The African Spirit

Better brush up on your Zulu and Sotho languages.

And then when the Soweto Gospel Choir comes to a city near you...go.

Trust me. Go.

I went to see them at the Fox Cities Performing Arts Center in Appleton on Thursday, not fully knowing what to expect. All I knew is they were kinda famous, had won a couple Grammys, and were from South Africa. And when I saw the the list of upcoming events a couple months ago, I knew it was time for another gospel fix.

(unsolicited plug: if you haven't seen a show at the PAC yet, you really should. if you're not from Wisconsin, you should fly in. what a fantastic, intimate way for a couple thousand people to see a performance. been there twice, and can't wait for another reason to go back.)

This night of gospel was a bit different from what I've seen in the past. All of the 26 performers on stage were dressed in bright, colorful costumes, the African rhythms and beats were unmistakable, and the voices...ohhh, the voices! One of the most energetic shows I've seen. Period. They deserve high praise for putting forth an effort like that night after night.

The choir has only been in existence for six years, coming out of the South Western Townships (hence, the acronym) near Johannesburg. They've won Grammys the past two years for Best Traditional World Music.

The list of musical artists with whom they've performed includes Diana Ross, Celine Dion, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Bono, Peter Gabriel, Annie Lennox and Queen. They've sung for Oprah, Bill Clinton, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and former South African President Nelson Mandela. And they've also recorded with Robert Plant and Peter Gabriel.

The two-hour concert included about 25 songs, many sung in the native Zulu and Sotho languages, accompanied by drums and dancing. Several traditional American songs were mixed in, like "This Little Light of Mine," "Swing Down," and a rendition of "Amazing Grace" that got a standing ovation. One of the highlights for me was a version of Bob Dylan's "I'll Remember You," that was so powerful.

One of the members introduced the choir's unique African spirit and the evening's spiritual journey of songs, "whether expressed through the love of God, the love of our fellow man, the love of coming together as a people, or simply the love of life, and all the beauty it has to offer us."

The group entered the theater from the back, filling the room with their voices as they walked down the two aisles to the stage. And as the night went on, the applause grew louder, some people not content with polite clapping close to their chests, but instead reaching up over their heads to express their appreciation.

About halfway into the show, one lady stood up in her seat and started moving to the beats, and I half expected that after intermission, there might be people getting up and dancing in the aisles. Didn't happen, though. (perhaps if I would have been the instigator, hmm?)

The group's second of two encores was "Oh Happy Day," which brought the crowd back to its feet, and had many audience members waving to the performers as they left the stage.

One reviewer on the PAC's website said it better than I can, so I'm going to borrow from him and hope he doesn't mind. He said, "One doesn't have to be particularly religious or musical to appreciate this wonderful example of gospel. One simply has to have a soul. And frankly, if you hear Soweto Gospel Choir and are not moved, you very possibly have no soul."

Amen.

"I'm associated with gospel music
in the minds of millions of people."
—Pat Boone

Freeeeze, Gopher!!

I'm currently involved in a bit of a project for the Ice Age Park & Trail Foundation, having volunteered to hike a segment of the trail and then write a feature article about the segment for an upcoming issue of the organization's newsletter.

The segment I was assigned to hike was right in my back yard, basically, in the city where I grew up, and I spent some time two weekends ago hiking the nine-plus-mile stretch in a couple sections, with family members.

I decided to hike it again last weekend, this time all at once, to take a few more notes and get some more accurate readings on distances and landmarks and checkpoints along the way. I'd start at the north end, and nine or ten miles later, hopefully, find my car waiting for me.

I'm kinda getting into this assignment. Had my boots laced, backpack flung upon my back, camera at the ready. Nature...me. Communing. I was good to go.

As I entered the woods, I found a bit of a rhythm in my step and had the right mindset to complete my journey. The day was maybe 20 degrees cooler than the weekend before, but it was a gorgeous, partly sunny day for another hike.

A little more than a mile in, I spotted some fellow hikers ahead of me on the trail. But these hikers were a bit different than me. They were wearing blaze orange jackets, blaze orange knit caps, and had doe tags pinned to their backs.

And while I was carrying a camera...they were carrying shotguns.

I thought about shooting them as I approached from behind, but I figured my memory card and megapixels were no match for their slugs, so I kept my Nikon in its holster.

It was at this time I began to realize that I was in a place I might not want to be. I was, after all, wearing a forest green sweatshirt, ironically enough. And I may not have a big white tail, but even if I do, I'm pretty sure it was adequately covered.

As I walked past the hunters on the trail, I said a quick and quiet, "Hello," and the guy in back responded, but the guy in front stared me down as if I was committing a crime. (and not wearing any blaze orange, I just may have been!)

It's not as if I approached them and shouted, "HEY!! ARE YOU GUYS HUNTING DEER??" (think Flounder in "Animal House.") I don't think I rattled the entire woods and ruined their afternoon.

But as I reached my first checkpoint on the trail...a parking lot connected to Point Beach State Forest...I saw this red metal sign screwed to a post, that wasn't there the weekend before.

I was walking through an early hunting weekend, and wasn't aware of it.

I'm not a hunter, so I don't keep up on the various hunting seasons across the state, but I have respect for hunters and don't want to get in their way. Especially, you know, because they have guns and stuff.

So less than two miles into my hike, it was over for the weekend, and I'll have to give it another try when my life isn't in danger for being mistaken for a big ol' antlerless deer. (I don't have antlers, either.)

After being dropped off at my car, I drove around the trail route, and found those same red signs at nearly every entrance to the trail...except, of course, the entrance on the north end, where I chose to begin my day. Unfortunate.

I may go again this weekend, even if I learn that it's squirrel season, or something.

Because I know I'm bigger than a squirrel.

(Maybe I'll buy a blaze orange zoom lens to attach to my camera to fit in.)

"I'm a deer hunter. I go all the time
with my dad. One thing about deer,
they have very good vision. One thing
about me, I am better at hiding than
they are...at vision."
—Rainn Wilson

The Name...(And The Game)...Remains The Same

[Warning: I am ridiculously full of myself right now, and have been for the past couple days. I've performed at an unbelievably high level, and I've rubbed elbows with a celebrity...all in the same night. (Granted, it was a D- or E- or F-List celebrity, but a celebrity nonetheless.) So if you don't think I'm totally swell, or don't care to read about me telling you how totally swell I think I am, I suggest you skip this blog post and come back when I've got something more self-deprecating with which to distract you from your day.]

You've heard me lament in previous posts that if I didn't get my dart act together soon, I might have to consider changing the title of my blog from the very Zen, "Ton-Fifty-ONE," to something which more accurately describes my recent performances, such as: "Gregg Sucks Eggs At Darts" (doesn't have the same ring. and I really don't want to be responsible for coming up with a graphic for that title.)

We started dart league on Tuesday night, and after having taken first place in our league for each of the past, oh, ten years or so (that's not an exaggeration), a new team showed up last year and knocked us down a peg. (ouch!) So some of us on my team were eager to get this season rolling and remedy that situation. During our organizational meeting a couple weeks ago, we found that one other team has defected from a competitor's league, and will be shooting against us as well. And they're a good team. So I have no illusions that we're going to coast back into our first-place spot this season, but it's going to be a helluva lot of fun working in that direction.

We've also moved to a new home bar this year, as my buddy's brother and brother-in-law opened a new place. So...new season, new digs. Time to get down to it, right?

You all know where this is going. I saved my blog on Tuesday night!! In the second game of the first night of dart league, I shot my first perfect game of 301 in about three years. And it was a sweeeet sweet feeling watching that last dart fly straight and hard into the triple-17.

My buddy and I have had a 10-dollar bet for the first person to shoot a six-dart out, and unfortunately it's gone way too long without being paid. I had three chances last year, but couldn't convert on the last dart of any of them. Once...I was distracted by a cute bartender. The second...I was tired, I think. And the third...um..I dunno, there was an earthquake. Or something. Needless to say, I didn't convert.

