After a visit with Nicole last weekend, I had mentioned it was going to be hard to write about the next piece of our trip south. She shook her head and asked me not to make her relive it. If she was serious, I can completely understand. But in truth, she could just stop reading. So let's move on.
Our first stop on our southern journey was The Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. We had driven all night, well that's not true, Gus had driven all night. All sixteen hours. It wasn't as if we refused to help him, or that he didn't want any of us driving his van, it was simply because the man loves to drive. Gus has the name and the heart of a trucker.
We arrived at our campsite in the early morning. None of us had slept particularly well, except maybe Bremner, who has the ability to fall asleep anywhere. Regardless of how sleepy we were, we had one day in the mountains and we had to make the most of it. We pitched our tents and quickly made our way to the nearest visitor center. The plan was to pick a nice day hike, drive into town for dinner, and go back to our tents so we could get up early and move on to our next stop.
The Smoky Mountains have the largest trail system in North America. 800 miles all together. So we had plenty of options. I had only one qualification for our hike and that was distance. I was determined to make the most of our one day, and proposed we take the longest loop trail possible, which is where it turns a little ugly. "Possible" I gradually came to realize, is a relative term. As the rest of the group was looking at the features of many of the day hikes, subtly trying to convince me to look at some of the neat things shorter more scenic hikes had to offer, I chose to ignore them all and picked the fourteen miler covering a good portion of the map. There may or may not have been protests at this point. Someone might have mentioned that none of us could claim to have gotten much sleep in the last 24 hours (excluding Bremner). I don't remember being particularly interested in any input, though I could have sworn there was a little more agreement from the rest of the group. To hear everyone else tell the story now, it's as if I just started walking out the door and they had no choice but to follow me.
Either way, we made it to the trailhead, parked, and began our long walk across the blue ridge mountains. The hike was immediately beautiful. Everyone was in high spirits and the views got nicer and nicer. As we were nearing half way however, a noise that would become sincerely unbearable began to follow the group. It was the sound of Nicole gasping as she tripped over every root across the trail. It was a normal gasp of someone startled, nothing awful sounding. It was just very, very, common. Hindsight allows for some sympathy. As it turns out, the poor woman was so tired at this point she literally couldn't lift her feet high enough to clear the slightest bump in the trail.
We were all tired when we neared the end, but Nicole was especially so. There is a fantastic illustration of this in a picture of her with about two miles to go, standing next to a beautiful waterfall. She looks exactly like a hostage victim. Exhausted and dirty, with just a hint of a smile to make sure if any loved ones see it, it looks like she met her end bravely.
It was dark when we finally made it to the van. We had spent the entire day on the trail, over fourteen hours, and we could all finally relax on our drive down to dinner. We were halfway to town when Nicole asked Gus if he could pull over. Slowly getting out of the car, she walked to the back of the van and puked. This was probably the low point in the trip.
I don't think the severity of Nicole's hellish romp through the woods was fully acknowledged until we saw what the hike had done to her foot. It looked as if her lower leg had tried to swallow it. It was so swollen it was impossible to see where her foot began. Gus, Bremner and I, after close inspection, diagnosed it as a bad case of "clubfoot". There was no other way to describe what was happening to her. She had contracted clubfoot, and it was, I admit, all my fault.
Looking back now, although I still feel bad for being such an asshole, I am glad we did it. We had a serious hike in the Appalachians, which was a first for all of us. And as for Nicole, I know at many points along the hike she felt there was no way she could finish. I remember Saint Gus asking at one point if she wanted to be carried the rest of the way. But she refused and in the end found hiking fourteen miles, with little or no hiking experience, was indeed "possible". I can honestly say, I was proud of her. I rarely try something I don't think I can do. Whether she had any interest in hiking or not, I don't dare argue, but I think we all, Nicole included, learned just how strong a person she is. And maybe more personally, how forgiving she could be.
