, under the excuse that I was looking for more reds and oranges, and fewer greens and clears.

But I didn't do it with the Vitamin Water. First one in the rack is the one I grabbed.

I do it with newspapers at a newsstand. I never grab the top paper on the stack. Why is that? Better news down below? Less smudging on the newsprint, perhaps? Better coupons?? (which I don't clip anyway.) Doubtful. Just a foolish habit.

I rarely buy a loaf of bread without squeezing at least three of them. Not hard enough to put an imprint in 'em or anything. But for a quick freshness check. Sometimes I go back to the first one I squeezed, but not after I've tested one or two others.

Now that I've revealed what a totally neurotic shopper I am, I hope I don't get bombarded everywhere I go with the same vague, confusing question:

"Do you always do that?"

[coming sooner than you might think: strange ladies at deli counters, and surly fast food employees.]

"You've got bad eating habits if you

use a grocery cart in 7-Eleven, OK?"

—Dennis Miller

Happy, Humble, Famous or Rich.

I'm a bit of an Uncle Kracker fan, and think that, from beginning to end, his disc, "No Stranger To Shame," is a pretty good overall musical effort. Maybe a couple hiccups here and there, but fun music with a unique sound, and an occasional message thrown in.

At the end of the disc, he's got a hidden track called, "After School Special," a rap about how he grew up as a dumb school kid and followed his dream, transforming into a millionaire recording artist.

About halfway through the song, there's a verse in which the Voice of Wisdom is talking to Uncle Kracker, describing what his life became when he started getting some money and fame, and the choices he had to make. Every time I hear these lyrics, they make me stop and think:

How many times must I give you your options?
Happy...Humble...Famous...or Rich.
You only get two and only you can pick!

Not the easiest selection to make, is it?...if you only get two.

The two that I imagine most people would be drawn to first would be Happy and Rich. Everyone wants to be Happy, and hey, Rich is always cool, too, right? Many people couldn't care less about Fame, but then there's that other one...Humble. If you're Happy and Rich, then according to those lyrics, you'll be lacking in Humility. Which I can only assume would mean that the people around you would think of you as an arrogant asshole. Not that you would care, because you'd have your Happiness, right? But since you're not Famous, the people you surround yourself with most often would be family and close friends. And do you really want them having that opinion of you?

Let's try to pick two more: the ever-popular cliché, Rich and Famous. Robin Leach made a living showcasing their lifestyles. But as two shining examples, I give you...Britney Spears. And Michael Vick. They're both Rich and Famous. But are either of them Happy lately? Or Humble? (how 'bout stooopid? or crazy?)

I would very quickly dismiss Rich and Famous. I've gotta work some Happy in there somehow. Which means my options have been diminished greatly. I'm left with Happy and Humble, Happy and Famous, or Happy and Rich.

I don't want to be Famous. I don't think I'd handle it well. And it matters to me what family and friends think of me. So I guess I need a dose of Humble to counteract any assholeness that may occur. My options have apparently been set...Happy, and Humble. One thing I sort of assume as a given is that if you're Happy, you're not faced with too many financial worries and struggles. So while you may not be Rich, you're probably doing pretty well. And that's good enough for me.

Who's got some other combination of two of the four that you'd choose? And what led you to make your decision on those two? Share some different perspectives.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to Humbly drive to the corner convenience store and buy a Powerball ticket. Because winning $245 million on Wednesday night would make me, umm...Happy.

"Sometimes I feel like somethin' is gone here,

somethin' is wrong here, I don't belong here.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in town,

and I've lost what I've found.

It'll all turn around."

—Uncle Kracker, "In A Little While"

The Writing's On The Wall...But Can You Read It?

I was skimming one of Mark Cuban's blog entries the other day, and found myself nodding my head, totally able to relate.

Of course, I do this often when I read his blog, because Cuban and I have so many similarities: We've got approximately the same net worth, give or take about nine zeros. He owns a basketball team; I own a basketball. He's the co-founder of HDNet; I enjoy surfing the Net. He's a technological genius; I own a basketball.

If you haven't already clicked over to it, the title of his blog post was, "I Forgot How To Write!" where he lamented his bad fortune when he was forced to take notes longhand—that's right, pen and paper style—in a meeting because he didn't have anything with a keyboard near him.

Relying so heavily on PDAs and laptops and other devices with keypads, Cuban literally found it difficult to scribble one letter after another.

While I don't have as many funky gadgets as he does, I've been in exactly the same boat when trying to write cursive letters. Obviously, a keyboard is my first option, both at work and at home, but I don't have a laptop (yet), so I'm not exactly mobile in that regard.

For as many years as I can remember, when I put pen to paper, I almost always print. I'm one of those people with the small-caps style of printing, and I'm pretty happy with my printing. It's always legible, looks pretty neat most of the time, and I can move the pen across the paper at a decent clip.