So when I hit it on Tuesday night and went to collect my long-awaited prize, he immediately changed the rule as he paid me, saying, "Let's play 10 bucks for every sixer all season long." (he wants his 10 bucks back. and I...want to take more.)

There's something quite satisfying about watching that sixth dart puncture the smallish triple segment, and the screen flash zero. The couple-minute wait between your first round and your second round can be a bit nerve-wracking, and when you get back up to the line and punch the first two darts into the bullseye, you realize that opportunities like this don't come along as often as they used to, and you better concentrate and try to make it count.

I wish I was totally lying when I tell you that as I held the sixth dart in my hand and aimed it at the trip-17, I wasn't thinking one bit about the title of this blog, because it makes me sound like a bigger dork than I already am. But I was. I was thinking about 10 bucks from my buddy...and I was thinking about coming home and telling this great story about how I've validated my blog title for at least the next little while...until I once again begin to suck eggs.

I know the way you're supposed to handle an A-plus performance like that is to act like you've been there before. Like Barry Sanders who used to just flip the ball to the ref after leaving defenders in his wake and scampering to the end zone.

And, well...I've been there before.

But I couldn't help but give a little fist pump and an overzealous, "YESSS!" as I walked to the board to pull out my darts. Not a Tiger-at-the-U.S.-Open fist pump. That would be over the top. More of a Phil Mickelson OK-so-I'm-not-the-greatest-but-I'm-pretty-damn-good fist pump.

I finished the night with four hat tricks in 301, and another one for good measure in cricket. So it didn't take me too long to get warmed up and adjust to my new surroundings. But I've been through this before. Next week is...next week. I could very well come home lamenting again.

Look...I know this isn't life-changing stuff. It's plastic-tipped darts thrown in the right holes on a red and yellow circular board. Big deal, right? It won't cure world hunger, it won't stop the polar ice cap from melting, and it won't make Sarah Palin a viable candidate for national public office.

But it sure did feel good. So good that I bought my buddies a round of drinks with my 10 bucks. (Don't worry...I'll make more.)

— • — • —

Not long after our league games were finished, a couple guys walked into the bar, and one of them went to the bar while the other walked past me, headed toward the bathrooms. I'm about 6'4", and this guy was a good two inches taller than me. Not that I often feel like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput or anything, but...this guy was big enough to get noticed, is what I'm saying. And one of the guys at the end of the bar who'd had enough to drink, asked, "Is that Tim Harris? I think that's Tim Harris. That's Tim Harris!"

So the guy comes out of the bathroom, and the happy drunk goes up to him and talks for a few seconds, and then turns and says, "See, I told you it was Tim Harris!"

Guess what? It was Tim Harris. (linebacker/defensive end for the Green Bay Packers from 1986-90.) And he hung out and chatted with everyone in the bar for the next couple hours, drinking free shots and shooting pool and accepting the advances of a girl who was...(how shall I put this)...unwaveringly and unashamedly vying for his attention. *ahem* (I think that passes the censors.)

The guy with Harris was a Vikings fan (even had a Viking tattoed on his calf) and my buddy is also a Vikings fan. I, of course, am a (shh!) Lions fan. So Harris had a field day ripping on other members of the NFC North.

Not exactly on my list of Top 10 Celebs I'd Like To Party With, but hey...it was the second most exciting thing that happened on Tuesday night.

(how lame is it that I can't find a good Google Image pic of a former Pro-Bowler to add to this post?)

"It took me about 10 years to get rid of.
I'm all right now, though, lovely, I'm throwing
some nice darts at the moment, but every
now and then I get a bit of a jump. I wish
I could find a cure, I'd make a bloody fortune."
—Eric Bristow

A Tidal Wave Of...Jubilation.

The east coast of Wisconsin became awash in a tidal wave on Wednesday morning, when the waters of Lake Michigan were stirred up by a mysterious force, rushing from east to west.

After calm was restored, and the local news wires were checked, the source of the great disturbance was revealed.

Plate tectonics beneath the Great Lakes? The Loch Ness Monster taking to fresh water? No. Something much bigger.

The firing of Detroit Lions President and CEO Matt Millen was officially announced on Wednesday, and one can only assume that everybody (even those who don't know or care jack squat about professional football) in Michigan was jumping up and down with pure, unadulterated glee.

I tried to counter the effects by doing some stomping and hooting and hollering of my own, but the efforts of the few (I think there are four of us Lions fans in Wisconsin; we get together often during the season, as a sort of support group) cannot defeat the efforts of the many.

Yes, after seven-plus years of futility, botched draft picks, multi-million-dollar contract extensions and the unfailing support of a clueless Ford family, Millen was sent packing...finally. It's been a long, hard road. And I have no illusions that the Lions will suddenly begin a straight and steadfast march to the Super Bowl with their game against the Bears after the bye week.

But it's a change that had to be made. That so many were waiting for, for so long.

Millen had a 31-84 record during his tenure with the team...the lowliest record of any franchise in the league, by at least 10 games. His resignation had been called for by masses of fans in previous years, but he was always quoted as saying, "I'll never quit. When things are going bad, that just means it's time to hunker down and work harder."

(I don't really know if he used the word "hunker." But he seems like the type of buffoon who would. So I used a little creative license there.)

Millen's wife broke the story to ESPN's Chris Mortensen, saying that in the world's view, this may look like a failure, but that they've got a lot of eternal blessings, yadda yadda yadda. And then she added, "I told him, 'You're out of football prison now,' and we have a greater purpose." (I bet she earned a lot of new friends with that line.)

Out of football prison? Is she for real?? He was the fucking warden...all he had to do was turn in his keys and go...the fuck...home!

Guess he was too busy hunkering to realize that simple point.

The rumors were flying for a few days before it became official, and Lions Vice Chairman Bill Ford Jr. spurred on the decision by stating publicly that if he was in charge, he'd fire Millen. Two days later...he was out.

I found out through a Twitter update on my phone, and I think I read those couple dozen words a couple dozen times. Yes, I know I still cheer for a spectacularly suck-tastic football team, but my season improved so dramatically this week that even if they go 0-16 (which...would anyone bet against that?), there will still be one gigantic Millen-less silver lining at the end.

I got home on Wednesday afternoon and checked my e-mail, and I had one with a subject line of, "Congrats." Another read, "Finally." And still one more said, "I'm sure you know already." So even though my buddies are smart enough to cheer for better football teams, some of them felt my pain over the years (and certainly listened to me cry in my beer more than a few times) and were kind enough to send words of encouragement and links to stories in my direction.

So where do we go from here? (I use the word "we" because we tortured souls have to stick together.) Who knows? Whoever replaces Millen will be under almost the same scrutiny as Aaron Rodgers is for replacing Brett Favre. (but...in a bassackwards kind of way.)

Good riddance...

"You can tell people the truth
and everyone thinks you're lying,
and you can lie and everyone
thinks you're telling the truth."
—Matt Millen

A Back-Row Boycott

This post...is about Counting Crows.
[There. That should take care of two of my readers for this entry...one regular, and one semi-regular...as they go scurrying back to their Google Reader for something more entertaining to peruse.]

It's kind of an ongoing joke between me and a couple buddies whenever the Crows come up in conversation. Because...and I know this is impossible to wrap your brain around...some people...don't..like...Counting Crows. (I know!!)

However. I saw them in Milwaukee on Saturday night for the dozenth time, and if I didn't give them a little blog pub here, I'd feel like I wasn't doing my job.

I was a bit torn for this concert, because it was a co-headliner tour with Maroon 5, and...I'm rather apathetic toward Maroon 5. The opener was up-and-comer Sara Bareilles, whom I'd heard on the radio once or twice, and read a few good reviews about.