Friday, June 18
Tuesday, June 1
Head South Pt. 2
Over the weekend I was in Georgia. Bremner and I were driving around lost, looking for the way back to our hotel. Bremner was manning the radio, and a song by Rhianna came on. It was called "Rude Boy". I know I sound like a real prude here, but I was sort of shocked by the lyrics of that song. If you've never heard it, the song doesn't allude to sex. It describes it in detail. Now again, I am not against rhythm and blues, or having Rhianna describe rough sex, but I found it difficult to picture a time and place outside of a club or in a bedroom that a song like "Rude Boy" would be appropriate. It certainly wasn't while driving around looking for a hotel with my friend.
The episode reminded me of a brilliant plan I had on our road trip south. I thought it would be interesting to prohibit the use of discmans and mixtapes for the entire forty hour round-trip. We would listen to whatever was on the radio, nothing else. For some reason I felt the music would act as a soundtrack to whatever it was we were passing by. I imagined bluegrass as we entered the Appalachian foothills, and country music while driving through the fields of Kentucky. What I failed to realize, was the very nature of radio. Every station would play the hits of the day. Which left us scanning for one of four songs we found tolerable during our trip. And as people become more attractive as choice becomes limited, these four songs became worth celebrating if found while trolling through the stations. The songs were "Tipsy" by J-Kwon, "Yeah" by Usher, "Toxic" by Miss Spears, and "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" by Jay-Z. Ironically, as none of them fit the geographical landscape we were driving through, they still became our soundtrack. There's something awfully special about how a song can connect you to a memory, often having little to do with the content of the tune. I like the idea of "Rude Boy" triggering the memory of a baby's baptism, because that's what the radio was playing on the way to church.
The episode reminded me of a brilliant plan I had on our road trip south. I thought it would be interesting to prohibit the use of discmans and mixtapes for the entire forty hour round-trip. We would listen to whatever was on the radio, nothing else. For some reason I felt the music would act as a soundtrack to whatever it was we were passing by. I imagined bluegrass as we entered the Appalachian foothills, and country music while driving through the fields of Kentucky. What I failed to realize, was the very nature of radio. Every station would play the hits of the day. Which left us scanning for one of four songs we found tolerable during our trip. And as people become more attractive as choice becomes limited, these four songs became worth celebrating if found while trolling through the stations. The songs were "Tipsy" by J-Kwon, "Yeah" by Usher, "Toxic" by Miss Spears, and "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" by Jay-Z. Ironically, as none of them fit the geographical landscape we were driving through, they still became our soundtrack. There's something awfully special about how a song can connect you to a memory, often having little to do with the content of the tune. I like the idea of "Rude Boy" triggering the memory of a baby's baptism, because that's what the radio was playing on the way to church.
Friday, May 21
Head South Pt. 1
I've always wanted to get this down on paper before I forgot it all. I warn that it is long, and probably not as enjoyable for you as it is me. It was suggested I write it in parts, and I am taking this advice. The story is about the spring break of my sophomore year in college. A road trip that took me and three friends from Wisconsin to New Orleans and back. The friends that accompanied me, were Bremner, Gus, and the unfortunate lone woman, Nicole.
This was the first long road trip for some of us, and being young, poor, and consequently cheap, we knew we were not going to be completely comfortable the whole time, if at all. Bremner, whom if you have never met, is a large and slightly intense man. Not intense like angry, but he can be affectionately and accurately described as a "man of extremes." An illustration might help me explain. One winter in Wisconsin I got into his car on a particularly cold night. He (naturally) had the heat turned on maximum. Since I was dressed appropriately for sub-zero weather, I began to sweat within one minute of leaving his driveway. I told him that the heat was on way too high and I was uncomfortable. His solution was not to turn down the heat to a reasonable level, but to roll down all the windows and let the frozen air engulf us instead. Another illustration might be more appropriate for this story as it pertains to our predeparture shopping trip.
Knowing we would be in the van for a good sixteen hours on our way to our first stop in Tennessee, we tried to think ahead as to what might cut down on stops for food along the way. While the rest of us stocked up on appropriate foods for a road trip: granola bars, crackers and other filling foods, Bremner came to the checkout with a case of canned tuna and a can opener. The fact it was impossible to safely open and drain a can of tuna in a speeding van was lost on him, as was the fact there was no fucking way the rest of us would put up with the smell of tuna fish for hours. I suggested he consider how ridiculous his purchase was. He refused to back down. "Dude, this could last me the whole trip and it only costs like eight dollars." As I predicted, that case of tuna never left the back of Gus' van. Having been friends with Bremner, nearly my whole life, I have actually grown tired of saying "I told you so." I do still try my best to help him find middle ground, no matter how futile my efforts are. After just five hours into the drive while he was rummaging for some of our more edible food, I felt I had to caution him for the long trip ahead. "Bremner slow down. We've only been on the road a few hours and you've already slept twice and now you're eating."