There are times, however, when cursive writing is the path best attempted, if you've got pages of stuff to write, for instance. And every time I try to write, instead of print, I fumble my way through the letters, improvising on some strokes, cheating on others and generally getting a rather sloppy page. Sometimes it's downright hideous. It didn't used to be so bad. (and, no, the handwriting sample isn't mine. I was too lazy to write one out, take a photo, crop it and upload it...so I just searched for one instead.)

A buddy and I started using the small caps printing style way back in middle school, so I haven't had a lot of practice with cursive writing since then. Some, but not a lot. And lately...even less than that. And it shows.

I'm not saying I want to go back and re-learn cursive writing and practice it until my pages flow. I'll always opt for a keyboard, and for the small caps. But to quote Mr. Cuban, "I forgot how to write!" So sad.

My mom's got nearly flawless penmanship, and if you were ever to get a handwritten letter from her, you'd think you just opened to page 36 in a penmanship textbook. It's that good. And when my dad reaches for a pen, he produces really cool-looking small caps. I used to be able to do both of them fairly well, but I liked the look of the small caps a lot better, so I stuck with that.

And I've found that the skill I haven't used for so many years, has nearly disappeared. Maybe I need to enroll in an elementary class this fall.

But I don't think I'd fit in the desk.

"Letter writing is the only device for

combining solitude with good company."

—Lord Byron

Don't Expect Frost, or Kipling. Or Seuss.

This is truly a "squib" of a topic, but I really wanted to bring that header back to my blog. It's been gone for far too many Sundays. Who knows when it may show its face again? I'm hoping for next Sunday, but that might be optimistic.

And I wanted to give a blog entry like this a try. Here's the backstory: Scattered across the Internets, I've discovered some bloggers and other creative sites that boast samples of "Spam Haiku," or poetry created totally out of spam subject lines or body copy. I always thought that was a clever idea. So I gathered all of my spam subject lines and wrote them out into a list, and thought I might try to rearrange them into something resembling a poem. (no rhyming, unless I get lucky...and no syllable counting, at least for this experiment. while haiku might be a more inspired way to display spam, I'm too lazy to count three lines of five, seven and five syllables. consider this spam freeverse, if you will.)

Each line of the poem was a spam subject line...unedited, uncensored, untouched. And minimal punctuation. I feel like freaking e.e. cummings. Except, you know, with spam. And bad.

Hello, my dearest friend

How things looking

Feeling cold inside out

Things getting better

Time for change

Have u heard that

These positions will help you reach your peak

Think i can help you with this

You have to get your horse going

goon

Good girls love bad boys

Is this right

What are your thoughts

U know what i think

Hey man, stop throwing away your money

Stop waiting

Gloria sent you a zzwrong.hk! Greeting

Did you get this, buddy

She will love you more than any other guy

frisky

Great stuff. Love it

Bet this is the one

Make her worship you

We provide you a real advantage to turn her on

Go magnify yourselves atlantica

At loneliness in moorefield

IF YOU DO VENTURE OUT ONTO THE LAKES

Don't get left behind

If you go for the sun

Help is on the way

Can you help

Thx for all ur help

Hope you can make better

Can't wait anymore

The death of the bicycle has had a tremendous effect on blackman

The definition of Freudian slip

For this sahara

lowly tape recorder

Saw them all

In supermarket

%START_WORD a coffeyville

This is great. Count on it

You've received a postcard from a School mate!

But he's loyal to George Bush, and that's key

I know I'll take flack for it — but I liked it

Crazy stuff

When will this finish

— • — • —

Uhh...I'm guessing this will finish right about here. I think I've figured out the reason why others have used the haiku format for this. Because after seventeen syllables it gets pretty damn boring.

Spam poetry is best taken in small doses. Or perhaps...no doses at all. I apologize for wasting your valuable Sunday minutes.

Here's a haiku to finish up:

No regrets. Great choice

Just wanted to drop a line

Ladies will love you

"To be nobody but yourself in a world

which is doing its best day and night

to make you like everybody else

means to fight the hardest battle

which any human being can fight and

never stop fighting."

—e.e. cummings

It's Like Plastic Gold!

You know what’s almost more fun than using a free Barnes & Noble gift card?

Sometimes...not using it.

I recently received one of these cards, which, in my eyes, always looks more attractive than a gold brick or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. I mean...don’t people realize that this thin rectangular card entitles the owner to...*gasp!*...free books?

Could there be anything better? I think not.

Anyway, the day after I received the card, I had a trip scheduled to Green Bay for a different purpose, so I stowed the card in my wallet to have at the ready in the event that I stopped to browse. Who was I kidding?...I purposely left my entire afternoon free so I’d have several uninterrupted hours.