When I searched for tickets a couple months ago, I found that the closest seats were going for one hundred...and twenty-one...dollars. I didn't know if Maroon 5 pushed the price up that much, or where the hell they came up with a number like that. And on top of that, all the stupid Ticketmaster fees...the convenience charge, the buildings and facilities fee, the order processing fee...jacked the total cost of the ticket up to $146 before they were finished screwing you.

Under certain circumstances I'd pay that. But those circumstances would have to include at least a three-hour show by the Crows, a set list hand-picked by yours truly, and maybe a chance to get up on stage and pound out a few chords of Sullivan Street on the piano with Duritz (provided I learned how to play a few chords on the piano first). Also...Maroon 5 being on tour somewhere else.

None of those things were going to happen, so I held off on a ticket purchase, and a week or so before the show, I went back online and purchased a lawn seat (a $21 ticket that still cost nearly $39) as a form of protest of their outrageous ticket prices. An all-out boycott would have been the way to go, but...it was the Crows. In Wisconsin. I had to go. Had to.

The Marcus Amphitheater in Milwaukee holds somewhere north of 20,000 people, and I didn't think it would be shoulder-to-shoulder for a show like this, and I was right. I'd guess there were about 14,000 people there at the crowd's peak. I had plenty of room to sprawl out on a blanket on the grass, use my camera bag for a pillow, and watch about a gazillion dragonflies zipping through the air as I waited for Sara Bareilles to impress me.

And impress me she did.

She only played maybe seven songs...four of her own, with the Crows' Omaha, a Maroon 5 song, and the Beatles' Oh, Darlin' (partially dueted with Duritz) mixed in.

She's got a lot of soul. Kind of a mix between Norah Jones and Alana Davis, maybe? I'm trying to think of who else she reminds me of. Anyway...I'll be in her audience again in the future.

Maroon 5 came out to the theme song from LaVerne & Shirley, which I totally didn't get until a little later in the show (keep reading). And while nothing they did on stage was going to immediately turn me into a fan, I was at least hoping they'd be mildly entertaining. I guess you have to like the music...because I wasn't entertained. At all. While they weren't "bad" by the correct definition of the word, they were very boring. Their lead singer had very little stage presence...although he had plenty of female fans in the audience, what with the tattoed arm, the plain white T, the scruffy beard.

A couple girls near me on the lawn were arguing over who got to be Adam Levine's girlfriend, and they finally settled on sharing him, each girl having him to herself every other day.

One of their friends chimed in with, "I'd rather be Adam Duritz's girlfriend than Adam Levine's girlfriend any day." To which one of the original girls replied, "Eww, with the corn rows??"

(corn rows, dreadlocks. to-may-to, to-mah-to, right? eeesh.)

I can't help but think every time I hear a Maroon 5 song that the lead singer swallowed a tiny voice synthesizer, and if he just drank a glass of water really quickly, or got a hefty pat on the back, he'd go back to sounding like...I dunno...Harry Connick Jr. Or something.

At the end of the last song, he gave his guitar a few swings and launched it high into the air and let it come crashing down in the middle of the stage. Which I thought was oh, so rock-starish. But then, as we watched on the monitors, he stepped off the stage and went a row or two into the crowd and handed the guitar to a girl who had been holding a sign during the show that said, "Can I Have A Guitar Pick Please?"

Fine...he got some points for that one.

(For the record: This is the point in the show where I snuck into the bleachers to get a bit closer. And by "snuck" I mean "surveyed which half acre of empty bleachers I wanted to claim as my own." Sooo much seating available. And more opening up by the minute as hundreds of people headed for the exits during the Crows first couple songs.)

Before the Crows came out, the theme from Happy Days blared over the loudspeakers, and then...and only then...did the light bulb go on for the LaVerne & Shirley reference. (get it? two TV shows set in Milwaukee......yeah. personally I liked it better the last time I saw them when Lean On Me played from start to finish over the speakers, and the crowd sang along.)

So Duritz walks out, and says, "OK, that was the end of anything happy for the evening. And now...we will begin to mope. But very melodically."

And they went right into Recovering The Satellites, which I haven't heard live in a long, long time. Love the first line: "Gonna get back to basics...guess I'll start it up again."

Second song: Mrs. Potter's Lullaby, which they didn't play when I saw them in Kenosha. That's one of my three or seven or twelve or nineteen favorite Crows songs. Pure poetry.


Each headliner only played for an hour and fifteen minutes, so the set lists weren't too extensive, but the Crows squeezed in 13 songs, or twelve and a half, I guess...because halfway through Sundays, which wasn't sounding too good, Duritz stopped the song and informed the crowd that they were all apparently playing in a different key. And he asked, "Did it really sound that bad out there?" (Yes. It did.) He turned to the drummer and said, "It's not your fault. You were playing drums in the right key."

For those of you geeky enough to want the set list, I'm geeky enough to give it to you: Recovering The Satellites; Mrs. Potter's Lullaby; Richard Manuel Is Dead; Hard Candy; Speedway; Round Here; Sundays; You Can't Count On Me; A Long December (sandwiched in between the beginning and ending of a Sara Bareilles song I don't know the title of); Hanginaround; (encore) Come Around; Walkaways. (You may notice no Mr. Jones!! I believe that's the first concert I've seen where they didn't play Mr. Jones. Shocking.)

When they came back on for the encore, Duritz said, "We've been gone for a few years between albums. I had some shit to work out. Saturday Nights is about me failing to do that. And Sunday Mornings is about me trying to do that."

And then he said that Come Around was a song that let them know, and let us know, that even if they're gone for a while, they'll always come back around...and that they'd see us again in a few years.

I sure hope it's a lot sooner than that.
No matter how many fees I have to absorb.

"Sometimes the world seems like a big hole.
You spend all your life shouting down it
and all you hear are echoes of some idiot
yelling nonsense down a hole."
—Adam Duritz

A Delicious Sunday Drive

I’ve officially become a Sunday driver.

No, I don’t mean that I’ve taken to driving 37 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone, or 42 in a 65. When I become that kind of Sunday driver, I certainly won’t admit it to the entire internets.

I took my mom out to eat last Sunday for her birthday, and while the final decision was ultimately hers to make, one of the places I suggested was the Grey Rock Mansion Restaurant at the Heidel House Resort along Green Lake, where my parents have raved about the brunch served there on Sundays.

You’d think with gas prices still well north of $3.50 a gallon, we would have found a restaurant halfway between us, and met there. Or perhaps just shared a conversation over speakerphone during meal time, making appropriate “yum!” sound effects while eating grilled cheese sandwiches, and called it dinner “together,” leaving our vehicles parked for the day.

But it didn’t take my mom long to agree to a drive to Green Lake, and Sunday morning we were on our way...an hour and a half, to have breakfast.

And ohhhh, I’ll do it again sometime, even if gas prices hit eight bucks a gallon.

The drive along Highway 23 is filled with pleasant rural scenery: golden fields dotted with round hay bales; an old, rusted, empty corn crib standing guard near the highway; a salvage yard filled with more combines than you can count without veering off into the ditch.

We had our destination firmly in mind, but the sights along the way made for an enjoyable Sunday drive.

I’d never been to Grey Rock before. As we walked in, there was a lounge to our left with a baby grand piano against one wall. The framed certificates awarded by Wine Spectator magazine were evidence of an extensive wine list.

For our brunch, we were led down to the lower level and seated in a glass-walled dining section that held maybe ten tables, and provided a spectacular view of Green Lake and all its water sports enthusiasts already out enjoying the sunny day and the temperatures quickly approaching 90 degrees.

The entrées were as unique as the atmosphere, with everything from Cajun sausage scrambled eggs to alfredo turkey lasagna to amaretto-flamed pancakes to waffles and beef tips and chef-carved pork loin and pit ham. (I could continue, but I’m starting to drool.)

Topped off by a swig of champagne and an assortment of juices, it was one of the most unique dining experiences I’ve had since I’ve been old enough to eat solid food. A thoroughly enjoyable, leisurely brunch.