This was the first long road trip for some of us, and being young, poor, and consequently cheap, we knew we were not going to be completely comfortable the whole time, if at all. Bremner, whom if you have never met, is a large and slightly intense man. Not intense like angry, but he can be affectionately and accurately described as a "man of extremes." An illustration might help me explain. One winter in Wisconsin I got into his car on a particularly cold night. He (naturally) had the heat turned on maximum. Since I was dressed appropriately for sub-zero weather, I began to sweat within one minute of leaving his driveway. I told him that the heat was on way too high and I was uncomfortable. His solution was not to turn down the heat to a reasonable level, but to roll down all the windows and let the frozen air engulf us instead. Another illustration might be more appropriate for this story as it pertains to our predeparture shopping trip.
Knowing we would be in the van for a good sixteen hours on our way to our first stop in Tennessee, we tried to think ahead as to what might cut down on stops for food along the way. While the rest of us stocked up on appropriate foods for a road trip: granola bars, crackers and other filling foods, Bremner came to the checkout with a case of canned tuna and a can opener. The fact it was impossible to safely open and drain a can of tuna in a speeding van was lost on him, as was the fact there was no fucking way the rest of us would put up with the smell of tuna fish for hours. I suggested he consider how ridiculous his purchase was. He refused to back down. "Dude, this could last me the whole trip and it only costs like eight dollars." As I predicted, that case of tuna never left the back of Gus' van. Having been friends with Bremner, nearly my whole life, I have actually grown tired of saying "I told you so." I do still try my best to help him find middle ground, no matter how futile my efforts are. After just five hours into the drive while he was rummaging for some of our more edible food, I felt I had to caution him for the long trip ahead. "Bremner slow down. We've only been on the road a few hours and you've already slept twice and now you're eating."
Thursday, May 13
Sophisticated
I have gotten better at not being embarrassed about the things I like. I've more or less come to grips with the fact we like what we like, not what we want to like. I used to fight it a lot more than I do now. For the longest time, I really wanted to like plays. I thought they were sophisticated and if I wanted one word to describe me, it was sophisticated. The only thing that got in my way was my extremely low hanging brow. I tried going to a few plays but could never really get into them. I would spend the whole performance either daydreaming or distracted by how well the stage lights picked up the actors' spit when delivering lines. I had no choice but to give up on liking plays.
My failure to find more sophisticated interests left an awful lot of room for enjoying more embarrassing things like comic books and Rod Stewart. It's usually while visiting my friend Shawn when I feel I can truly embrace some of my guilty pleasures. On my most recent visit, we had to stop by his girlfriend's apartment to pick up a duffel bag full of board games, all of which involved plastic figurines in the shape of demons, ogres, and superheros of the Marvel Universe.
When we got to her apartment, she happened to be hosting a visitor of her own. Her sister was in town and not being accustomed to two grown men playing board games on a Saturday night, she politely asked Shawn what was in the bag he was carrying, and why he seemed so sheepish about it. In an attempt to save us from further embarrassment, I tried to think of something less nerdy than a game involving battles between superheroes and mythical creatures, I emphatically answered, "Chess!"
My failure to find more sophisticated interests left an awful lot of room for enjoying more embarrassing things like comic books and Rod Stewart. It's usually while visiting my friend Shawn when I feel I can truly embrace some of my guilty pleasures. On my most recent visit, we had to stop by his girlfriend's apartment to pick up a duffel bag full of board games, all of which involved plastic figurines in the shape of demons, ogres, and superheros of the Marvel Universe.