Those gift cards never last too long in my possession, and during my time at the bookstore, I found a small semi load of books that I’d love to add to my collection.

As I wandered the aisles, though, a thought crossed my mind and the more I pondered it, the smarter it started to sound.

I had another excursion planned the very next day down to Milwaukee, where they build some of the Barneses a little bigger. So I decided to to keep my gift card securely tucked in my back pocket, and would hit the road a couple hours earlier than planned the next day to do some more book browsing.

As I walked out the door of the Green Bay store, I thought to myself, “All that picking and planning over which books to buy, salivating over this one and that...and now I get to do it all again tomorrow, too!”

I was stretching the value of my gift without too much effort. Granted, I didn’t have any new books in my hands, but the idea of new books was still fresh and real.

The next day I walked into my idea of heaven on earth and began my routine all over again...checking the bargain shelves, wandering among the classics, perusing the tables set out specifically for “great summer reads” to see what knowledgeable book people are recommending.

And then, according to plan, I made my way over to the “Writing/Reference” section, and knew that this is where I would surrender my gift card in exchange for books on the writing craft.

Many of my gift cards are spent in this section, and my bookshelves overflow with volumes on creativity and fiction writing and tips on writing memoirs and how to overcome writer’s block.

You know those writers you read about who spend more time reading about writing than they actually do writing? That would be yours truly.

I selected a book dedicated to getting you writing and keeping you writing, another that called itself a writer’s portable therapist (no jokes from the peanut gallery about how I should have opted for the unabridged encyclopedic version instead), a small volume by Ray Bradbury with his thoughts on the writing life, and an entertaining dictionary of sorts called, “Word Nerd.”

As I placed my four books on the counter by the saleslady, she shuffled through them and gave me a smile, saying, “These look like some fun books!”

I quietly remarked about it being one of my favorite subjects.

And as she rang me up and tried to sell me on becoming a book club member (which she did; guess that means I’ll have to spend more time at Barnes!), she commented, “Well, when you’re a famous writer you’ll have to come back here and do a reading for us.”

That line made me laugh, and I said, “It’s a date. I’ll mark it on my calendar.”

So now I’ve got my first gig. All I’ve got to take care of is the “getting famous” part.

Hmm...does anyone know any good books on how to write?

“When you write down your life,

every page should contain something

no one has ever heard about.”
—Elias Canetti

Drunken Strangers: A WWYD Quiz

So I'm driving along the lakeshore on my way home a few nights back, and the moon is about as full and as bright as I've seen it in a long, long time. If you don't already know this about me, I'm mesmerized by the moon and the stars. I hope to one day own lakefront (seafront?) property on the Sea of Tranquility.

Seeing it shimmering off of Lake Michigan, I decided to try my luck at some nighttime photography, already resigned to the fact that I don't have the skills...and perhaps not the camera...necessary to figure out the correct camera settings to capture on a memory card what I'm absorbing in person.

(want proof? completely embarrassing sample of "moonlit lake" appears to the right. I promise there's a lake out there somewhere. you just can't, umm, see it. this image is sooo not copyrighted. please, go ahead...steal it. and replace it with a better one.)

I pulled into a wayside along the lake, and snapped a few shots, fooling around with the camera's scene modes and its manual settings, adding the flash for a few shots to get the weeds and rocks along the shore in a couple of the photos. Not expecting much, but finished with my experiment, I turned to walk back to my car, and noticed someone else in the parking lot, maybe 50 feet to my right.

As I got to my car door, that someone spoke up: "Sir...excuse me, sir, could you help me?" asked a middle-aged woman walking slowly in my direction.

"Um, what do you need?" I replied.

"Could you help me find my Saturn?"

"Your...what??"
(after just having the moon on my brain for the last 15 minutes, I thought maybe she was an extraterrestrial trying to find her way to her home planet.)

"Could you..." **stumble — shuffling of feet — more with the stumbling** "...I'm drunk. I'm sorry, I'm drunk. My car. It's a Saturn."

"Uhh. Where did you leave it?"

"Well, I was just walking down there, and I thought I left it here and was in the right place, but now I can't seem to find it," was her answer. [sober ed. note: the "down there" to which she was referring is a trail that runs along the lakeshore, several feet from the waysides and rest stops along the highway.]

"Did you check the other waysides?" There was another one a short walk up the trail.

"I thought I did, but...maybe I'm just mixed up," she said.

Unsure of where her car was, or if she was even wandering the correct Great Lake, I decided that she was not going to get in my car, or else I might not get her out without her passing out, puking, or worse...stabbing me in the neck with her car keys and driving off without leaving a trace of evidence.

I could envision the headlines already, after investigators checked the SD card in my camera for clues: "Amateur Photographer, Unable to Comprehend f-stops, Ends Life Under Fuzzy Glow of Moonlight."