The dessert table is where I found heaven on earth, however, and that isn’t usually the part of any meal that gets my biggest focus.

One of the specialty desserts the day we were there was bread pudding with a vanilla glaze, which was delicious. But I also took a sliver of cheesecake. And I’m glad I don’t write a food review column for some swanky magazine because the only words I can find to describe what I ate are: Best. Cheesecake. Ever.

If it hadn’t been at the very end of the meal, I might have had two or three slivers. But all I could comfortably hold were about five or six bites. I don’t think I’ll ever find a better cheesecake.

A catamaran for hour-long tours of Green Lake (which we didn't take...this time).

After our brunch, we strolled around the Heidel House grounds, finding all sorts of nooks and crannies to explore...a pumphouse ice cream parlor here, a bungalow for rent there, benches in the shade and benches in the sun, and docks to enjoy a view of the lake.

A pretty fantastic place to walk off a pretty fantastic meal.

And then we drove home...at or slightly above the posted speed limits.

“Too many people just eat
to consume calories.
Try dining for a change.”
—John Walters

Walk With Me...Down The Trail, My Friend

If somebody would have told me at the end of spring as the weather was turning warmer that in the coming months I'd see the Dalai Lama, Poison, a Skid Row-less Sebastian Bach, and...Ted Nugent...all by the end of the summer, I would have turned and offered to buy them another shot of whatever it was they were downing.

It's been a strange summer. (That's not a complaint.) And last week, I met a couple buddies up at the Brown County Fair to see Ted Nugent for ten..lousy..dollars.

I can live without Cat Scratch Fever. Wango Tango doesn't impress me. And I can barely think of too many of Nugent's other songs to list here.

Except one.

Fred Bear. A nearly eight-minute celebration of the great outdoors and the thrill of the hunt.

Thing is...I'm not a hunter. Nor a fisherman. But that is one fantastic song. I expected to have to wait through the entire concert to hear Fred Bear, but I was up to the task. I was going to hear it live.

I've seen Nugent in TV interviews and features, and while he may be a bit off kilter, he's a very intelligent human being, and I have no qualms with his...or anybody else's..."Kill It and Grill It" motto. I've been fortunate to enjoy meals of venison more than a handful of times, and...how should I put this?...them's good eatin'!

For those of you who don't know Nugent's background, he's a huge proponent of the NRA, fills his freezers many times over with the wild game he hunts, and in his 60 years on the planet...many of those living the rock-star lifestyle...he's never fallen prey to drugs or alcohol.

Earlier this summer, he performed his 6,000th career concert.

He and his bandmates came onstage with little fanfare...just a drummer, a bassist, and (pardon me) one crazy fucker named Uncle Teddy on lead guitar and vocals.

He revved up the pro-hunting crowd by screaming power words like, "Celebrate!!" and "Freeeedom!!" and referenced The Hunt over and over (and over), bonding with all of his "blood brothers" (if I had a nickel...) in the crowd of maybe 4,500, offering to share backstraps with everyone. (anyone? anyone? Buuueller?........the backstrap is the loin of a deer, the best cut of meat.)

He paid tribute to all the members of the Armed Forces, thanking them for going around the world and killing assholes, saying, "That's exactly what this world needs, is more dead assholes!" (insert wild cheers from the audience here.)

It doesn't take a front-row seat to see that the Nuge clearly loves himself. A lot. But he put a lot of that cocky energy to good use, and for two hours, put on a surprisingly entertaining show. I didn't get bored waiting for the song I went to hear.

He mentioned Fred Bear in between the second or third song, so I knew he knew it was on everybody's minds. And then brought it up again another time or two throughout the show. And yes...it was his last song.

I don't want to tear it down too much, because it was pretty well done, and it was a rush to be in the crowd for it. But parts of it were almost too spoken-wordy for me. I wish he would have belted it out a little more like on the disc.

There. I'll stop complaining. I saw two hours of live music for ten dollars, led by one Motor City Madman.

And I'd go again...for another ten. But probably not twenty-five.

I'm a few days away from another live show, more situated in my wheelhouse......the Crowwwws. (with Maroon 5. I just might ignore them...but it adds to my eclectic summer.)

"I hump the wild to take it all in,
there is no bag limit on happiness."
—Ted Nugent

Tweet.

I've been messing around with Twitter for the past month or so, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about...or if there should be any fuss at all.

I'm not certain why I should be so concerned about a microblogging utility if I can't steer myself to this screen to, um...macroblog, on more than a weekly basis these days. But, you know...everybody's doing it, so why can't I, right?

If you look over in my sidebar, you'll (hopefully) find my recent Twitter activity, which gets automatically updated every time I...uh...tweet. Or at least, it should.

It seems to work pretty well with Firefox, but isn't as consistent in IE, sometimes posting one tweet, sometimes the usual five...sometimes none. Overall, Twitter has had some technical issues that have made people say some very unpleasant things in the forums.

Truth be told, I have nothing earth-shattering to tweet about. Recent topics have included my best impression of a Naked Gun quote via txt msg (while at a baseball game); my love of Gummi Bears and what that might reveal about my level of maturity; the fact that I woke up with a freakin' Brady Bunch song in my head one morning (and what that might reveal about my level of sanity, and taste in music); and more than one note about how much I love Mondays. (please step out of the way to avoid dripping sarcasm.)

Trust me...if you're not following me on Twitter, you're not missing a whole hell of a lot. But it is kinda true what they say, that it can become a little addictive.


Something happened yesterday that made Twitter totally worthwhile. And the fact that I'm only following, and being followed by, a handful of people made it that much funnier.

I got a text message notification on my phone yesterday afternoon, and opened it to find someone in a bit of a tizzy that Gmail wasn't working...and she turned to Twitter to vent her frustrations, beginning her tweet with, "GAH!"

About 15 minutes later, my phone vibrated again, and I opened it to read a tweet from someone different, but saying almost exactly the same thing. Also having a fit that Gmail was down, this text message began with..."Gaaaah" and ended with a perfectly dramatic, "I can't breathe."

Perhaps my recounting of this story doesn't do it a bit of justice, but it was one of the biggest laughs I've had in quite a while. Not the fact that they were freaking out about not having Gmail...(been there, done that)...but that two of the six people I'm following on Twitter chose to tweet about it, and they chose, "GAH!" and "Gaaaah" as their expressions of choice.

Yeah, I think I'll keep Twitter around for a while.

So...

What are you doing?

"I will follow you, will you follow me,
All the days and nights that we know will be,
I will stay with you, will you stay with me,
Just one single tear in each passing year."
—Follow You Follow Me, Genesis

Please Pass The Hairspray.

Wanna know how I know that I was in the middle of an '80s flashback last weekend?

I saw three bands on Saturday night, and all of them had at least one guitar with nothing but acute angles.

Yep, revoke my music-listening privileges, come and haul away my hundreds of CDs and pull the plug on my DellPod, because I paid money to see Sebastian Bach, Tesla, and...(still having a hard time admitting to this one)...Poison.

A buddy of mine asked me earlier this summer if I'd be interested in going to that show, and while I snickered every time I heard or said the word...Poison...I kept coming back to Tesla, thinking it might be a plus to add to my ever-growing concerts list a chance to hear "Little Suzi" and "Signs" live.

That, and the fact that it was outdoors, on a hill, in summer, with good friends, a few beverages...

So I agreed to go.

For those of you with musical taste, who don't clog your brains with such information, Sebastian Bach is the former lead singer of the heavy metal band, Skid Row. They had several recognizable hits in the late '80s, and I had the cassette single (remember cassingles?) of their song, "I Remember You."

I really figured he'd be old and worn out, and just mail in a few songs and get off stage.

Not so. Apparently hair rock knows no age limits, because although the sun was still a couple hours away from setting when he came on for his set, Bach and his band put forth a decent effort, and they genuinely worked to get the growing crowd fired up.