When we got to her apartment, she happened to be hosting a visitor of her own. Her sister was in town and not being accustomed to two grown men playing board games on a Saturday night, she politely asked Shawn what was in the bag he was carrying, and why he seemed so sheepish about it. In an attempt to save us from further embarrassment, I tried to think of something less nerdy than a game involving battles between superheroes and mythical creatures, I emphatically answered, "Chess!"
Sunday, April 25
Smell Like You Mean It
Our apartment stinks. It has stunk for weeks actually. Not so much our apartment but our building in general. The smell was strong, but honestly not offensive. It was sort of a medicinal smell, like someone was busy sterilizing a wound. My wife was convinced it was mothballs. Not terribly familiar with the smell of mothballs, I trusted her nose. It must be mothballs. But mothballs made no more sense than wound sterilization. Our apartments aren't fancy, but they're not crawl spaces. It was hard to imagine someone needing mothballs let alone enough of them to keep insects from devouring the entire building.
A couple of days ago a note was taped to our door. It read, "URGENT: There will be a meeting at 5:00 p.m. discussing the offensive smell in your building. We will meet in the hallway." After reading the note, I saw no sense in urgency. Why would anyone willingly meet with a bunch of people who can't wait to tell him he stinks. But the meeting was held and out of the six apartments in our building four tenants showed up. My wife and three of our neighbors met out in the hall and agreed the smell was an issue and discussed the next step. The plan was to notify the maintenance guy about the issue. His solution was to write another note and tape it on everybody's door. It read, "There is an offensive smell coming from one of the apartments in your building. It smells like mothballs. Please remove the source of the smell from the premises."
The note didn't work. The smell remained. I wasn't surprised I guess, in fact, I still wasn't convinced it was mothballs. The strength of the smell was too powerful. Someone would have to have a bathtub full of them to be able to permeate every other room in the building. It was a complete mystery to me. Luckily, one of our neighbors across the hall had a father that seemed to be a detective of some sort.
While my wife and I were leaving our apartment yesterday afternoon, we met them in the hallway. The woman had just had a baby and was terrified that whatever was causing the smell was poison and her baby was in danger. Her father was convinced it was a meth lab. "This is what it smells like when people cook meth," he told us. I wanted to ask him how the hell he could be so sure about a thing like that, but I could see the panic in their faces, and I knew it was no use trying to calm them down. Nothing is worse than two paranoid people reinforcing each other's craziest fears. So we left as quickly as we could. There was no telling what these two worry warts were capable of.
They decided to call the cops. I tried to imagine the old man's conversation with the officer on the phone.
"Hello, what is your emergency?"
"There's an odd smell in our hallway."
"I'm sorry?"
"A smell. It smells like mothballs."
"Sir, remain calm, we're on our way."
By the time we got back, we had missed all the action. It was indeed mothballs. Apparently the police officer and our building manager met our downstairs neighbor Earl, a fellow grad student. His apartment was covered in mothballs. He had them everywhere. Though strange to be sure, I still felt bad for the guy. Why he felt he needed his apartment littered with mothballs, I will never know. But to feel, however briefly, that you were a about to be arrested for stinking was probably unpleasant. I suppose this could have all been avoided if we took the time to meet one another around here. Now, all I know of Earl downstairs is that he's sort of crazy. And sadly it's likely to stay that way. Unless I need to store some blankets.
A couple of days ago a note was taped to our door. It read, "URGENT: There will be a meeting at 5:00 p.m. discussing the offensive smell in your building. We will meet in the hallway." After reading the note, I saw no sense in urgency. Why would anyone willingly meet with a bunch of people who can't wait to tell him he stinks. But the meeting was held and out of the six apartments in our building four tenants showed up. My wife and three of our neighbors met out in the hall and agreed the smell was an issue and discussed the next step. The plan was to notify the maintenance guy about the issue. His solution was to write another note and tape it on everybody's door. It read, "There is an offensive smell coming from one of the apartments in your building. It smells like mothballs. Please remove the source of the smell from the premises."
The note didn't work. The smell remained. I wasn't surprised I guess, in fact, I still wasn't convinced it was mothballs. The strength of the smell was too powerful. Someone would have to have a bathtub full of them to be able to permeate every other room in the building. It was a complete mystery to me. Luckily, one of our neighbors across the hall had a father that seemed to be a detective of some sort.