"Sorry, but I don't think I can help you," I told the woman.

"Thaaanks, dude!" was her sarcastic reply as she stepped almost immediately to her left and stumbled back toward the trail.

I got in my car and pulled out onto the road, and drove to the wayside about a quarter mile away. Sure enough, there in the parking lot was a gray Saturn, with Indiana license plates.

Having a bit of fun with this adventure, I drove back to where I'd originally found Ms. Stumbledrunk, not sure what action I'd take, but at least hoping to inform her where her car was located. She was nowhere in sight, however, and I wasn't feeling generous enough to go hiking the trail looking for her.

And as I slowly circled the parking lot, I thought it was probably best that I didn't find her. She wasn't in any shape to walk, much less drive.

So that's where the story ended, and I didn't make any more wayside pit stops on my drive home.

I hope she found her way back to Saturn, and enjoyed the view of the moon along the way.

— • — • —

Here's the quiz part: What Would You Do? How much help would you have given this stumbling drunk stranger? Which one of the following would mostly likely have been your response:

"Lady, go sleep it off on the grass. You'll find your car when you sober up."

— or —

"Sure, get in. I have nothing better to do than drive around aimlessly, chauffeuring some drunk who barely knows what planet she's on, much less what planet she's from."

— or —

"Do you happen to have a tripod handy? And......if I go with an f2.8 and a shutter speed of maybe 1/4 of a second, will that give me at least a couple ripples on the lake when I open this up in Photoshop?"

"The scientific theory that I like best

is that the rings of Saturn are composed

entirely of lost airline luggage."

—Mark Russell

How To Meet Someone New

Sometimes I long for the days of being 5 years old, when life was simple and making new friends took all of about two minutes.

A couple Saturdays ago I rode along with my parents and my niece, Grace, to the EAA AirVenture show in Oshkosh, where we’d be meeting my sister and brother-in-law later in the day.

We found a shade tree just outside the grounds and set up some chairs to watch the nonstop aerial shows the dozens of planes were putting on.

It didn’t take long, and Gracie was getting to know the lady next to us who was also enjoying the shade and the air show.

Then, during one of a few scheduled bathroom breaks in which Grandma and Gracie were gone, a little girl and her younger brother came to sit down about three feet away from me, the girl setting up a fold-out lounge chair and commenting to no one in particular, “I think I’ll sit...right...here.”

I smiled at her but didn’t say anything, and turned back to watch the planes, anxious to see Grace’s reaction when she came back to our spot in the shade.

And sure enough, it didn’t disappoint. Uncles and grandparents and new older lady friends are all well and good, but other little kids are always much more important to little kids.


Gracie was in full jabber mode as she walked with Grandma, but when she saw the two newcomers to my left, the conversation ceased and she stopped in her tracks to survey the situation.

I was sprawled out on the grass with my legs extended, and she came and stood alongside me, her feet tucked under my right leg, silent and staring for about a minute. Then, she stepped over my legs and stood and stared some more. Another minute or so, and she sat down on the ground and nestled against my arm, still observing, but also safely resting against “familiar territory.”

A couple minutes later, she scooted along the ground to move closer to her peers, and I was no longer necessary. I’d served my purpose as a couple-stage buffer, but now Grace felt brave enough to invite herself into the conversation that the girl and her brother were having, nodding and saying, “yeah,” and “mm hmm.”

When a plane came in for a landing along the runway nearest to us, the little girl said out loud, “Wow, that’s a biiigg plane!!” and Gracie answered back with, “Yeahhh, that is a big one!” and voila!...a new friend was made, and the conversation continued.


With a little bit of eavesdropping on my part, I was entertained for a good hour with some very random snippets of getting-to-know-you conversation.

“I’m 5,” said Grace. “How old are you?”

“I’m 4, and a haaalf!” replied the girl.

“Well I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

“You look like you’re 3.”

“No, I doh-uuun’t.” (don’t you just love it how little kids can take a one-syllable word and stretch it out into a really long two?)

On the EAA grounds, some smoke bombs were being set off as planes flew by to give the effect of a wartime demonstration, and that also became a topic of conversation.

“Are you scared of the bombs and the smoke out there? I’m not,” said Grace.

“I’m not, either,” answered the little girl.

“Do you like shrimp?” asked Grace.

I didn’t hear the answer to that one. And did I mention these bytes of conversation were, um, random? Yeah.

During a short lull of silence, the girl blurted out, “I’m Bailey!!”

“That’s your name? My name’s Grace.”

The rest of their time together was spent running races to see who was faster, and sharing grapes. And when Bailey had to leave, the older people once again became a little more interesting.

I like to think I learned a little something about interpersonal communication skills, and might have to test it out among the older crowd in a barroom environment.

“I’m 38, how old are you? You look like you’re 3.”