I think they might have piped in a few of his high-pitched screams, though, because a few times the mic was nowhere near his mouth and his note was held for several extra seconds. (What a talent!)

He slipped up before he went off stage, too, as he screamed into his mic...

"Get ready for Tesla!! And get ready for Dokken!! And..."

...wait, Dokken?

Must've been a different tour.

Tesla came out next and delivered what I thought they'd deliver...good music, not a lot of flare, but a couple songs worthy of the trip.

They played “Little Suzi” and “Signs” back to back, and if I would've had a prior engagement that night, I could have left and felt I'd gotten my money's worth.

The lead singer referenced the band's heyday when he looked out into the crowd and said that it brought back memories of Alpine Valley. Well...Alpine's hill holds about 40,000 people, and this crowd, although it was sold out, was only about 9,000. But...good effort. Seriously. The crowd on that hill was pretty energized for all the hair metal and glam rock that took place that night.

And then there was the "lead" act. No matter how many times I talk about this concert, I'll never be able to say with a straight face that I saw Poison. Or now that I've seen them, that I actually liked the show! But it's true.

I knew it'd be a fun people-watching crowd, as I'm sure there are a bunch of girls in and around good ol' Greenville, Wisconsin, who think they stand a chance to be on the latest season of A Shot At The Flava of The Rock of Love, or whatever lead singer Bret Michaels' stupid reality show is called.

Truth be told, Poison put on a great show. There, I said it.

Michaels didn't do anything flashy, but he had all the groupies in the front few rows going ga-ga over him. His voice was pretty hoarse between songs, so his mic wasn’t turned up as loud as it should have been during the music.

And this isn't something you want to freely admit, but if you're of a certain age and have spent any amount of time listening to the radio...you know more Poison songs than you think you know.

Drummer Rikki Rockett (I know, I know) is still a pretty good showman on the drum set. They had his drum platform on a scissors lift that raised up and moved forward while he was doing a solo during the show.

And say what you want about guitarist C.C. DeVille (one guitar magazine editor called him the worst guitar soloist of all time)...that skinny little blonde mophead can work a crowd.

Poison did a cover of The Romantics', "What I Like About You," which...I'm sorry, made me laugh. And C.C. DeVille had a five- or ten-minute guitar feature where he was on stage alone and tried to do his best Eddie Van Halen impersonation. And ended his segment with..."Amazing Grace." (I'm sure you saw that one coming, right?)

The pyrotechnics display was probably the best I’ve seen in person, too. The fact that they even brought a pyrotechnics show to Greenville was impressive enough by itself.

So from the time we entered the park to the time we left was about five hours. I saw three bands I never thought I'd add to my long list of concerts, did plenty of people-watching and heard a handful of pretty good songs. All for thirty bucks.

Gotta love summer, don'tcha?

I'm almost tempted to see if Mötley Crüe is going to tour anytime soon.

"Let a man avoid evil deeds
as a man who loves life
avoids poison."
—Buddha

A Penny Here, A Nickel There...

Not that I found three-dollar-and-seventy-one-cent gasoline such a big thrill that I had to rush right out and start snapping photos of signs, but...

...I guess I'll take $3.71 over $3.99 or $4.07 any day.

Word on the street is that we're heading down to about the $3.50 mark. Yay. Still pretty outrageous, if you ask me.

I don't usually pay very close attention to gas prices. I don't know who's got it a couple cents cheaper than whom, or how much it was last week compared to today. But, as we all know, it's as big a topic of conversation as which team Brett Favre may or may not be playing for this season in the NFL. (and if you don't live in this state, be grateful...because as much as you're hearing about it, we're being bombarded one hundred times over.)

I've always lived by the rule that when my gas tank is empty...or close...I stop and put in some gas. (Feel free to use this method of operation for yourself. It seems to work well.) I figure that gas prices are out of my control, so...why waste what limited brain resources I have remembering who's got it the cheapest?

Four-dollar gasoline, however, makes people sit up and take notice. Four...bucks!

It hasn't deterred me from driving where I want to drive, or forced me to buy a moped to travel (slowly) across the state, or prompted me to write a letter to George W. Bush telling him what an idiot he is and what a terrible job he's doing. (who needs high gas prices to do that, anyway?)

No, what caused me to stop and take a photo of a gas station sign tonight was a regular feature that we run in our newspaper, highlighting events and news stories from 10 years ago, 25 years ago and 45 years ago.

Anyone care to guess what the average price was for a gallon of gasoline across the state of Wisconsin 10 years ago this week? (make your guesses quickly...or read more slowly...because the answer's coming up in the next paragraph or two.)

Let's see...that was 10 years ago, and Bush has been The Decider Guy for eight of those 10 years. Hmm...maybe he is to blame! Because we all know that if Al Gore had been president for the last eight years, all of our vehicles would run on banana peels and tap water by now. And they'd fly, too!

Ten years ago, one gallon of gasoline across the state of Wisconsin cost $1.14.

Makes that sign up there still look pretty sickening, doesn't it?

"The way things are going, we are not too far
from the day when it will take an hour's labor
just to pay for the gasoline to get to the job."
—Sherwood Boehlert

Om Mani Padme Hum: Part II

Not that I’m trying to turn this into Gregg's Little Spiritual Corner of the Web, but if Eckhart Tolle was deserving of a blog post a couple entries ago, then I’m pretty sure this next guy warrants a few hundred words as well.

I spent more than an hour with His Holiness the Dalai Lama on Saturday.

(If the first thought that pops into your head when you read that is, “Big hitter, the Lama,” don’t be ashamed. My brain works that way, too.)

Not exactly one-on-one time, mind you. The Tibetan spiritual leader was in Madison and gave a public talk at the Alliant Energy Center Coliseum, so I had to split time with about 7,000 of my closest friends.

I first heard about his visit on Friday morning, and had a ticket by the lunch hour. He had also been in Madison in the spring of 2007, but that event was sold out.

I’ve spent my share of time in coliseums and amphitheaters and other buildings where sizable crowds gather, listening to singers belt out a lyric or musicians strum guitar chords.

This…was a totally different dynamic.

The Dalai Lama walked out slowly and the crowd stood and began sort of a low, courteous applause. When he got to his high-back chair in the middle of a sparsely decorated stage, he made a motion with his arms for everyone to sit...but instead, the applause immediately grew much louder and more enthusiastic.

The words of Gov. Jim Doyle’s introduction, who mentioned that the Dalai Lama often refers to himself as “just a simple Buddhist monk,” were illustrated when the Dalai Lama began by saying that some come to see him because they think he has great religious power or spiritual power or healing power...but in fact, he says, he has none of those powers.

He spoke..very..deliberately..at times. With many..short...pauses..between his words. And then...sometimes as he was making a point, his voice would raise up an octave or two, and he would stay that high for a dozen words before coming back down, and taking...a few..more...pauses..while he spoke.

A favorite phrase, noticeably overused during his speech, was, “...so therefore...”

Often difficult to understand, partly because of his accent and his understated speaking style, and partly because I was in the nosebleed of all nosebleed seats in the coliseum, the Dalai Lama’s message was one that almost all of us have heard before: compassion, affection, humility, kindness to other people.

He stressed that we cannot achieve peace in the outer world until there is peace within each of us. “Frustration leads to anger, and anger leads to violence,” he said.

While I didn’t conduct a straw poll of those around me, I’d imagine that many in the crowd were there, sure, to hear the words he had to share with the audience. But also, simply to be in his presence.

After he spoke for about 35 minutes, he spent another 35 minutes answering audience questions, which were pre-written on cards and delivered by his aide who was on stage with him throughout the speech.

The questions ranged from a middle-aged widow’s request for advice on how to overcome her deep sadness and depression at the recent loss of her husband, to the Dalai Lama’s opinion on the Chinese government, to the source of his strength.