While my wife and I were leaving our apartment yesterday afternoon, we met them in the hallway. The woman had just had a baby and was terrified that whatever was causing the smell was poison and her baby was in danger. Her father was convinced it was a meth lab. "This is what it smells like when people cook meth," he told us. I wanted to ask him how the hell he could be so sure about a thing like that, but I could see the panic in their faces, and I knew it was no use trying to calm them down. Nothing is worse than two paranoid people reinforcing each other's craziest fears. So we left as quickly as we could. There was no telling what these two worry warts were capable of.
They decided to call the cops. I tried to imagine the old man's conversation with the officer on the phone.
"Hello, what is your emergency?"
"There's an odd smell in our hallway."
"I'm sorry?"
"A smell. It smells like mothballs."
"Sir, remain calm, we're on our way."
By the time we got back, we had missed all the action. It was indeed mothballs. Apparently the police officer and our building manager met our downstairs neighbor Earl, a fellow grad student. His apartment was covered in mothballs. He had them everywhere. Though strange to be sure, I still felt bad for the guy. Why he felt he needed his apartment littered with mothballs, I will never know. But to feel, however briefly, that you were a about to be arrested for stinking was probably unpleasant. I suppose this could have all been avoided if we took the time to meet one another around here. Now, all I know of Earl downstairs is that he's sort of crazy. And sadly it's likely to stay that way. Unless I need to store some blankets.
Wednesday, April 14
The House Always Wins
At work, we are all chipping in to win 172 million dollars. I am well aware this will never happen but I had to chip in. I had to. I can vividly picture the rest of my officemates winning, then coming into work the next morning and quitting. Written all over their faces as they pass my cubicle will be, Not so smug now are you asshole? I'm not proud of this but I tend to have lapses where I sincerely think I could win the lottery. I think, Sure, others deserve it more than you, but you could really use it right now. I think about how I don't quite know what I want to choose for a career, and hey, wouldn't it be nice to not have to worry about money? You could have your pick of profession, and even if you suck, your kids won't starve. This is actually what keeps me from gambling. I know how far these illusions could take me. I can picture myself spending my lunch breaks scratching away at tickets thinking that if I buy them all, I'm bound to win right? This mentality runs in the family.
I had spent the year going to school in Montana, and on my last day there I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of my father. The plan was simple, he would drive out, we would go on a hike and then split my belongings between our cars and caravan back to Wisconsin. In my excitement to leave Montana I didn't realize what a mistake I was making by asking my dad to come out and help me move. I was essentially inviting a compulsive gambler to drive through the most tantalizing stretch of United States Interstate imaginable. As some of you may have experienced, the drive from Wisconsin to Montana has nothing much but fields and gas stations, nothing to keep you from dozing. However, just as you're about to fall asleep, you see what looks to be a mirage in the distance. Are those lights? Civilization?, you ask yourself. Sure enough, two miles later you are driving past a pretty sad looking casino, with a full parking lot.
At the time, I was not thinking about the poor man and the gauntlet I threw down. Instead, I was itching to get back to Wisconsin, where I was missed, and could feel important. Montana is a great place for anyone who likes the outdoors. The first Montanan I met told me a little bit about what people do for fun there.
"Well basically, me and my buddies go out in the woods, grab a six-pack, and sit around and shoot shit". The guy's name was Chris, and to his credit, he was immediately embarrassed. "Man, you're gonna call home, and tell your friends, You won't believe it, I met the biggest hick today." Which was true. Not all the people in Montana were as level headed as Chris though, and after a year there, the majesty of the mountains had wore off. It had become increasingly clear I didn't want anything to do with the state. I was excited to get back to the modest midwest.
Just as my excitement was at its peak, I got a phone call from my dad. He seemed to be tiptoeing around something.
"How are you son?"
"Good Dad, where are you?"
"Well, I ran out of gas."
"No way. Well, where are you now?"
"I'm at a gas station."
Great, I thought, problem solved.
"So what's the problem?"
"Well I don't have the money for gas and they won't believe me when I tell them I'd pay them when we came back through."