And of course the one to catch 'em off guard: “Do you like shrimp?”

Think that’ll get me a phone number?

“He had occasional flashes of silence
that made his conversation
perfectly delightful.”
—Sydney Smith

No Gifts, Please

A year ago today, I sat down with a bunch of jumbled ideas in my head, connected a few dots, filled in a few holes and and knitted together my very first blog entry. I've been told, and I'm not sure that I can disagree, that the first one still qualifies as my best effort to date. Considering I've written, what...nine posts in the last year? (give or take one or two)...I didn't give myself much of a chance to top that intro, did I?

I've read many different blogs over the past several years, and have seen some of them mention their one- or two- or five-year blogiversaries. I wasn't sure if I was going to do the same when mine came around, because let's be honest...it's been a rather unceremonious year. (which is why, when I went searching for a pic to add to this post, I immediately chose the badly drawn slice of cake instead of a high-res photo of a perfectly baked, immaculately frosted whole. I don't deserve it.)

When I signed up for my Blogger account, I did it with a few layers of uncertainty as to whether I'd keep it up. A year later, I can say I stuck with it...sort of. I've had the occasional flurry of two or three posts in a week, but for the most part it's been once a week, or worse.

Turns out...and this is the part that I'm still trying to process..."blog" is a verb. (fuckin' action words.)

And here I thought a blog was just something to have to make you look cool so you could say things like, "Hey, go check out my blog." or "I really tell it like it is on my blog." or "They cancelled my blog!!"

Not true. You actually have to work at a blog. You've gotta, um, blog. (see? I told you it was a verb.)

I tried to coerce myself when the new year rolled around to pay more attention to this thing. I set goals. And quickly dismissed them. I gave myself pep talks: "blahblahblah post more often blahblahblah write better blahblahblah getcher ass off that damn couch blah. blah blah.

I spent (and spend) more time reading other people's blogs than working on my own. And in an odd twist, I found myself reading more and more blogs about...blogging. Trying to find a spark or a tip or an "aha!!" to get me motivated.

I read just about everywhere that most good bloggers use, or should use, WordPress. So my neurotic self immediately concluded, "I might not be a good blogger, but if I start using WordPress...ohhhh boy, I'll be more motivated and my blog will be cooler and I'm gonna get better before the ink on my registration page is even dry." This actually stuck in my head for longer than I care to admit. You'll notice, however, that my blogiversary has passed and I've still got a Blogger address. Because I sorta stepped outside myself, shook some sense into myself and said, "Dude!! First concentrate on the blogging part of it...then, if you get a handle on that, then you can go where the cool people blog." (apparently, I spoke to myself using lots of italics.)

The bottom line to this big long one-year-inspired rant is that I enjoy coming here. I'd miss it if I deleted it. I'd just like to discipline myself to come here on a slightly more consistent basis.

It's not that I'm gonna make a big pile of money if I start posting four times a week, and I'm not going to suddenly draw in hundreds upon hundreds of new readers. But there's something satisfying, often therapeutic, about the writing process.

A blog is a unique animal. You can come here, post a few words and a link, and call it a day. If you're feeling particularly whiny, but not particularly motivated, you can log in, say, "My feet hurt. Time for some new shoes." and hit Publish. Done. Or, you can go the route that I seem to take most often, which is to ramble for six or seven thousand words, not knowing when to quit. You can say "fuck" whenever you want, and not worry about censors. That doesn't go over too well in a community newspaper column. (not that I've tried.) And I don't care what anyone says...it's a great word. A versatile word. A powerful word.

I have no idea what my second year will hold, but I hope it delivers more words. And who knows?...maybe for my second blogiversary, I'll announce that I'm moving to WordPress. Meanwhile, I'll try to heed the mantra I learned many many years ago, from one of my favorite teachers: Just write. Just write. Just write.

"Anyone who says he wants to be

a writer and isn't writing, doesn't."

—Ernest Hemingway

Bluue Seventeeen. Bluue Seventeeen. Hut...Hut...

I bought my second football magazine today, after buying my first one a couple weeks ago. The buzz surrounding the upcoming football season is in full swing, on the Internets, on local news channels and cable sports talk shows. All the NFL players are safely tucked into their training camps (sans the prima donna holdouts, of course), having nightmares of the two-a-days to come, and all I can say is I am......ready..for some..football.

This is my favorite time of the year...when I get anxious to send out my first football e-mail to a group of buddies who took my money last year, after having me take it from them the year before (who knows what this season will bring?); when the optimism surrounding Detroit Lions training camp is almost worth buying into (I know I shouldn't say this, because I say it every year, but...they could really be on to something this year!); and when you just never know which team will emerge, Saints-like, and be the big surprise of the league.