“Good sleep, and good food,” the Dalai Lama said with a laugh in answer to the last question.

Big hitter, the Lama.

“Whether one believes in a religion or not,
and whether one believes in rebirth or not,
there isn’t anyone who doesn’t appreciate
kindness and compassion.”
—Dalai Lama

A Bogey-Free Round...With A Little Help

Last Sunday I played in my first-ever "full-sized" golf scramble.

I've golfed in one other scramble, a couple years ago, but that was on a par-3 course, so I really didn't count that.

Now I can say I've played on a big boy's course. And the results, while they could have been a shot or two better, made me hungry to go back out and give it another try.

It was the cause that got me to agree to the scramble in the first place, as these days I'm not getting out on the course nearly as much as I used to. Our local autism chapter sponsored the tournament, and my buddy's son is autistic. He and his wife were two of the organizers of the event, so it made sense that three-quarters of our four-man dart team should go hack it up on the course for a day.

My other buddy's father-in-law rounded out our foursome, and I don't think any of us had big expectations for the day, except to hit a couple/few shots that we weren't embarrassed to call our own, and enjoy a couple cold beverages on a gorgeous July day. None of us are tremendously hideous golfers, but none of us are Tiger Woods, either.

I got pretty excited for the whole event, cleaning up my clubs the night before, and digging through every pocket of my golf bag. I didn't count 'em all...but I'm pretty sure I found about a hundred golf balls in there. (several of which will have to be deposited, driver-style, into the lake off the dock next time I go up nort.)

I cleaned up my golf shoes that I haven't worn in three or more years, and I reached high on a shelf in my closet and pulled out a couple new sleeves of my favorite golf ball...the Molitor Scary Long, by Spalding.

Now, it's not my favorite because it's a two- or three-piece ball, or it's got a balata cover or whatever other technical reason you can dream up for liking a golf ball. Nope. I like this ball because it's....."Scary Long!" (says so right there on the ball.) And because when they were available, they were nine bucks for fifteen balls.

When we used to golf a couple times a week, my buddies probably got so tired of hearing me say, "Scary lonnngg!" a dozen times each round. And rather than pronounce it "Molitor" like the former baseball player Paul Molitor...I'd always say "Moli-TOR." Don't ask me why. But I did it again on Sunday. Many times over. And I had a blast.

The tournament was held at The National Course at Fox Hills, a course I knew very well once upon a time, because I had a job there my first summer out of high school...which was the summer it opened.

I shoveled more than my share of shovels full of limestone onto the cart paths (which have since been replaced by asphalt...all my hard work, paved over!) and woke up at ungodly hours of the morning to mow the greens. Employees had free golfing privileges, and I bet I can count on three fingers the number of times I golfed that summer. (I was still a tennis player then...not a golfer. Not that I'm a golfer now, either, but...)

So anyway...we get to our first tee (which was the 10th), and no one wants to be the one to duff the first shot, so I take it upon myself to tee up a Moli-TOR, and send one out there far enough to be good, and in the short grass.

My tournament's officially a success. I can pack it in...let's go home.

The other guys aren't any better on their drives, so we use my shot in the fairway, and I send another shot up near the green, a little to the left, but pin high. That one's playable, too. We chip it on and put it in the hole for a par. Smooth start.

Our second hole is a par-3 over water, and the prize for a hole-in-one is a new car. I send a nice easy 5-wood (shut up) through the air and it lands on the green...but it's about 25 feet from the hole. (I like my car, anyway.) Two putts and we're in for another par.

Just as I start to think that this game is pretty easy, I step up to the next tee and my Scary Long turns into a Scary HIGH. I'm pretty sure I knocked down a seagull with that ball, and it landed maybe ten yards in front of the women's tee. "I should have gone home after my first drive," I mumble to myself.

The rest of our round was filled with different guys stepping up at different times, and coming through with shots that kept us in it. We might not have done anything fancy, but we did OK. A couple downhill 10-footers for birdies, and sixteen pars, and we found the clubhouse at 2-under. (I would add here that I made one of those birdie putts, but that might sound like bragging. So I'll leave that part out.)

We had plenty of decent looks at birdie putts during our round, from eight, ten, twelve feet away. My buddy's father-in-law's mantra was, "Never leave a birdie putt short." And time and time...and time...again, we left 'em short. I was the biggest culprit. My putter and my brain just didn't know how to work together. I hit twelve-foot putts nine feet, and I hit thirty-foot putts twenty-two feet. And I got a little frustrated.

But then I recalled how many times I've golfed in the past three years (like...fewer than ten), and I reached for my beer and looked forward to teeing off on the next hole.

Realistically, we had a good chance at finishing around 5-under. And that would have been a good number. Because when we went in for the post-golf dinner and raffle and awards ceremony, we learned that the winning score was.........3-under.

That speaks more to the fact that the 16 teams in the field were pretty average golfers than it does to the fact that we were good enough to finish only one stroke out of first place. I would guess that in a competitive scramble, a winning score would be closer to 10-under, but I can't say for sure.

It still would have been sweet to win it, though. Fifty bucks a man for placing first...and an evening of "What ifs" and "If onlys" for the runners-up.

I also bought forty bucks worth of raffle tickets.
And guess what I won there.

Yeah.

It was for a good cause...
...and I can't wait to tee off next year.

"Golf is a game whose aim is to hit
a very small ball into an even smaller hole,
with weapons singularly ill-designed
for the purpose."
—Winston Churchill

Om Mani Padme Hum

Curiosity got the best of me tonight, and led me to a workshop involving some ideas that have always intrigued me, but about which I know very little.

Our local art museum is sponsoring three sessions that introduce Qigong practice, silent meditation, and the spiritual teachings of Eckhart Tolle.

I was most interested in viewing the DVD interview with Tolle, after hearing about him and his book, A New Earth, from my sister. I skimmed through her copy and added it to my list of possible reads, but then found out that he wrote a book before that one that was also a huge success, called The Power of Now.

About a month ago I purchased that one, but hadn't had the urge to go too far past the first few pages, until now. I think it's vaulted to the top of my reading list. Whether I find the reading as interesting as I found his interview is yet to be determined.

The workshop tonight began with a meditation expert leading the group through various Qigong exercises. (for those of you who don't click the link, it's pronounced chi-KUNG.) I'd never heard of it before, but it seems to be a close relative of Tai Chi.

After 15 minutes of Qigong, we sat for 15 minutes of silent meditation and were advised, as in most forms of meditation, to concentrate on following our breathing. (did I mention I was really there for the hour-long Tolle interview?)

When I was considering whether or not to attend tonight, I wondered what kind of crowd a workshop like this might draw, and what the demographic would be. There were more than 40 people, most of them women at least 15 to 30 years older than me, but there were two other guys there, also, and a couple women in their 30s.

Not that I exactly had visions of telling my children years from now, "Yeah, Junior, your mom and I met one night while we were both learning to pronounce chi-KUNG." It wasn't what I would call a singles hot spot, is what I'm getting at.

But I digress.

I don't scoff at meditation and practices like Tai Chi and Qigong, but not being an avid practitioner, I couldn't help but lose focus a bit and look around the room to see how others were doing. Some were experienced at Qigong and knew the moves and their meanings, while others were just as green as I was.

Turns out I wasn't the only one paying attention to my neighbor. During the Qigong exercises, we were all standing and spread out a bit, but for the meditation and the interview, we were seated in chairs, and while the DVD was being set up, a friendly elderly lady next to me introduced herself and asked if I'd ever done Qigong before. When I told her no, she replied, "Well, you looked like you were doing very well to me."

So I guess I was being checked out a little bit, and admired for my, um, moves.

The Tolle interview was worth the price of admission. While he doesn't have the most dynamic personality, the substance of his answers held everyone's attention. (Except the nice little old lady next to me, who nodded off about a dozen times.)