"How do you not have money? Mom said she gave you plenty for gas?"
"Well...Can you come and get me and we'll go for that hike?"
"Where are you? Are you close?"
"I'm in Miles City."
"Dad that's four hours away, if I come and get you, we can't come back here."
"Oh. OK, well I'm at the Conoco here just off the highway."
Before leaving Wisconsin my mom had given him enough money for gas, food, and a motel room if we decided not to drive straight through. So for him to end up four hours short of the halfway mark, with no money, it could only mean one thing. My dad was no match for the glitzy temptations of Interstate 94.
I was a little disappointed to say the least, and because I had a four hour drive to listen to emo music and think about how I had to leave my roomate's recliner back in the student lounge, I decided to try and needle the truth out of him. Which before I even began, I knew was futile.
"So what happened dad, mom said she gave you plenty of money."
"Well you know me son, I just started driving, and you know I was so excited I was drinking pop after pop and smoking like crazy trying to stay awake, and I just didn't notice until it was too late."
This was of course, false. Gas was still inexpensive at the time and unless he was smoking the money, it didn't add up. But in these situations I had learned it's a lot less embarrassing to just ignore reality, nod, and move on as quickly as possible. You don't want to get caught in one of my dad's excuse brainstorms. The man has never been one to admit a mistake, and never has he been caught saying something ridiculous like, "I don't know". I once made the mistake of trying to play Trivial Pursuit with him. For every question asked, he would take two minutes mumbling through completely incoherent answers before guessing so far off the mark it seems he didn't even hear the question.
Looking back on it, I suppose it wouldn't have been any better had he told me the truth. I wouldn't have understood what I do now. If you play long enough you are bound to win. Or run out of money.
I had spent the year going to school in Montana, and on my last day there I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of my father. The plan was simple, he would drive out, we would go on a hike and then split my belongings between our cars and caravan back to Wisconsin. In my excitement to leave Montana I didn't realize what a mistake I was making by asking my dad to come out and help me move. I was essentially inviting a compulsive gambler to drive through the most tantalizing stretch of United States Interstate imaginable. As some of you may have experienced, the drive from Wisconsin to Montana has nothing much but fields and gas stations, nothing to keep you from dozing. However, just as you're about to fall asleep, you see what looks to be a mirage in the distance. Are those lights? Civilization?, you ask yourself. Sure enough, two miles later you are driving past a pretty sad looking casino, with a full parking lot.
At the time, I was not thinking about the poor man and the gauntlet I threw down. Instead, I was itching to get back to Wisconsin, where I was missed, and could feel important. Montana is a great place for anyone who likes the outdoors. The first Montanan I met told me a little bit about what people do for fun there.
"Well basically, me and my buddies go out in the woods, grab a six-pack, and sit around and shoot shit". The guy's name was Chris, and to his credit, he was immediately embarrassed. "Man, you're gonna call home, and tell your friends, You won't believe it, I met the biggest hick today." Which was true. Not all the people in Montana were as level headed as Chris though, and after a year there, the majesty of the mountains had wore off. It had become increasingly clear I didn't want anything to do with the state. I was excited to get back to the modest midwest.
Just as my excitement was at its peak, I got a phone call from my dad. He seemed to be tiptoeing around something.
"How are you son?"
"Good Dad, where are you?"
"Well, I ran out of gas."
"No way. Well, where are you now?"
"I'm at a gas station."
Great, I thought, problem solved.
"So what's the problem?"
"Well I don't have the money for gas and they won't believe me when I tell them I'd pay them when we came back through."
"How do you not have money? Mom said she gave you plenty for gas?"
"Well...Can you come and get me and we'll go for that hike?"
"Where are you? Are you close?"
"I'm in Miles City."
"Dad that's four hours away, if I come and get you, we can't come back here."
"Oh. OK, well I'm at the Conoco here just off the highway."
Before leaving Wisconsin my mom had given him enough money for gas, food, and a motel room if we decided not to drive straight through. So for him to end up four hours short of the halfway mark, with no money, it could only mean one thing. My dad was no match for the glitzy temptations of Interstate 94.