As the pre-pre-season gets underway, here are a few early thoughts that have been rolling around in my head as I wait for the kickoff of the regular season:

• Go Lions!!

• I realize that Joe Thomas is supposed to be the greatest thing to come out of college since sliced bread (which earned an MFA in yeast at High-Rise University), and I'm happy for the whole Wisconsin-boy-makes-good story, but more than FORTY-TWO million over five years?? With 22 or 23 million guaranteed? Two words...Tony. Mandarich.

• Joey Harrington just can't seem to find a clipboard to hold anywhere these days. After being shown the door in Detroit, he went to Miami where he expected to back up Daunte Culpepper. Instead...he started 11 games, performing well in about two and a half quarters of those games. Sent packing again, he signed with Atlanta, securing a position on the sidelines behind Michael Vick. (has anyone heard anything about him these days?) With Vick appearing to have other plans for about the next, oh, six years or so...Harrington once again finds himself a starter.

• Uhh...Go Lions!!

• Randy Moss will have a spectacular season, and will catch many, many touchdowns. Terrell Owens will be boorish, obnoxious, attention-starved, and will be outplayed by teammate Terry Glenn. (A couple of the football magazines I paged through have the Cowboys pegged as the runner-up in the Super Bowl. Am I missing something? With Wade Phillips as coach??)

• In an attempt to instill more confidence in the locker room, Lions signal-caller Jon Kitna has been spouting to the media that his team will win 10-plus games this season. And wide receiver Mike Furrey is echoing those statements, saying "on paper, we should win 10, 11 games, easy." (Umm...you don't put on pads and helmets and cleats to go and play pro football games on paper, Mr. Furrey.) Kitna also has been throwing around a crazy number when asked about the potential of his wide receiving corps this year, with Furrey, Roy Williams and draft-day stud, Calvin Johnson...saying he might throw 50 touchdowns this season. (Peyton Manning's single-sesaon record is 49. Last I checked, Jon Kitna is no Peyton Manning.)

• So...Go Lions! Yeah, go away from all those microphones and stop talking like fuckin' idiots, and concentrate instead on a nice, respectable 9-7 record, which just might get you into the playoffs in the NFC.

I am soooo ready for some football.

"The place where

optimism flourishes most

is in the lunatic asylum."

—Havelock Ellis

It's ridiculous. And disgusting. (says you!)

Apparently, the Bratwurst Capital of America has suddenly gotten this urge to change its image and be more, um, health-conscious. Because the professional brat-eating contest held in Sheboygan the past couple years has been nixed from this year’s list of activities.

The people at Johnsonville Sausage, the main sponsor of the popular Brat Days event held in Sheboygan in early August, declined to say why it would no longer sponsor the brat-eating contest, but it’s certain that criticism from city residents weighed heavily on this decision.

Several citizens opposed to the contest called it a disgusting event that promoted gluttony, and reflected poorly on the city.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe the bratwurst has ever been mistaken for a bran muffin in terms of leading the health food revolution.

It's a pretty simple concept: if the idea of seeing several dozen brats consumed in a handful of minutes doesn't appeal to you, then don't go to the park that day, and don't turn on ESPN during the broadcast. Is that difficult?

The amateur brat-eating contest, which has been going on for more than 50 years, will continue to be held. This kind of logic leads me to believe that if you’re a slow glutton, then it’s OK. But if you’re a big enough glutton that you can make a living at it and bring national attention to yourself, then you’re disgusting.

Incidentally, the winner in 2005 was a 105-pound woman, and last year’s champion was wildly popular professional eater, Takeru Kobayashi, who has muscles on top of his muscles, he’s so ripped. Two prime examples of gluttons if ever there were any.

The professional contest last year drew thousands of fans, and camera crews from ESPN, which broadcast the event on its network. I doubt that the amateurs will create such a buzz.

I was in the crowd last year, among the boom cameras and broadcasters for the worldwide leader in sports, and my opinion is that any exposure that brings that much good-natured attention to little old Sheboygan, Wisconsin, can only be a positive thing.

The president of the International Federation of Competitive Eating expressed his surprise and disappointment that the event had been pulled, saying it would have been a big draw and they would have loved to have been there.

Earlier this month, longtime champion Kobayashi was upset by American eater Joey Chestnut in the most famous contest on the IFOCE slate, the Fourth of July hot dog-eating contest in Coney Island, New York, when Chestnut downed 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes to Kobayashi’s 63.

The brats would have provided a great stage for a rematch.

A retired city attorney from Sheboygan was one of the most vocal and outspoken critics of the event, saying that when someone downs 58 brats in 10 minutes, which was last year’s winning mark, it proves the whole thing is ridiculous.

Ridiculous? It’s competitive eating!! Of course it’s ridiculous! These are people who eat mayonnaise and oysters and jalapeño peppers for kicks. And, for a paycheck.