Tolle went through many rough times growing up, dropping out of school at a very early age, educating himself between the ages of 13 to 19, then later passing the necessary exams that allowed him to go to university in London.

He suffered from anxiety, dealt with several bouts of depression, and one night when he was 29, he woke up in the middle of the night and said, "I can't live with myself any longer."

Examining this sentence led him to wonder if he was one, or two. Are the "I" and the "self" different? They must be if the "self" is someone that the "I" cannot live with. And he thought, "Maybe only one of them is real."

This is what started his transformation, and he awoke the next morning in a state of peace, recognizing his surroundings for the first time as new and fresh. And so began his teachings.

I have yet to delve more deeply into the book, but in his interview, he also stated that people are so caught up with always pushing toward the next moment and the next...whether that be an hour from now or tomorrow or next week...that they forget to live in this moment.

I'm not yet ready to say that I've found my new spiritual path...but a lot of what he says makes pretty good sense. And I think I'll go back next month for session No. 2.

Now that I know how to pronounce "Qigong."

So yeah.
I spent seven bucks to meditate in public tonight.
How did you spend your Wednesday night, hmm?

"Be at least as interested in what goes on
inside you as what happens outside.
If you get the inside right, the outside
will fall into place."
—Eckhart Tolle

Walking The Manitowoc PierWith A Camera 'Round My Neck

"If a man knows not what harbor he seeks,
any wind is the right wind."
—Seneca

Quotable

This sorta qualifies as a squib, and I haven't pulled out the graphic in months. So there ya go.

Mark Cuban had a great quote on his blog several days ago, that he called his new favorite saying. I haven't been able to find out to whom it's attributed...but when a quote's good, it doesn't matter who said it, right?

"Today is the youngest you will ever be. Act like it."

"It is better to be quotable
than to be honest."
—Tom Stoppard

Next...Please.

I've heard all the horror stories about the DMV...the five-hour waits, the surly customer service reps, the road test administrators who flunk you before you even pull out of the parking lot.

But I've never had a bad experience with the DMV.

I passed my driving test on the first try, and if I remember correctly, after my test the instructor told my parents that I was a very good driver. If I don't remember it correctly, I'm going to ask my parents to corroborate my story so that it at least sounds like I'm a very good driver. Which...I am.

This morning I went to get my driver's license renewed, and as soon as I walked in, I knew that this was the day all of my good luck with the DMV would come to a screeching halt. (by the way...if you're forced to come to a screeching halt while taking your road test, I'm betting you'll almost certainly fail.)

I barely got in the door and found myself at the end of a line snaking around a table and all the way to the back of the room. There were three customer service guys manning their battle stations, and all of them were busily tending to the needs of Wisconsin drivers.

I counted my way back and found that I was the thirteenth person in line. I considered calling my boss to tell him that the hour I thought I'd be gone might be extended a bit, and that he shouldn't expect me back until the middle of next week.

The lady in front of me was doing everything in her power to support the stereotype of the month-long wait at the DMV by complaining to her friends about the hours and hours *gasp!* she waited in line other times at the office in the next county.

The line inched ahead a little bit...and then a little bit more, and before long I was more than halfway up to the front of the line. A couple more minutes and I was in the on-deck circle. Smooth sailing.

When one of the customer service guys became available, I'm certain I heard him say, "I can help who's next, please."

Please?? Did he say...please? I thought these guys were supposed to just glare at you, drumming their fingertips on the desktop until you finally realized in your great stupidity that yes, YOU, were next, and you better get your ass over there or they'll send you back to the end of the line.

But no. He said please.

Two minutes, a lame eye test and thirty-four dollars later, I was signing my name and standing on the tiny rectangular mat in front of the backdrop to get my pic taken.

And about five minutes after that, as he handed me my new license, he said, "Gregg...here you go, buddy. Have a good day."

Buddy? He said buddy......and please?

I love the DMV!!

"Thanks. You have a good day, too," I replied.

"Thaaank you!!" he said.

Couldn't have asked for a nicer guy.

Now...about that picture. Definitely the one blemish on my DMV experience. It's a good thing the only people who will see it are the police ociffer who writes me a ticket for the one (or two) speeding tickets I will inevitably get in the next eight years before I have another crack at a better photo...and all the swell people in liquor stores and nightclubs who look at me and think to themselves, "Hmm...he might not be 21 just yet. I better check and make sure."

I'm always more than happy to show them that I was born only a couple years after Moses. And for making me feel young again, their prize is getting to see firsthand that I take a really shitty driver's license photo.

That's a trade-off I can live with.

"I close my eyes while driving
and just sing along. I always
open them again in time."
—Tyra Banks

A Seat With A View

I need to begin this post by thanking Carolyn Lanza and Richard Greisch, and I don't even have a clue who they are. But they helped make my Saturday morning a bit more pleasant.

I had some work done on my car over the weekend...a list of items slightly longer than a 20-minute oil change. (remember those tires I said I was going to buy? consider the economy stimulated.)

So rather than pass the time in the waiting area flipping through a stack of magazines or watching TV, or shopping on the north side of Manitowoc (is there any shopping left on the north side of Manitowoc??), I took a stroll up to Mariner's Trail along Lake Michigan, walked a couple hundred yards up the trail and found a bench with a sign that read, "Bench donated by Carolyn Lanza and Richard Greisch."

I sat down on the bench and stared out at the lake, a couple tiny sailboats dotting the murky brown water, thin strips of blue slicing through to give hope for a more attractive great lake in the coming summer months.

Bikers and runners and walkers made their way along the trail a few feet behind me, out to soak in much of the same view I was getting while I waited for my worn Kumhos to be replaced with Goodyear triple-treads.

A nun rode past on what looked to be an older style three- or five-speed bicycle, with sidebags on either side of her rear tire. She had a helmet tightly strapped to her head, her habit beneath it, flowing down her back. And she also wore a neon orange mesh vest like you see guys wear when they work on road crews.

I wish I would have had my camera out, because it would've made a great photo. I wanted to run after her and ask her how often she comes out to enjoy the trail...but I'm kinda slow, kinda fat and kinda old. And she was on a bike, you know. So I conserved my energy and recorded the image in my mental filing drawer instead.

An older couple walked on the beach along the water's edge with their dog that was carrying what looked to be an old rag doll in its mouth.

A short time later, another woman came walking with her dog. This dog had a ball that it couldn't seem to keep in its mouth, or maybe it just didn't want to, as it was more concerned with digging its front paws in the sand or splashing in the water than playing fetch.

One woman came by carrying two pieces of driftwood that she picked up along the beach. I didn't know her, and my bench was too far away from the water's edge for me to call down and ask, but...I'm assuming she had a collection, and those were her two latest additions.

I sat and read a few chapters from Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts On Faith, and when I looked up to concentrate on the lake, I was able to drown out the noise from the traffic on the busy road behind me, and hear only the waves lapping against the shore.

This made me feel a little more Zen than I normally do.

Once when I looked up from my book, I noticed a dot on the horizon, and knew it was much bigger than a sailboat. And soon I got to witness the familiar sight of the Badger carferry moving tortoise-like toward the finish line of the Manitowoc port on its journey from Ludington, Michigan.

After absorbing all the sights and sounds and spending equal amounts of time reading and people-watching, I grabbed a notebook and a pen, and wrote this blog entry, grateful to Carolyn and Richard for providing me with such a spectacular front-row seat.

A more enriching way to spend a couple hours than in an auto garage's waiting area, don't you think?

I should have my tires replaced a couple times a month.

"I'm an old-fashioned guy...
I want to be an old man
with a beer belly sitting on
a porch, looking at a lake
or something."
—Johnny Depp

For Wish No. 2, I'd Like...

Did you see that?

At the end of my last post, I asked for sun and 70...and today, it was sunny and in the 70s!

I think after laying dormant for so long, my blog has developed magical wish-granting powers. How cool is that??

Let's give it another whirl, shall we?


Please send meeeeeee...

.........a suitcase filled with hundred-dollar bills, delivered to my doorstep by Vanessa Marcil.


(I think I just heard my blog chuckling at me.)

"Destiny has two ways of crushing us—
by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them."
—Henri Frederic Amiel

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

...the gray skies are boooooring. (and scary, too.)

If there was a way to search through all of the Wisconsin bloggers in the blogiverse, I bet 99 percent of them blogged in the last couple days about the weather.

Lame topic, you say?

But there was nothing lame about the rain that came down on Saturday. When the news stories report that cars were floating away in intersections, and people were swimming to safety...it's time to sit up and take notice.

Seven Wisconsin counties reported tornadoes. In the streets, 200-pound manhole covers were flipped like pennies from the water pressure in the storm sewers below. (I didn't write that...I read it in this story. But isn't that great imagery?)

We had serious...serious...water in our state over the weekend. I was down in the Milwaukee area to spend some time with my sister and her family, and we watched the day change from blue skies to storm clouds to sheets of rain. When the storm sirens went off, we hit the basement, and the reservations we had for dinner at a Japanese hibachi place were put on hold.

My nephew still had to go out, though, to play in the band for his high school's graduation. Attendance at that event served as his final exam. With all the flash flood warnings and tornado warnings, I thought having graduation that day was pretty stupid. But I'm not a school administrator.

After hearing the storm sirens go off at least three times, and waiting out several waves (heh.) of rain showers, we decided the worst was over and went for Japanese food. We didn't float away.

My niece got a kick out of playing The Catching Game, as she called it...where the chef flipped shrimp off his spatula into the air for us to catch in our mouths. (yes, I caught mine.) And I got my sushi fix...so all was good.

The drive home was mostly uneventful, except for a 10-minute stretch halfway home where you couldn't see much, but you got one hell of a car wash as you drove. I don't drive with my hands at 10 and 2 very often, but I know when to hold on. My "reward" for making it through the downpour was a pretty spectacular lightning show from time to time on the rest of the drive.

Ten minutes of white-knuckling it during an hour and a half drive certainly isn't a whole lot to complain about, as it could have been much, much worse.

Yesterday it stayed gray throughout the day, and Mother Nature thought it would be a fun trick to play to make me spend most of my day either opening or closing my windows.

I'd open five or six of them, and sit down by the computer or the TV, and it would start to rain. So I'd close my windows, and five minutes later, the rain stopped. Soooo...I'd open them again. I repeated this process more times than I'm going to admit in this blog entry.

But, umm...

...sunny and 70, anyone?
I'm all for it.

"Don't knock the weather;
nine-tenths of the people
couldn't start a conversation
if it didn't change once in a while."
—Kin Hubbard

A Gentle Nudge.

I got a bit of a drive in the ass from a friend a couple days ago, regarding this blog.

Oh sure, she tried to soften the blow somewhat, calling it a "nudge" instead. But I could read between the lines. Basically, from the few words I saw on screen, what I read was:

"Dude, what's up with your blog, man? You've got this blog (noun), so...blog(verb)!!"

Yeah. Like I haven't been telling myself that for days upon days upon days.

But...I value her opinion. And her nudge. And I had the gist of this post formed in my head yesterday, ready to send through the keyboard. But then Ed McMahon saved me as I channel surfed past Larry King Live, so I made fun of him instead, and rolled this post around for another day.

What I've learned from this highly scientific experiment I've been conducting over the past couple months is...it's easier to not blog, than it is to blog. It's true!

Don't believe me? Try this simple test. Go and get yourself a blog, if you don't already have one. And then when you've got one...ignore it. Just...don't blog.

Pretty simple, isn't it?

Not very fulfilling. Not the most productive creative outlet.
But boy, is it easy!

However...hopefully the Un-Blog has worn out its welcome, and it's time to get back to The Blog again. We'll see how long I can make that statement stick.

One of my very favorite writers, Anne Lamott, talks about writer's block in her book, Bird by Bird, and also in an audio tape I have of one of her workshops, called Word by Word. (I highly recommend both the book and the workshop-on-tape. Or...disc, as it's available now.)

Lamott views writer's block not as being blocked or stuck, but as being empty instead. And that every so often, you've got to refill this rag bag that writers carry around...and that memories and sights and sounds and snippets of daily life and stories and conversations all serve as the rags for our rag bag, which we then dip into when we sit down to write.

Perhaps you find a piece of burlap or a shred of canvas, or a piece of muslin or maybe a torn T-shirt, or an embroidery thread. All these pieces are collected and used to fill the rag bag.

I love that example, and I'd totally steal it and try to pass it off as my own idea, but I don't have a fuckin' clue what muslin is, so therefore...proper citing of my sources. (And I wouldn't do that to Annie, anyway. Or anyone else.)

I've spent some time with her audio workshop in my car over the last several days, and then I got the, um...nudge...at just the right time from the friend I mentioned. So I figured it was time to put ass in chair and get to work.

I've managed to continue to bang out a column for the paper over these past weeks, but when it came to something voluntary, like Ton-Fifty-ONE, ohhh it was so easy to let it slide. And then of course I'd beat myself up for ignoring it for another day...and another...and another.

I don't know if my rag bag is as full as it should be, or if my rags will be worth writing about.

But at least I'm collecting.

"Seeing yourself in print is such
an amazing concept: you can get
so much attention without having
to actually show up somewhere.
You don't have to dress up, for instance,
and you can't hear them boo you right away."
—Anne Lamott

And Now...Heeeeeeeere's Foreclosure!

Ed McMahon got 15 minutes of airtime on Larry King Live tonight.

Why? He's fighting foreclosure on his multimillion-dollar Beverly Hills home.

So, what's the only logical step when facing foreclosure? Go on Larry King!

I happened to catch the story early enough that it kept me interested through a couple commercial breaks, but as I watched, I wondered to myself, "What is Ed hoping to accomplish here? Does he want me to feel sorry for him?"

Carson sidekick for about a century, host of Star Search and bloopers shows...and he wants me to throw a big ol' pity party that his six-million-dollar home might be taken from him, and that he's more than six...hundred...thousand...dollars behind on his payments.

Now...he broke his neck a year and a half ago, and hasn't been able to work because of that. So a bit of sympathy is in order there. But...he's 85 years old! Why should he need to work anyway?

Oh yeah. That pesky matter of the six hundred grand. I forgot.

Larry asked him during the interview, how a celebrity like him, who's supposedly got so many millions, can fall into a trap like this. And Ed's answer just about made me chuck my remote at the TV.

"Well, Larry...when you spend more than you make...you know how it goes."

Unbelievable.

Larry and Ed also made a quick mention that Evander Holyfield was in danger of losing his home, too. ($10 million mansion ... 109 rooms ... 17 bathrooms ... three kitchens ... bowling alley. Nothing too elaborate.)

Don't high-profile boxers...of which Holyfield certainly was one...make like $20 million per bout? According to one source, Holyfield's grossed more than $120 million in his career.

Stories like this make me shake my head as much as hearing about all the lottery winners who go broke only a few short years after cashing in on their mega-jackpots.

Perhaps I'm not qualified to judge these people until I have 20 or 40 or 100 million dollars to manage. But you know...if someone out there wants to give me the opportunity to prove it can be done, I bet I can make it last a lotta lotta years, and have my share of fun with it, bringing plenty of family and friends along for the ride as I go.

Or maybe I'll just take one twenty-million-dollar tourist trip up to the International Space Station, and then come back to Earth and go back to my nine-to-five grind.

I think I know how Ed can save his home...

Those American Family Publishers people can send him an envelope that says, "You may have already won $10,000,000!" And then show up on his doorstep with a big fat check.

(if he subscribes to a couple magazines, of course.)

"Bankruptcy is a legal proceeding
in which you put your money
in your pants pocket and give
your coat to your creditors."
—Joey Adams