I was a little disappointed to say the least, and because I had a four hour drive to listen to emo music and think about how I had to leave my roomate's recliner back in the student lounge, I decided to try and needle the truth out of him. Which before I even began, I knew was futile.
"So what happened dad, mom said she gave you plenty of money."
"Well you know me son, I just started driving, and you know I was so excited I was drinking pop after pop and smoking like crazy trying to stay awake, and I just didn't notice until it was too late."
This was of course, false. Gas was still inexpensive at the time and unless he was smoking the money, it didn't add up. But in these situations I had learned it's a lot less embarrassing to just ignore reality, nod, and move on as quickly as possible. You don't want to get caught in one of my dad's excuse brainstorms. The man has never been one to admit a mistake, and never has he been caught saying something ridiculous like, "I don't know". I once made the mistake of trying to play Trivial Pursuit with him. For every question asked, he would take two minutes mumbling through completely incoherent answers before guessing so far off the mark it seems he didn't even hear the question.
Looking back on it, I suppose it wouldn't have been any better had he told me the truth. I wouldn't have understood what I do now. If you play long enough you are bound to win. Or run out of money.
Saturday, April 10
Got Crabs?
My father-in-law Dave is almost as crotchety as I am. But he's got thirty years on me, so he's sort of perfected it. He came to visit us on Friday night, and after settling on seafood for dinner, my wife and I gave him the only option we knew of which was Joe's Crab Shack. We had never been, and I specifically asked Dave, "What if it's awful?" He responded by saying he was hungry enough to eat anything. So we went.
To eat at Joe's you have to be of a certain character. One who loves a good time, and the Bee Gees. Upon walking in "Staying Alive" was being blasted and we were greeted with, WELCOME TO JOE'S! from the hostess. I asked for a booth, hoping it would be quieter, and after she brought us to a seat way in the back, Dave sat down and yelled across our table, "I HATE THIS PLACE ALREADY."
"DO YOU WANT TO LEAVE", we screamed back at him.
"NO. LET'S JUST EAT".
At this point I knew it was going to be a very difficult dinner. The waitress greeted us with "ARE YOU GUYS READY TO PARTY?"
Dave was not. I immediately felt bad for the poor woman, especially when she started telling us a little bit about the place. "WELL, AS YOU CAN TELL, WE LIKE TO HAVE A GOOD TIME HERE AT JOE'S, AND WHEN YOU SEE THE STAFF GET ON THE FLOOR TO DANCE, FEEL FREE TO JOIN IN."
For some reason she kept talking to Dave, as if she misread his obvious frown and pissy attitude as someone that liked to dance in public. She asked us what we wanted to drink, and when Dave asked for a Seven-Up, she did what every waitress does, seeing as though no one drinks Seven-Up anymore, and asked "IS SPRITE OK?" Dave answered with a definitive "No." I cringed as I could see the confidence drain from her face. From that point on, it got a little awkward. I tried my damnedest to make up for Dave, by being as sweet as I possibly could to the waitress, and vowing to leave a large tip for forgiveness.
It got a little worse as we waited for our food. Every fifteen minutes the place would erupt with hoots and hollers as the wait staff marched out to the dance floor to do their routine. It was quite a sight. I get what they were doing. It was a "fun" place. I think a lot of people dig it, but it was the worst possible place for us. I remember thinking. How in the world are these people able to do this every night and keep a smile on their face? Don't get me wrong, I always very sincerely admire someone working hard at an embarrassing job, I just knew there was no way I could do it. After eating as quickly as I could, and desperately trying to will the wait staff to stop yelling things like "HOT CRAB COMING UP" as they left the kitchen, I couldn't help but wonder how we could have made such a terrible mistake in choosing a restaurant to bring my wife's dad to. The place even had staff selling T-shirts like vendors at baseball games. Weaving around the restaurant yelling out prices and tag lines from the "Joe's" clothing line.
It wasn't until we left the restaurant that I finally figured out how these confident bastards were able to perform such ridiculous tasks on behalf of their employer. I was surprised that I didn't figure it out sooner. After getting to our car, Dave realized he forgot his jacket. Not wanting to make the man go back in there, I offered to run in. As I was waiting for the hostess to bring out the jacket, one of the employees came up to me and in a pretty friendly way, asked if I had eaten. I said, "Yes, I just forgot my jacket." He turned around to straighten a rack of T-shirts they had for sale, and one minute later he turned back and asked, "Hey man, have you eaten?" Confused, I was about to answer when the hostess came back to tell me the jacket would be right up. But as she was telling me this, she was awfully close and intense, as if she wasn't sure how far away I was. And that's when it hit me. Everyone working there was completely drunk. It made perfect sense to me then. The yelling, the dancing, many of the staff wearing sunglasses indoors. It's the only way a person can do that extremely difficult job, and do it well. I wonder if that's what it would take for us to enjoy our meal. A couple of stiff drinks, and some dancing shoes.
To eat at Joe's you have to be of a certain character. One who loves a good time, and the Bee Gees. Upon walking in "Staying Alive" was being blasted and we were greeted with, WELCOME TO JOE'S! from the hostess. I asked for a booth, hoping it would be quieter, and after she brought us to a seat way in the back, Dave sat down and yelled across our table, "I HATE THIS PLACE ALREADY."
"DO YOU WANT TO LEAVE", we screamed back at him.
"NO. LET'S JUST EAT".
At this point I knew it was going to be a very difficult dinner. The waitress greeted us with "ARE YOU GUYS READY TO PARTY?"
Dave was not. I immediately felt bad for the poor woman, especially when she started telling us a little bit about the place. "WELL, AS YOU CAN TELL, WE LIKE TO HAVE A GOOD TIME HERE AT JOE'S, AND WHEN YOU SEE THE STAFF GET ON THE FLOOR TO DANCE, FEEL FREE TO JOIN IN."
For some reason she kept talking to Dave, as if she misread his obvious frown and pissy attitude as someone that liked to dance in public. She asked us what we wanted to drink, and when Dave asked for a Seven-Up, she did what every waitress does, seeing as though no one drinks Seven-Up anymore, and asked "IS SPRITE OK?" Dave answered with a definitive "No." I cringed as I could see the confidence drain from her face. From that point on, it got a little awkward. I tried my damnedest to make up for Dave, by being as sweet as I possibly could to the waitress, and vowing to leave a large tip for forgiveness.
It got a little worse as we waited for our food. Every fifteen minutes the place would erupt with hoots and hollers as the wait staff marched out to the dance floor to do their routine. It was quite a sight. I get what they were doing. It was a "fun" place. I think a lot of people dig it, but it was the worst possible place for us. I remember thinking. How in the world are these people able to do this every night and keep a smile on their face? Don't get me wrong, I always very sincerely admire someone working hard at an embarrassing job, I just knew there was no way I could do it. After eating as quickly as I could, and desperately trying to will the wait staff to stop yelling things like "HOT CRAB COMING UP" as they left the kitchen, I couldn't help but wonder how we could have made such a terrible mistake in choosing a restaurant to bring my wife's dad to. The place even had staff selling T-shirts like vendors at baseball games. Weaving around the restaurant yelling out prices and tag lines from the "Joe's" clothing line.
It wasn't until we left the restaurant that I finally figured out how these confident bastards were able to perform such ridiculous tasks on behalf of their employer. I was surprised that I didn't figure it out sooner. After getting to our car, Dave realized he forgot his jacket. Not wanting to make the man go back in there, I offered to run in. As I was waiting for the hostess to bring out the jacket, one of the employees came up to me and in a pretty friendly way, asked if I had eaten. I said, "Yes, I just forgot my jacket." He turned around to straighten a rack of T-shirts they had for sale, and one minute later he turned back and asked, "Hey man, have you eaten?" Confused, I was about to answer when the hostess came back to tell me the jacket would be right up. But as she was telling me this, she was awfully close and intense, as if she wasn't sure how far away I was. And that's when it hit me. Everyone working there was completely drunk. It made perfect sense to me then. The yelling, the dancing, many of the staff wearing sunglasses indoors. It's the only way a person can do that extremely difficult job, and do it well. I wonder if that's what it would take for us to enjoy our meal. A couple of stiff drinks, and some dancing shoes.
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