But after the contest was over last year and the thrill of the ESPN cameras panning the crowd had died down, the crowd dispersed and enjoyed a brat or two themselves, along with some beverages. (I won’t say what kind of beverages, or it might give people across the nation the impression that folks from Wisconsin like to drink beer.)

I spent the rest of the day with family and friends on the Brat Days grounds, riding a few rides with my nephews, playing a few games and listening to music, having one of the most enjoyable days of my summer.

This year, Johnsonville will not sell me any food and beverage tickets at Brat Days, because I won’t be there. (which kinda stings a little, because the musical entertainment on Saturday night is Soul Asylum, a band I'd very much enjoy seeing for such a reasonable admission cost.) And I doubt ESPN will show up, either.

I have a feeling I'll be a big fan of Cher-Make brats for a while. And Usinger's. Or maybe I'll go on a sudden health food kick.

Brats and beer, people. Sometimes...you gotta dance with the girl that brung ya, you know?

(I bet the Sheboygan critics will next try to get the seventh-inning stretch removed from baseball. Or Santa fired from Christmas.)

“No man in the world has more courage

than the man who can stop eating

after one peanut.”
—Channing Pollock

Too. Much. Music. (Is there such a thing?)

So what's that saying about "best-laid plans"?

Mine were kind of altered, again and again, a couple Sundays ago when I went to Summerfest, and as it turned out, I wouldn't change a thing.

One of my goals for the day was to hear some good gospel music (shut up), as they had several groups scheduled on one of the stages. After my other gospel experience, I was curious to see what kind of performances Summerfest could pull in.

Not wanting to subject friends and family to my obsession with gospel music, I made my trip to the world's biggest music festival a solo one. I don't know if I should plant a closed fist upon my forehead with thumb and forefinger fully extended, and declare myself a "Big L" loooooser for going to Summerfest alone. But there. I admit it. I did. (and shhh, don't tell anybody, but...I've done it before, too.)

The gospel celebration was supposed to start at 3:00, but nobody came on stage until nearly 3:30, and they started off with a big long intro about upcoming events and who was in the crowd and backstage. After not hearing any music for quite a while, I walked away to find something, anything, musical at the popular music fest.

I wandered over to listen to Road Trip, an area cover band, for a couple songs, and then went back to the gospel stage, where this time they were handing out awards to several, umm, award-winning dignitaries, I'm guessing. I didn't stay long, and was starting to wonder if my gospel search would produce exactly zero "Hallelujah"s and "Aaaamen!!"s.

My next distraction was a two-man group called Fever Marlene, a couple 20-something guys up on a nearly bare stage...probably not destined for greatness, but for just a drummer and a guitarist, they held their own. Entertaining for a few songs.

As I walked back over to the gospel stage...again...I heard something this time, from yards away. They were singing!! Not just singing...but singing and clapping and swaying and nearly lifting the roof off of the place. I was getting my gospel fix. Maybe not three hours worth like I thought I might. (I wouldn't have hung around for three hours anyway.) A good solid hour of house-rockin' gospel, and the trip was worth it.

Another band I was anxious to see was the Eddie Butts Band. I'd seen 'em once, and they're a totally funky R&B kinda band, with Eddie as the way-too-talented drummer. But the tent they played in was pretty packed, with no seats available. I'd put on a few miles walking, and was looking for a seat. So after one song, I told myself that I'd "seen" Eddie Butts, and went to find a less popular stage.

Cult phenomenon Pat McCurdy was playing on the Harley stage, so I figured I'd stop and watch him for a while. But the Harley stage was packed to the gills with guys in Harley gear and bandanas and leather jackets. I'm assuming they were waiting for the upcoming country act, Big & Rich. And I was sooo curious to see how a crowd like that would react to Pat...a single performer, his guitar, and some catchy ditties. I hope for his sake he won 'em over, cuz Pat's cool like that. I didn't stick around, opting instead for a walk to the next stage, hoping to find a seat.

Here's where I struck gold! The bleachers by the Miller Lite stage were barely half full, so I grabbed a soda, sat down, stretched out, and thought to myself how old I must be, if I was worn out and contemplating going home at 8:30. The latenight side stage act that I wanted to see was Sister Hazel. I was at the right stage. All I had to do was make it through some Bob Schneider guy I'd never heard of, and Sister Hazel was up next. However, that meant leaving the grounds close to midnight, getting home after 1:00, and going to work the next day. If I stayed.

I was starting to talk myself into heading toward my car, when Bob Schneider came onstage. People stood on the bleachers and cheered, and he started with kind of a slow, country-ish song. Easy on the ears, with some talent behind it. His second song was about the same pace, and I got a little curious, so I stepped up on the bleachers and made my way to the closest open spot, about a dozen rows back.

Then he started rockin' a little bit more, and went through songs in his set list that included a salsa kinda thing, some hip-hop/rap kinda funk, straight-on rock 'n' roll, and everything in between. Granted, it may have sounded like he was a bit confused as to what kind of singer/songwriter, but everything he did was pretty well done, and he made a new fan.

Well...more than one. Because after the show over by the merch tent, he came over to pose for pictures and sign autographs. And the girlies went wild for him, all cool in his Ray Bans (it was almost 10 at night, but I'm pretty sure those were to hide his over-baked eyes) and his two-day scruff. One of the girls waiting in line was hoping to get him to sign her breasteses. Ahhh, the life of a rock star.

They recorded that night's performance and burned copies immediately after, so now I'm not only a fan, but I have Bob Schneider in my CD collection as well.

The time spent waiting for my CD was just about the time it took for Sister Hazel to set up and come onstage. I've seen them twice before (once at a county fair without their lead singer, even...he missed his plane), and they're awesome musically in concert. So I stayed. They rocked. I got home late. It was sooo worth it.

I guess I'm not so old after all.

— • — • —

So that got to be a little long and drawn out, didn't it? Turned into a "here's what I did, and here's what I thought" post, as one of my critics has termed it. Sorry. I can talk about music all day, and Summerfest deserves all the exposure it can get, because there's really nothing like it.

But down here, maybe I'll throw out a little question to ponder: How many of you are inclined to do things like that on your own, and who would rather skip those events if there's not someone to go with?...Concerts? Sporting events? Movies? Meals in restaurants?

Several years ago, Counting Crows played in a gymnasium on the UW-Stevens Point campus, of all places. And on a weeknight. And guess who took off work to attend? Alone.

I don't go to too many movies in the theater, but I'm not averse to seeing a movie by myself. And seeing as how I only have three friends (two of whom are imaginary), sometimes they're not available. (and I'll be damned if I'm gonna pay $8.50 for my imaginary pals to sit in a movie theater.)

In the movie Hope Floats, Harry Connick Jr. was eating in a restaurant by himself when Sandra Bullock came in and sat down at a table alone as well. He started to have this dialogue with her about how it takes a brave person to eat by themselves. How you've got to make it look like it's by choice...like you're mysterious. (or something close to that. I don't have the movie in front of me.)

Is it really such a horrible thought to do these things alone? Anyone?

"When I die, I want people to

play my music, go wild and freak out

and do anything they want to do."

—Jimi Hendrix

O'er The Land Of The Free...

I've decided to salute this great nation on its Independence Day with the biggest symbol of freedom I could find. And I bet you can't find one any bigger. (flagpole-wise, that is.)

All it took was a quick jaunt down the Interstate, because the photo you see is the tallest free-standing flagpole in the whole entire country, with a big mother of an Old Glory fluttering atop it. (amateur photograph taken by this blog's owner. if I would have had a ladder, or perhaps a helicopter, I could have gotten a more exciting angle.)

Those of you who live in this area, or throughout the state of Wisconsin, have no doubt seen this flag rippling in the breeze as you've driven on I-43 past Sheboygan. And those of you who've visited this blog in the past from Poland or Belgium or Mexico or Egypt or China or Taiwan or Turkey (aren't stat counters great?) or Singapore or Uruguay or the United Kingdom or Spain...I'm sorry you accidentally clicked on the wrong link, but thanks for spending a brief zero minutes at Ton-Fifty-ONE.

The flag and its pole were erected in 2005 by an insurance company called Acuity, after another flag it had displayed was toppled by high winds and a design flaw. When discussion began about replacing it, the talks grew big. Very big.

The flagpole is 338 feet tall...the tallest in the nation, and more than twice as tall as the previous pole at 150 feet. It is 6 feet wide at the base and weighs 65 tons, and is sunk into a 550-ton block of concrete that is 40 feet deep, 8 feet wide and reinforced by steel rods.

The flag is 7,200 square feet, or 120-by-60, which is four times the size of the original flag. Each star is 4 feet high, and each stripe is 4 1/2 feet wide. The flag weighs 300 pounds.

More info about the flag can be found here, and here.

It's awe-inspiring every time I drive past it, because it seems as though you could drive five miles in the time it takes for one slow, lazy ripple to make its way from the end that's tethered to the pole, across its vast canvas and off the edge of the stripes on the far end.

And while I shouldn't promote unsafe driving habits here, I will admit to gazing up through my moonroof at night as I drive past, the flag illuminated by a circle of kabillion-candlepower spotlights aimed at it from the ground.

Ya done good, Acuity.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

"It is very easy in the world

to live by the opinion of the world.

It is very easy in solitude to be

self-centered. But the finished man is

he who in the midst of the crowd

keeps with perfect sweetness
the independence of solitude."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson