Poetry Slam

Here's a little flavor of what I've been into lately:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znIXyFh6dsI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gF5Rnwx5X4I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tE-4k55Odug&feature=related

The first video is a little long (Anis Mojgani performs three different poems), but if you make it to Shake the Dust (#3), it will be well worth your while (and the first 2 are pretty kick-ass).

In the last one the guy does kind of a rambling intro before he gets into it, so you can skip the first 2:30 or so.

Just when I thought poetry was dead. Who knew?...

Thanks for reading.

Clinton Refocuses Attack Ads on America

In an unprecedented and arguably risky late-game alteration in campaign strategy, New York Junior Senator and presidential hopeful Hillary Rodham Clinton has indicated that she will shift the focus of her largely negative campaign from her surging and overwhelmingly popular opponent, Barack Obama, to the American people who have failed to lift her to the presidential nomination to which she feels she is entitled.

The tactical shift was announced Late Tuesday by Clinton’s grossly overpaid chief strategist Mark Penn after yet another shellacking by the formidable Obama, who has proven beyond a doubt that American citizens would rather entrust the future of the country to a charming and inspirational newcomer than subject themselves to four (or heaven forbid eight) years of nagging by a heartless dominatrix who “reminds them of their mother-in-law.”

The Clinton camp’s planned advertising blitz will include a series of TV spots juxtaposing images of uneducated, unemployed, snaggle-toothed hillbillies, sweaty, overweight cube monkeys, celebrities gone wild, and death row inmates. The unifying theme will become apparent in the final screen shot, which reveals the new Clinton campaign slogan: America ’08: Hopeless.

“With this new campaign strategy, we’re trying to beat the optimism out of the American people,” Penn explained. “By showing them that they are degenerate, powerless and ultimately hopeless individuals drowning in seas of their own misery, we hope to instill in them a fear akin to that of a meek husband terrified of losing his overbearing wife. These people need to understand that they are embarrassingly pathetic, and without a strong female figure telling them to clean out the garage on Sunday during the biggest game of the season, nothing will ever get accomplished.”

Clinton disgustedly added “these dolts have failed to vote for me time and again despite empty promises, shameless pandering, and misguided attempts at sincerity. I’ve pretended to think the elderly don’t smell funny, I’ve pretended to like poor people, I’ve even cried like a sissy for you, America. I’ve been down in Texas eating nothing but taquitos for two weeks. I’ve got a case of the runs that won’t quit and my asshole is rawer than steak tartare. Well now you’re gonna hear about it. Screw you all! Screw you all! Come on, everybody say it with me. Screw you all! Screw you all!”

The ads are slated to begin early next week, at which point America will reportedly need a stiff drink.

Thanks for reading.

P.S. The Oscars were on Sunday night and I, for one, watched them from beginning to end. Then again I’m a nerd and get a kick out of that sort of thing.

Overall, the entertainment value was a little lacking (maybe a symptom of the recently settled writers’ strike), and noticeably absent were any pre-produced sketches, spoofs, etc. This was either a blessing or a curse, as these attempts at comedy can either border on brilliance or bomb in spectacular fashion. It’s odd that even without these, the ceremony was inexplicably long.

Highlight of the evening: Anything involving Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova (winners for best song with “Falling Slowly” from Once). These two were genuinely excited to be there, their performance of the song was transcendent, and John Stewart inviting Ms. Irglova back onto the stage to finish her acceptance speech was one of the night’s few endearing moments. Speaking of John Stewart, I’ll forever be a fan and he was once again a solid host (though at times his cynical wit must have been borderline offensive to industry insiders).

The other bright spots were the Coen brothers’ acceptance speeches (particularly the second). The brevity of their thank-yous highlighted their general disdain for the Hollywood machine, which is the very reason I’m a huge fan of the Coens.

Letdowns of the evening: Seriously, enough with the montages. Every single award came with a montage of past winners. And the PricewaterhouseCoopers “how we vote” segment…who honestly gives a shit?

The parade of montages, however, didn’t hold a candle to my aggravation during the pre-ceremony red carpet coverage (serves me right for watching that garbage). I could point out a number of minor irritants in this self-congratulatory vanity-fest, but I’ll focus on just one: Juno was an endearing little film created by a very unique, very talented, very entertaining group of individuals. Think of the interview possibilities: the eccentric Diablo Cody, the irreverent Ellen Page, the awkward Michael Cera, the sarcastic Jason Bateman, the up-and-coming director Jason Reitman. I would love to see any one of these people field a few softball questions from Ryan Seacrest. So why did I see 3 or 4 interviews with Jennifer Garner, hands down the most uninteresting person involved with the film (and arguably one of the most boring people in all of Hollywood)? Gross.

On a loosely affiliated side note, I rented Gone Baby Gone the other night and, though it pains me to say it (it was directed by one of my Hollywood nemeses and uber-acting hack Ben Affleck), I give this film the stamp of approval. Casey Affleck is a hell of an actor with a bright future, an incomprehensible fact when coupled with the magnificent suckitude of his big dumb brother. Who knows, maybe Ben has found his niche on the other side of the camera and will prove to be one of the industry’s great directors, meaning I’ll need to rethink my entire worldview.

Sigh…

A Week of News (Abridged):

Finding myself unable to settle on just one topic for the weekly entry, I’ve elected instead to offer up a smattering of news. While this week has presented an active cycle, I’m uncertain as to whether this idea demonstrates due diligence or a lack of decisiveness. Oh well.

The two stories dominating the spotlight are the primaries and their respective dramas (a recurring theme which I’ll get to) and the looming recession. downturn. slowdown. Opportunity for innovation.

I can’t say that I’m particularly worried about the economy. I have few (did I say few? I meant zero) investments that will be affected by the instability and my job is unlikely to be threatened. It looks like I won’t be riding the rails to greener pastures (a la The Great Depression) anytime soon (mixed emotions).

For those in different circumstances who find themselves feeling the pain: my condolences. I’ll offer two silver linings. One, President Bush and the House have agreed (Whaaat!?!) to a $150 billion fiscal stimulus package. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/25/washington/25fiscal.html?th&emc=th.


The plan, apparently, is to put anywhere from $300 to $1200 back in taxpayers pockets. Most readers of this blog are looking to get $600 apiece. While this is a very nice little gesture, I have sincere doubts about its expected goal. $600 is a great shopping spree, but if the government sends me a check my first instinct won’t be to cash it and head to the nearest mall. In the real world of bills, mortgages (rent in my case), insurance, etc., $600 simply doesn’t go all that far. I wouldn’t have much left over after a month of school loan payments. If the money doesn’t significantly increase each consumers overall spending (which it won’t in my case), thereby going directly back into the economy, what’s the point? I may be alone on this, and I’ll grant that my knowledge of economics is limited, but it seems that the government (and presumably the greatest economic minds) could come up with something better.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll get all $600 in quarters, rent a hot air balloon, take it to an elevation of 1,000 feet and subject the world below me to a $600 reign (note the pun) of monetary terror.

The other bright side of the economic stormcloud is a matter of relativity. At least you’re in better shape than Jerome Kerviel. This 31-year-old midlevel employee of Societe Generale (one of France’s largest banks) managed to lose $7 billion making bad bets on stocks. Ouch. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/25/business/worldbusiness/25bank.html?th&emc=th

Moving on.

I’ve discovered yet another reason to head to your respective district’s Democratic Caucuses and voice your support for Barack Obama: he advocates class-based affirmative action: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/05/14/AR2007051401233.html or http://www.slate.com/id/2165717/&#obamaaffaction

Looks like Obama’s taking a page out of the old Zizzle-Zot playbook (he’s wise beyond his years) and growing ever closer to getting the official Zot endorsement (which would win him exactly one vote in the upcoming Minnesota Caucuses).

Speaking of the Caucuses, here are the details: They’ll be held on Tuesday, February 5. Registration starts at 6:30, the main event starts at 7. Find your location here: http://caucusfinder.sos.state.mn.us/. I realize I’ve admonished the caucus system in the past (http://erikgruber.blogspot.com/2008/01/season-is-upon-us.html), but unlike the Iowa Caucuses, ours actually holds weight in the party nominations. Needless to say, we should all go; no excuses. More than a civic duty, it’s a tremendous opportunity to have a voice in the democratic process.

Late Night, don’t think I forgot about you. California has a primary, which is also on February 5. Find your voting location here: http://www.sos.ca.gov/elections/elections_ppl.htm

While we’re on politics, let’s talk about the filth being slung in the Democratic race. With all the posturing, blatant lies and below the belt call-outs, these people are making professional wrestlers look downright genteel. Check out some of the down and dirty here: http://www.factcheck.org/elections-2008/clinton-obama_slugfest.html.

My synopsis is that Edwards looks like the mature adult trying to focus on serious issues while the others bicker (which is exactly how he is positioning himself). Obama, as long as he can keep his cool (which he came dangerously close to losing in the South Carolina debate) will come out looking like the intelligent, composed and thoughtful individual that I hope he truly is. The Republicans, by comparison, look awfully civil.

Really, the only loser here is Hillary. Has this fracas given us a taste of her true character? Has the warm, personable Hillary of New Hampshire given way to the conniving, malicious and spiteful women we’ve feared from the onset? Is this what a President Hillary Clinton will look like? The prospect is even more frightening as she starts to look more and more like the front runner.

The one consolation is that I’ve been greatly amused by Bill Clinton consistently coming to the rescue of Hillary “ready on day one” Clinton: http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=080123235622.htsftt80&show_article=1. It’s terribly kind of him, but since when is the definition of “ready on day one” equivalent to “I let my hubbie fight my battles?”

To drive the point home, read this: http://www.slate.com/id/2182065.

Or if you just want more reasons to dislike the Clintons, check it out: http://www.slate.com/id/2182938/

Who caught the State of the Union address on Monday night? I found myself agreeing with much of what Bush said, which really only means he was vague enough to avoid offense. He was his usual charming, down-home self, and got me laughing with his discourse on tax relief: “Some people say they would want to pay higher taxes. I welcome their enthusiasm. The IRS takes checks or money orders.” This had the Republicans roaring and the Democrats squirming. There is an element of truth to the statement though. If we want to pay higher taxes to support social services, there’s nothing stopping us.

Really, most of Bush’s address was inconsequential. He’s become an impotent figure head. Bipartisan legislation with the democratically controlled Congress is virtually impossible due to the animosity. With only a year left, I imagine most of his peers have already written him off, and he’s officially irrelevant. The only thing I took from the speech was that most politicians shouldn’t be seen in HD.

In sporting news, I’m guessing many of us watched the New York Giants back there way into the Super Bowl by blowing two go-ahead field goals in the fourth quarter, losing the coin toss in overtime, and relying on Favre to throw a boneheaded interception (vintage 2006-2007 Favre) to give them the ball back. I was looking forward to a Packers-Patriots match-up. I’m by no means a cheesehead, but I had grown fond of the Pack over the course of the season and I have a level of respect for the aging Favre. Plus, the Patriots already beat the Giants. They never played the Packers during the regular season, and Green Bay was clearly amongst the top 5 teams in the league (a list which doesn’t include the Giants).

But the real reason I rooted for Green Bay is that I harbor a completely irrational hatred for Eli Manning. Is it his propensity to crumble at unpredictable and inopportune intervals? His sniveling, buck-passing demeanor after bad losses? Maybe his “I play the most high profile position for a team with a huge market, but I can’t handle the spotlight” whining?

Say what you will about his playoff performance, sooner or later the real Eli Manning will show up. The Eli Manning that throws four interceptions (three returned for TD’s) against a questionable Vikings secondary that most QB’s have their way with. The Eli Manning that yells at his teammates and pouts on the sideline. The Eli Manning that sucks at football and life. He is the embodiment of mediocrity. Born in any other era, to any other family and he would be spending his days working in a lumber yard. But he was born a Manning, and rode a wave of entitlement to the Super Bowl.

In the world of entertainment, Heath Ledger’s sudden death brought with it an onslaught of speculation: what went wrong? What could have been? Who is safe from the icy grip of mortality?

It’s a tragedy because he has a young daughter, and I’ll admit that I was caught off guard. He had the persona of a celebrity with a good head on his shoulders (they are few and far between), though it has since become apparent that he was a deeply troubled young man.

I won’t say I’ll miss him. I didn’t even know him. But to paraphrase film critic Dana Stevens: the movies will miss him dearly. He was a promising talent that had yet to explore his potential, and the few roles in which I saw him (most notably in the Todd Haynes directed Bob Dylan biopic I’m Not There) demonstrated a tremendous gift to embody a character.

As I’ve watched and read the various commentaries on Ledger’s life and the tributes to his excellent (if abbreviated) body of work, I’ve started to think about the oddity of American priorities. I’m not one to trample on a young man’s not-yet-covered grave, nor do I like to sound preachy or sanctimonious (I hate to be “that guy”), but why do we have such a penchant for dwelling on the deaths of our celebrities (however untimely, tragic or avoidable)?

Over the past week, hundreds of men, women and children have died in Kenya’s tribal conflicts. Many more in the Middle East, Congo, Darfur, etc. Are these people less important than Mr. Ledger? Less worthy? Do we truly know our celebrities any more than these people suffering overseas? More need not be written on the idol-worshipping tendencies of Americans or the media (it’s a point that has been trampled into the ground).

It’s just interesting is all.

Thanks for reading.

The Layoffs (Insert Ominous Music)

It’s been all over the news: Boston Scientific to lay off 13% of workforce. We saw it coming. Anyone who’s been paying attention knows the company has been struggling. Today they will announce the first round of firings (or “head-count reductions” in corporatese). The tension is palpable, the anticipation unbearable. The unknown has left employees variably unmotivated, frantic, melancholy and downright short-tempered.

I was in a meeting yesterday and noticed on the white board that someone had drawn a flow chart of emotions one might feel after being laid off. It started with denial, then moved to drugs/drinking, anger, suicide, avoidance, and finally on to new opportunities.

I found myself ruminating on the original intent of the drawing. Was it a jesting employee (uncertain of his/her own future) attempting to lighten the mood? Was it drawn for a meeting of HR personnel; a serious tool to help deal with potentially desperate victims of corporate cruelty? In the upper left corner of the drawing someone had written SAVE. The artist must have put time and thought into this creation, and didn’t want it nonchalantly wiped into oblivion.

I wonder where I would land on the chart. Probably a combination of drugs/drinking and avoidance. How come indifference isn’t one of the choices? It’s no secret that I don’t like my job. That I fear being driven slowly insane by mundane repetition and carpeted walls. That I look at people who have spent 30 years in a cubicle and feel both pity and contempt.

Truthfully, I feel guilty for my response to the ordeal. While I’ve adopted a flippant, dismissive attitude, those around me scurry, panicking that they won’t be able to pay their mortgage or feed their kids. I’m young. I can bounce from job to job, learn new tricks. And we all know that technical writing for a medical device company is a major deviation from my life goals.

But these people have obligations, responsibilities. They have made their time here more than a job, more even than a career. This place, for many, is life. Boston Scientific is at the center of plans, hopes, aspirations. It’s their social circle, their family, their church. And now Boston Scientific will callously toss them aside as they are forced to face the cold reality: Boston Scientific is a business. It doesn’t even know their names. Nor does it care to. The whole thing honestly makes me sad.

As I walked to my cube this morning the air was noticeably still. The calm before the storm. None of cheerful chirping from the ladies in marketing. No aisle meetings of middle-aged engineers talking about last night’s football game.

No one is safe. Managers are as uncertain about their jobs as those that report to them. No one knows how they will be informed that their time at Boston Scientific has come to an end. Will it be a phone call? A menacing summons to a clandestine conference room? A pink slip sent through inner-office mail? Maybe it would be best to ignore the phone, to set up the out-of-office assistant on Outlook, to spend as much time as possible away from the cube (they can’t fire what they can’t find).

Or maybe I’ll make a preemptive strike. I’ll storm into my manager’s office, clear the pictures and potted plants from her desk with one merciless swipe of my forearm, and proudly pronounce: “You can’t fire me. I quit!”

But really, I imagine that getting fired would be just the kick in the backside that I need.

I’ll keep you posted on how it all goes down.

Thanks for reading.

The First Thanksgiving: A Trial Run

Happy Friday, Zizzle-Zotians! So here’s the deal: I’ve been given an opportunity to write a Thanksgiving article for a nationally distributed newsletter, and I’d love it if you all would help. I hate to ask you to be test subjects…Actually I don’t hate to ask. You’re all smart dudes (and ladies?) and I appreciate your ideas and feedback. This is just a first draft. Some initial ideas and ramblings, consider it a sketch of what I’m getting at. If you don’t mind, tell me your thoughts. Where are the weak points? Where are the strong points? Could I organize the history differently to help the flow? Am I missing things? Does the end come too close to politicizing? Lay it on me, Zizzle-Zotians:

Thanksgiving means different things to different people. For some, it’s a rare opportunity to gather with family and friends, comforted by the presence of those we love. For others, it’s a time to take stock, to look at life and be thankful for the gifts we’ve been given. For the rest, it’s an excuse to fill up on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie before dozing off to football games and holiday parades.

Every child that grew up attending an American school has heard the story of the first Thanksgiving. The pilgrims, fleeing religious persecution, arrived at Plymouth Rock in December of 1620. They were ill-prepared for the harsh winter and of the 110 original settlers, only 50 survived.

In March of 1621 the fates of the pilgrims shifted when they met Squanto, a Native American who had learned English from earlier explorers. Squanto taught the settlers how to plant Indian corn and how to tap the maple trees for sap. He showed them which plants were poisonous and which had medicinal uses. He taught them how to fish for eel.

In the fall of 1621 the autumn harvest arrived, and thanks to Squanto’s help the Plymouth Colonists found themselves with a bounty of food. William Bradford, the governor of Plymouth, declared a day of celebration and thanksgiving, inviting Squanto and the local Native American tribe, known as the Wampanoag, to join in three days of feasting and fellowship. The settlers hunted for wild fowl. The natives contributed venison. It was a celebration of abundance, gratefulness, and unity.

Take a moment to think about that first Thanksgiving. Consider the event not in terms of our modern cultural context. Look beyond pie and football, and imagine what the first Thanksgiving meant to the Plymouth Colonists; what it meant to Squanto and the Wampanoag people.

The pilgrims had survived the winter against all odds. They arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They had no shelter, no food, and little to hope for. Yet they survived thanks to the overwhelming generosity of Squanto and the Wampanoag tribe. The Native Americans had been living on the land for generations and had no reason to tolerate the pilgrims. Yet they welcomed these settlers and taught them how to live.

Imagine the first Thanksgiving. The pilgrims overjoyed because they finally had food, and an abundance at that. The Wampanoag people joining them in celebration, arriving with gifts of venison in a show of solidarity.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of Thanksgiving is how uniquely American it is in spirit. It commemorates the resiliency of the early settlers, their survival against all odds. It’s a reminder to be grateful for life and the land that sustains it. Foremost, Thanksgiving is a celebration of unity. It honors an occasion of togetherness, of two very different groups of people uniting in thankfulness, forever solidifying America’s status as a nation of immigrants and those that welcome them with open arms.

This is our American heritage.

Thanks for reading

Thoughts of a First Time Marathoner

Two years ago I would’ve told you that the desire to run a marathon exemplifies the deepest level of psychosis. Months and months of brutal training leading up to a day of severe, self-inflicted physical and mental pain and torture, with the only goal being to finish. To do no irreparable damage, to never submit, to resist the urge to curl up into the fetal position, lying in a pool of one’s own vomit, to not pass out and die before the finish line at 26.2 miles.

You must be out of your mind.

It started innocently enough. I was living in California, the land of superficiality, and I wanted to drop some lbs, tone the physique. So I started jogging, mostly as a way to warm up for weight training (a real “man’s” workout). It was just a mile. One mile. Then it turned into two. Two miles, it’s okay, I’m still not a runner. Three miles? Four? Five?

And finally I realized: “Damn it…Maybe I am a runner.”

I’m the type of person that seeks out challenges. In my eyes, if I’m not proving my inner strength, my worth, my will to myself, then I’m not making myself better. I want to stretch, to grow, to be focused and motivated as I push myself to the limit mentally, physically, spiritually.

This is exactly the psychosis that makes one say “I’m going to run a marathon.”

So there I was, 7:30 on an unusually warm October morning, eagerly waiting with 10,000 other foolish souls for the trial of a lifetime to commence. The raw energy was palpable as we collectively envisioned ourselves crossing the finish line. For some, this vision would unfold as one of life’s great achievements. For many, it would never come to fruition.

At 8 AM, the temperature was already 74° and the relative humidity was 87%, making this year’s the warmest Twin Cities Marathon on record. The sweat was dripping from my forehead before the race even started, and with the air nearly saturated there was no place for it to go.

But as I finally reached the starting line (it took about 10 minutes) I couldn’t contain my smile as I basked in the encouragement of spectators. I was really doing it. My first marathon. This momentum carried me through the first 13.1 miles. On to 14, 15, 16, 17…And then it hit me. The oppressive heat, the dehydration, the realization that I was exhausted and I still had a long way to go.

Around mile 18 I began seeing stars. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to pass out where I was or find a secluded spot in the woods to throw up the PowerAde and cliff bar I had consumed. The only thing keeping me conscious were the kind folks lined up on Summit Avenue, generously spraying water from hoses at the desperate runners passing by.

Mile 20 the cramping set in; a combination of severe dehydration and the fact that the human body was not built to endure this degree of strain. It would start in my calves, my pleading muscles seizing with each step. Then it would spread to my thighs, making each step a triumph of will over pain. Finally my legs would refuse to lift, and I would have to slow to a walk to avoid collapsing.

I have experienced pain, and I consider myself to have a high threshold for it (when I was 11 I broke my wrist and didn’t tell anyone for a day because I was afraid it would ruin my basketball season). But this was a pain like I had never felt. Never letting up, never numbing, growing progressively worse and exacerbated by the cruel knowledge that the end was a long way off. I had never experienced a physical meltdown like I did on those last 6.2 miles. My body had never refused to cooperate so stubbornly that each step required the greatest of mental effort.

Miles 21 through 26 are blurred by this throbbing pain, determination and an intense focus on one step at a time. Physically, every part of me wanted to give up. I had passed many collapsed runners. There was no shame. But mentally this would go against everything I stood for, and I had no doubts that in the end my mind would win out.

The final dash (more of a cringe inducing hobble) to the finish line was less than I had envisioned. I was expecting to be basking in the glory of my achievement, waving to the legions of fans. Instead I was looking at my feet, focusing on lifting them just high enough to avoid tripping over any cracks (if I had gone down I wouldn’t have gotten up). And then I was done. I had crossed.

My first marathon.

If there were any lessons learned, I haven’t found them yet. Maybe I’m not far enough removed. I’m still feeling the pain, I can still taste the misery. Will I ever run another one? Ask me in a month. Right now, I’d say you’re crazy.

Thanks for reading.

The Jack Daniel’s Distillery

The Jack Daniel’s Distillery is located in tiny Lynchburg, Tennessee (population 361), about an hour southeast of Nashville. Licensed in 1866, it is the oldest registered distillery in the United States and has been certified as a National Historic Site.

Of course I didn’t know any of this as we approached the birthplace of Old No. 7. I just found it odd that the majesty of a distillery left me in awe as we pulled into the parking lot. Quaint brick and wood buildings, bronze statues commemorating Mr. Jack, and cobblestone bridges dot the rolling hills, intersected by a spring fed stream – the secret ingredient in Jack Daniel’s Whiskey (but let’s keep that between us. Wink.).

I laughed to myself when our old prospector tour guide revealed that they have never bothered to find the origin of this spring, instead buying up all the land in the area to avoid pollution. I suspect that the fact that this particular fresh spring water is a necessity to making Old Tennessee Whiskey is the only thing keeping the distillery in Lynchburg County, which has been dry since the prohibition. Even now I am saddened when I think about the lost revenue from all those tourists craving a taste of Jack after the tour.

The visitor center held an exhibit offering the complete history of Jack (Jasper Newton Daniel) and the whiskey. He was born in Lynchburg in 1850, one of 13 children in a poor rural family. At the age of seven he was hired to work for Dan Call, a Lutheran Minister who moonlighted as a whiskey maker. Over the next several years Jack learned everything there was to know about the trade, and at the age of 13 bought Call’s still when increasing pressure from his parishioners persuaded Call to focus on his ministry and abandon his moonshine.

Jack went on to perfect the charcoal mellowing process which to this day gives Jack Daniel’s Whiskey its smooth texture and unique taste. The popularity of his whiskey soared as his abilities were refined, and in 1904 his Old No. 7 Tennessee sipping whiskey was honored as the best on earth at the World’s Fair in St. Louis, Missouri. Jack became a distinguished gentleman, popular with the ladies, throwing lavish parties, wearing the finest clothes. His distillery became a landmark, and his whiskey became a household name.

My traveling companions and I arrived at the distillery just in time to make it on the 7th tour of the day, which is free in honor of Old No. 7. Our tour guide, Old Bill, was a bull of a man that you would expect to see rocking on the front porch with a bottle of booze in his hand and a shotgun on his lap. His shape reminded me of Mr. Potato Head. His grizzled beard, hardened face, worn knuckles, faded overalls, and undecipherable dialect were all distinctly southern. As he cracked during the tour, “I bet you all thought they learned me to talk this way.” They hadn’t. Old Bill was the real deal, born, raised and destined to die in the dirty south.

By the end of the tour we could have been expert whiskey makers. We saw the ingredients (corn, barley and rye) mixed together to form sour mash – so called because the process, which uses a small portion of the previous batch to make the next, is similar to making sourdough bread. We were overwhelmed with the beautifully nauseating scent of pure grain alcohol as it was extracted from the mash. We watched as it leisurely trickled though ten feet of hard-packed sugar maple charcoal in the mellowing process – once in the case of Old No. 7, twice for Gentlemen Jack. We walked through the warehouses storing the whiskey while it ages in barrels made of charred American White Oak, allowing the liquor to breathe as the pores of the wood expand and contract with the temperature. This process gives Jack its smoky flavor and amber tint.

Old Bill, always the entertainer, had a punch-line prepared as we left each room. Whether they be self-depreciating cracks about his beard or sly references to drinking on the job (said with a grin and a wink), they served as bookmarks, signifying the end of one experience and the beginning of another. I wonder if he lived life outside of the distillery the same way, leaping from one place to another with an exclamatory statement and a twitch of the nose. I wonder if I could. Sure, I wouldn’t be able to live any one moment to its fullest, but I would definitely be remembered. In the end isn’t that all we can ask for?

In 1905 Jack Daniel went to the office early one morning and attempted to open his safe. Not able to remember the combination, he kicked the hard steel in a fit of frustration and anger. He broke his toe, and before long infection set in. Bit by bit his leg was amputated till he finally died of blood poisoning in 1911. It’s poetic, really. One of the founding fathers of passionate drunken rage dying from a fit of passionate (drunken?) rage.

After the tour we were all ready to put our newfound whiskey aficionado status to the test, sipping whiskey on the rocks, letting the thick liquid wash over our tongues as we mused on the subtle differences between Old No. 7 and the prestigious Single Barrel. Too bad we were still in dry Lynchburg County. We settled for lukewarm pizza from the Bar-B-Que Caboose to hold us over till we could escape that buzz-killing speck on the map.

Thanks for reading.

Cattails

I was born an avid outdoorsman. I loved the tall, statuesque trees, the smell of pollinating wildflowers, the buzz of cicadas in the distance. All of this represented the mysterious unknown, the unencumbered wild, the adventures and trials and dangers that must be encountered to become a man.

My dad also loved the outdoors. He had already become a man, but appreciated the wisdom those tall old trees held, welcomed the simplistic splendor of a bumble bee on a marigold, and recognized in my eyes the mystery and dangers that wilderness offered growing boys.

Growing up, I lived less than a mile away from a small wilderness area known as Brookdale Park. This park provides the usual amenities that recreational facilities do; baseball diamonds, playground, warming house, skating rink, basketball hoops. Of more interest to me, however, was the bike trail that circled around a small pond. This pond fascinated me. Small creek running in, small creek running out, lilly pads, turtles, ducks, deer, frogs, snakes, fish, an occasional blue heron, crayfish, leeches, eagles, all contained by a silent sentinel, an unwavering, constant reminder that this pond did not belong to cyclists and walkers, but belonged to the forest, and there was no entry for those who passed by: the cattails.

There are two types of cattail commonly found in North America. Typha latifoia, or broad-leaved cattail, was first discovered in North America in 1836, and is a native plant. Typha angustifolia, or narrow-leaved cattail, was originally split into two sub-groups – a native species labeled Typha gracilis and a European species named Typha angustifolia. In the 1850’s the two were merged into one group, adopting the name Typha angustifolia, and botanists have since denied the possibility of a native species and a foreign species coexisting. They believe it was actually one species all along, but had been misidentified. Whether narrow-leaved cattail is a foreign or native species is still under much dispute.

As my dad and I would roll our bikes through this modest preserve we would make frequent pit stops, abandoning our transportation on the paved path in search of solitude and maybe a little adventure closer to the water. It is strange how pavement blinds us to the natural world. How often do we drive through a small, surviving patch of wilderness, sheer speed making it virtually invisible? I blame it on the pavement, the roads. Roads pass through in straight lines, they move from the starting point to the destination as quickly as possible. They make no tangents, they do not lollygag. Beginning. End.

Life should not be so linear. The earliest American tribes saw time as circular. There was no beginning and end, just a cycle of life. Old things would cease, new things would emerge, but in time the old things would return and the new things would disappear. Travel was intended to be this cyclical. Through nature there is seldom a straight path. We must swerve and climb and leap and duck, and in the end would it be so bad to return to the place that we began? Maybe that’s where we’re supposed to be.

Cattails force departure from the world of pavement to the world of wilderness. To see beyond them one must join them, tromp amongst them, and physically move them to the side. This is exactly what my dad and I set out to do when we strayed from the path. By taking our place amongst those flourishing plants we could see beyond to the pond they contained. We could see the turtles sitting on logs, taking in the midday sun to warm their cold-blooded bodies. We could see an occasional bass rise to the surface to snatch a slow-moving bug. We could see a mother duck with her new hatchlings, swimming perfectly in sync, all in line to avoid getting lost. We could see the Great Blue Heron standing along the shoreline, soaking its feet in the cool water.

I find it interesting that the origin of cattails is the subject of so much controversy. Maybe it is because nobody ever really stops to pay attention to them. They impede our view to the water, where the wilderness is, but are so seldom appreciated for the vital role they play in that very wildness which we find so endearing. They provide food and shelter to many species of fish, insects, and birds. They provide wintertime cover for white-tailed deer and ring-necked pheasants, helping an increased number of these animals survive the cold. They produce oxygen, absorb some of the chemicals that drain into the lake during rainfall, and protect the shoreline from the erosion that waves cause. Yet the cattails are not elegant, they do not bloom like the wildflowers or soar like the herons. They are not cute like the infant ducks. They are not ferocious like the hawks, majestic like the deer, mysterious like the foxes. They are overlooked, ignored, misidentified and undervalued.

For much of my life I held this same mindset. The cattails, for me, were always a nuisance. In my youth I would take great joy in clutching these plants at their roots and tearing them from the earth in a simultaneously impulsive and pre-meditated act. They blocked my view to the water, to the wilderness beyond, and were better put to use as sibling pokers than as members of the natural landscape. My dad would always scold me for such destructive behavior: “Why do you tear down the cattails?” I did not understand why he came to their defense. “Because they’re no good where they are.” I see now what he saw then, and have come to appreciate his wisdom. “Maybe they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be. You think they were put there to block us out, I say they were put there to invite us in. They contain and protect the wilderness we love so much. Think like a cattail.”

It has taken me years to figure out what he was talking about. The cattails truly know how to cherish nature, and it would be beneficial to take a lesson from them. They silently observe, but are still involved. They keep the bad out, and keep the good in. They force us to crawl amongst them, come face to face with wilderness, become a part of the Creation, and only then will they unveil the beauty and majesty that lies beyond. We were put on this earth to observe the Creation and to care for the Creation and to become one with the Creation. In order to truly love nature we must become a part of it. We must stand as one of the cattails.

Thanks for reading.

Roger Federer: The Best Ever?

On Sunday evening long reigning tennis #1 Roger Federer won his fourth consecutive U.S. Open, marking the first time anyone has taken four in a row since the ‘20s, when Bill Tilden accomplished the feat.

After watching Federer play near-perfect tennis once again, annihilating (and humiliating) the competition without breaking a sweat, it would be impossible to deny that Federer is one of the top players of all time. Consider the stats: Federer has not only won the last four U.S. Opens, but has also won five consecutive Wimbledons and two consecutive Australian Opens. He has 12 Grand Slam events in total, has been ranked #1 in the world for 189 weeks (well over three years), and he just recently turned 26 years old. Scary.

But is he the best ever?

Reader of the Month Werd Yelof was essentially asking this question when he pondered whether Federer is better than Sampras (generally considered the best of all time).

Admittedly, I’m biased. I’ve played and watched a lot of tennis, and I grew up a Sampras guy. His pure power is undeniable. His service game was nearly unstoppable and his leaping overhead slams were a sight to behold.

Lately, however, I’ve taken to Federer’s game. His motions are natural and fluid. His shots are powerful and precise. He plays tennis as it ought to be played, and he makes it look easy. The fact that I’m now a Federer fan helps me to be objective in the Federer vs. Sampras match-up.

Let’s look at the numbers:

Pete Sampras has won 14 Grand Slam events, as I’ve already said, Federer has now won 12, which puts him a year ahead of Sampras’ pace. Sampras had a career winning percentage of 78.5%. Federer now sits at 80.3%. During his prime, Sampras held the #1 ranking for 190 consecutive weeks. Federer will soon bypass that number.

In reality, their stat lines are virtually identical. Besides, stats don’t really do justice to the match-up. They played at different times, against different opponents. Sampras faced competition from tennis greats like Andre Agassi, Marat Safin, Patrick Rafter, and Ivan Lendl. Aside from Nadal, there are no proven players challenging Federer day in and day out.

But looking at the match-up as someone who’s watched both Federer and Sampras play a lot of tennis, my gut tells me that if the two went head to head in their primes Federer would have the edge.

I come to this conclusion based on one factor: Sampras always had a glaring weakness. He couldn’t hit a winning backhand. When he was forced to use his backhand it was completely defensive; a survival tool. He would slice the ball deep into the court, trying to prevent his opponent from exploiting the weakness. If his opponent came to the net, Sampras was never able to pass from the backhand side.

Sampras gets the edge on the serve, but don’t underestimate Federer’s power. And both players possess pinpoint accuracy. Both have dominant forehands and fearsome net games. Both are fierce competitors.

It’s interesting to consider a Sampras championship match versus a Federer championship match. Sampras always had to work harder for his wins. Federer dominates with such ease (or maybe he just makes it look that way).

Both players are true champions, but Sampras’ lackluster backhand always held him back. Federer plays near-perfect tennis, dominates the game (I think he lost only one set in the U.S. Open), and in my opinion is the best ever.

Thanks for reading.

Kanye West’s “Graduation”: Buy it NOW!!!

For those who weren’t aware, Kanye West’s latest album, “Graduation,” hits the shelves today and I plead with you, Zizzle-Zotians, go buy a copy. For the love of God, go buy ten.

Truthfully, I went through a Kanye phase, but feel that West’s work hit a serious slump following his initial “College Dropout” album which contained such gems as “Jesus Walks,” “Through the Wire,” and my personal favorite “Get ‘Em High.” And when I really think about it, he’s at his best compiling beats for Jay-Z and Common, and isn’t much of a rapper or lyricist himself.

This, however, isn’t going to be a CD review. For all I know, West’s disc sucks. The only song I’ve heard off of it is the same one you’ve all heard dominating the radio waves: “Stronger.” If you want my opinion, the beat is obnoxious and the lyrics are nausea-inducingly trite (“N-now th-th-that that don’t kill me/ Can only make me stronger/ I need you to hurry up now/ Cause I can’t wait much longer/ I know I got to be right now/ Cause I can’ get much wronger/ Man I been waitin’ all night now/ That’s how long I’ve been on ya).

Wronger? Are you kidding me? Is that as in “Kanye West is wrong for thinking that’s a word, making him a dumbass. Then again, I could be wronger.”?

But like I said, the point of this article is not to review the music/grammar of Kanye West. I don’t really care how good/bad “Graduation” is. When I pick up my ten copies, I’ll probably listen to one of them once and use the rest to fend off zombies (“Shaun of the Dead” anyone?).

We all need to buy “Graduation” because we must do our small part to get 50 Cent to shut the hell up. We’ve all heard the challenge that’s been issued: if West’s “Graduation” outsells 50’s “Curtis” (which is also being released today), then 50 Cent will never make another album.

Could it be? Somebody pinch me, I must be dreaming.

50 Cent is a parasite. He’s a drain on society. I don’t care that he makes shitty music with hackneyed lyrics. A lot of folks do that. 50 Cent needs to go away because he exemplifies…nay, glorifies everything that is wrong with our culture.

He has turned violence into a status symbol, using the fact that he’s been shot nine times to establish his credibility and manhood. He’s demeaning towards women. He’s lewd, vulgar, and disrespectful. What is it that he’s teaching the teeny-boppers (the primary consumers of his music)? That to be a good man you need to get shot? I would call it a testament to my success as a human being that I haven’t been shot. Not even once.

We need to get 50’s message of irresponsibility, immaturity and greed out of our society ASAP, before he’s brainwashed the next generation of young people to run amok with guns blazing; nonchalantly committing felonies and making crack babies.

Yeah, Kanye West can be an arrogant, pompous jackass, but I’ll take that over the bottom- feeding 50 Cent any day.

Thanks for reading.

The Saddest Man on Earth

I often wonder to myself what it takes to achieve greatness. What sacrifice is necessary to transform oneself from someone ordinary and unmemorable into something truly special, something genuinely unique, a creative force capable of capturing the emotional climate of the masses and communicating those emotions vividly, vibrantly; communicating them so that they take on a lifeblood of their own?

I went to the Damien Rice show at the State Theater two nights ago and I think those questions may have been answered. Ruminating on simple themes with his entrancing, wildly expressive vocals: love gone wrong, the pain of being alone, unrequited attraction, themes at the epicenter of the human condition. Constructing each successive song out of thin air, beginning with a simple melody and building into an operatic monument so grand in scale that the only option was to escape into catharsis.

Damien Rice was an exhibition in sadness and melancholy. His emotional suffering could single handedly employ a team of psychologists for life, and this is the heart of his greatness. He’s able to communicate angst better than any other musician, author or poet alive. He hasn’t necessarily experienced more pain than the average joe, but he accepts it as a gift, dwells upon it till it ruins him, then spits it out in the only way he knows how: honestly, genuinely, from his soul.

This honesty is the most endearing aspect of Damien Rice. If in a song he means to say “fuck you,” then he says “fuck you” (Rootless Tree). As he stood up on stage with only his guitar and piano, repeatedly pleading with the “spotlight man” to dim the glare so he could be lit by only the candles surrounding him, regaling the audience with fascinating tales in his charming Irish accent, he let us into his world, doing everything in his power to give us an intimate evening with a genius.

It would be impossible to pinpoint a highlight of the show. Possibly the stirring, piano driven rendition of Accidental Babies. Or maybe the encore, when he pulled an audience member on stage and shared a bottle of wine with her (it was gone in about five minutes) as he told a story of a disappointing encounter with a beautiful woman and proceeded to sing to his guest from his knees. Or was it the final song of the night, as a male attendee joined him to sing “Purple Rain?” (Purple Rain in Minneapolis. That’s ballzy.)

I imagine each individual in attendance would have a different favorite moment, and that’s what made the performance so unforgettable.

Thanks for reading.

How Far We’ve Come

It’s interesting living in a metropolitan area of a progressive state, especially with the 2008 presidential elections presenting the possibility of either a female or African American nominee. Since the outset of the initial fundraising efforts I’ve taken for granted that US citizens would be ready to vote for Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. Putting political parties aside, I’ve assumed that we’ve moved forward as a society to a point where we would look past gender or race to fairly assess the qualifications and leadership abilities of a candidate (again, not necessarily endorsing either one).

But I’d like to take you all to a place called Jena, Louisiana. This town of 3,000, located in the middle of the state, has a long and violent history of racial tension and segregation which has only risen in intensity over the last year following a string of racially motivated crimes.

It all started with a tree.

At Jena High School black and white students don’t associate with each other. While socializing at school, the white students gather under a big shade tree in the courtyard, the black students by the auditorium.

Or so it was, until last year, when an impetuous African American freshman challenged this status quo just a few days into the first semester by asking the principal at a school-wide assembly if he, too, could sit under the tree, and was told that he had the right to sit anywhere he wished.

Members of Jena High’s rodeo team didn’t see it that way, and the next morning three nooses hung from the tree. Many wanted the perpetrators arrested, expelled. Technically this was a terroristic threat and would qualify as a hate crime. Officials decided it was a prank and the “jokesters” received in-school suspension.

A group of African American athletes organized a silent protest, defiantly gathering under the tree until a school assembly was called. The police and the district attorney were brought in. DA Reed Walters warned students that he “could be their friend or worst enemy.” “With one stroke of my pen,” he reportedly said “I can make your life disappear.”

African American students felt he was speaking directly to them (a point of debate amongst those in attendance). White students felt triumphant, black students resentful.

On November 30 somebody started Jena High on fire. Everyone was pointing fingers. Fights began to erupt throughout the city. 16-year-old African American Robert Bailey was jumped at a mostly white party. The next day, at a local convenience store, Bailey exchanged heated words with a white classmate who had been at the party. The white student went to his truck and pulled out a shotgun. Bailey and his friends wrestled the weapon away from him and brought it home. They were charged with theft of a firearm, second-degree robbery and disturbing the peace. The white student wasn’t charged (inarguably absurd).

The following Monday, white student Justin Barker was spreading the word at school that Bailey had been “whipped by a white man.” When he walked outside, into the courtyard, he was jumped and beaten by a group of black students.

Barker’s injuries were minor. He was examined by doctors and released, going on to attend a social function that very night.

But six African American students were arrested and charged with attempted second-degree murder. The first to go to trial was Mychal Bell. He’s facing 22 years in prison. The rest are awaiting trial.

I don’t condone violence or retaliation. The six African American Jena High students were absolutely wrong to beat Justin Barker and they need to be held accountable for their actions (I think the attempted second-degree murder charge is pretty extreme, however). But so do the white students who jumped Robert Bailey and the white student who pulled a gun on him. So do the white students who hung the nooses, painfully reminding a southern town of its still visible scars; marks left by years of hatred and fear.

Living in the north, it’s easy to forget that places like Jena exist; that there are still towns where deep racial divides permeate the culture and rot any hope for reconciliation or mutual respect before they ever have an opportunity to take root.

Maybe the US isn’t as progressive as I thought (or hoped).

Thanks for reading.

Zizzle-Zot will be in Disney World for the next few days. He’ll be back on Tuesday. Until then…

Michael Vick: The Zot Weighs In

I realize I’ve been pretty quiet concerning the Michael Vick fiasco. I’ve got a bit of a soft-spot for animals, dogs in particular, and the whole thing disgusts me to no end. I’d be thrilled if I never heard another word about it, particularly the grizzly details, but it’s apparently unavoidable. I suppose Vick’s the biggest animal there is, so maybe I should have more of a soft spot for him. Plus, everyone else in the blogosphere has given their two cents and I’d hate to be a step behind.

Michael Vick, prepare to feel the wrath of the Zot.

What got me fired up is this story from ESPN reporting that Vick is remorseful and has apologized for his actions: http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=2992890.

To Hell with that. I understand this runs contrary to my Christian tenets, but Michael Vick doesn’t now, nor will he ever, deserve our forgiveness. The cruelty with which he treated those dogs (subjecting them to electrocutions, beatings and brutal fights. Killing underperformers by hanging or drowning them) offers conclusive proof that he is a savage completely detached from the sanctity of life. At the most severe, Vick deserves no better treatment than those dogs received. At the very least he should be locked up in a sanitarium, barred from contact with normally functioning human beings. If one has no compassion, no morals, no ethics, then one ceases to be human and becomes a beast. It simply isn’t safe or prudent to have monsters like him interacting with society.

Vick has been suspended indefinitely by NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for violating the league’s gambling policy. At this point are we really worried about the gambling policy? 50 some dogs were confiscated at Vick’s Surry County property. Vick and his cohorts had turned these dogs into blood-thirsty killing machines. One of your league’s biggest stars is slaughtering man’s best friend in the backyard and burying the corpses under the tool shed. I think there are bigger problems here than the gambling policy. You know who else shows a penchant for cruelty to animals? Serial killers. We’re talking about a disturbed and depraved individual.

Vick has assured us that he didn’t personally place any bets or share in the winnings, he merely provided the funding for others to do so. Does he think we’re all morons? He gave other people money to gamble with, but didn’t share in the winnings? Bullshit. And now it’s been two weeks and he sees the error of his ways? All of a sudden he realizes just how horrible dog fighting is and renounces it forever? Once again, bullshit. His estranged father came out of the woodwork and announced he’s been telling Vick for years to give up dog fighting, to no avail. Why should we believe that things are now any different?

My favorite part is how Vick has found Jesus as a result of the charges. Often we hear of excruciatingly difficult and trying conversion experiences. I’m happy to hear it was so easy for Michael Vick.

At least he’s aksing for our forgiveness. Dumbass. But we’d be even dumber if we believe a word this guy says.

Thanks for reading.

P.S. If you check out the Source section of the Star Trib today they’re running a tribute to the Weekly World News, over two weeks after Zizzle-Zot. I’m not even getting paid for this. Boo ya.

The Fascination with Intoxication Part 2

Apologies for yesterday, folks. Can’t really pass up lunch and a Twins game with the boss man. So, to pick up where we left off…

Big thanks to all who commented (and by that I mean P Corcs, Werd, Joey, and welcome back Late Night, it’s about damn time. Too bad Socrates08 has been MIA. He would’ve enjoyed this one). You all have raised some interesting points on both sides of the issue, and it’s good to see that we have a broad range of opinions on the matter.

Werd, you’re absolutely right to say that alcohol isn’t a prerequisite to good conversation. It’s very possible, and in many ways ideal, to form deep connections with people without the aid of alcohol. In reality, I doubt very much you could build long lasting, meaningful connections if you were only vulnerable while drunk (a fact which undoubtedly has been the downfall of many relationships, families, etc.).

P Corcs and Joey, I think, both raised a question that plays a central role in this conversation. What is drunkenness? Does drunkenness mean being over the limit to drive? Does it mean vomiting, blacking out? Where is the line?

It’s tough because the limit isn’t set in stone, and as Late Night pointed out, it’s far from black and white. Drunkenness varies from person to person, day to day. Personally, I would define drunkenness as P Corcs did: belligerent, uncomprehending, blacked out. I’ve been there a couple times, and I promise that this isn’t the intent of alcohol or the fun of alcohol. It’s miserable, and I aim to never cross the line again.

I know this was a concern for Werd. As we drink we approach that line and once we get there we can’t turn back. He has chosen to avoid that line by never approaching it. I respect him for this choice, but I also respect P Corcs, Joey and Late Night for knowing where that line is for themselves and making the conscious effort not to cross it.

So, without crossing the limit of “drunkenness” (I realize this argument is a little arbitrary since we all define drunkenness by different standards), is it a sin to get a buzz from alcohol? Joey, P Corcs, and Late Night don’t think so, and I’m inclined to agree with them (sorry Werd). I appreciate P Corcs visual of the wedding feast. These people were drinking throughout the celebration, enjoying each others’ company and as a result they ran out of wine, which led to Jesus creating more for them. Jesus didn’t say “no, you’ve had enough.” He said “Here, share in my abundance, receive my blessing, and celebrate.”

Joey also brought up an interesting perspective on this topic. It’s accepted that Jesus drank wine, he was present at the wedding feast mentioned and he was completely human. Is it realistic to imagine that he never caught a buzz from alcohol? (I’ve heard the arguments that wine back then was weaker than it is now, but I say that’s hogwash. There’s no way anyone could know that conclusively.)

I won’t lie and say that I don’t do anything stupid/sinful while I’m drinking. But I’m always doing stupid/sinful stuff. Everybody is. For the most part, the stupid acts I commit while drinking are in fun and love.

Now we get to a real dilemma. A problem that is, I imagine, near the core of Werd’s concerns.

Throughout this conversation we have been speaking of ourselves and our closest friends. We have spent years growing together, bonding by living together, participating in Bible studies, going through difficult times. We all come from stable backgrounds, have developed solid foundations in our faith, have college educations and all in all have our lives on the right track. Because of this, we are able to drink occasionally and make good decisions, without it impacting other areas of our lives.

It’s easy to forget that many people are not in the same position and for many people alcohol is a crutch. They use it to escape the reality and responsibility of the world around them and the results are never good.

What is our responsibility concerning such people? It’s another fine line to walk. If we refuse alcohol we’ll inevitably be viewed as Pharisees. But if we drink, to a certain extent it condones excessive drinking in others. Is it hypocritical to say it’s okay for me to drink, since I’ve got my feet on the ground, while saying others can’t handle the responsibility of alcohol?

What are your thoughts?

Thanks for reading.

The Fascination with Intoxication

Following the WeFest posts Werd (aka my voice of reason) raised some thoughtful concerns on the issue of drunkenness. I know that P Corcs and Joey are interested in having a conversation on this topic, and hopefully other readers will join in the debate as it progresses. Zizzle-Zot would like to begin with some initial thoughts which hopefully open up into a forum for discussion.

The consumption of alcohol is an ancient tradition and has been used for millennia as a means of fellowship and celebration. In addition, many poor civilizations throughout history haven’t had access to clean drinking water and would therefore drink wine or ale with meals for health reasons.

From a Biblical stance, the consumption of alcohol isn’t condemned, and several passages portray alcohol in a positive light (Ecclesiastes 9:7, Psalm 104:14-15, Amos 9:14). Jesus himself drank wine (John 2:1-11, Matthew 26:29) and turned water into wine for a wedding celebration.

That said, I would never attempt to make the argument that drunkenness is Biblical. Christians are called to avoid drunkenness and to condemn its effects (Ephesians 5:18, Proverbs 23:29-35). Plus, it would be a huge stretch to say that intoxication is glorifying to God.

It’s no secret that I, on occasion, find myself intoxicated, and Werd would like to know why. I can honestly say that the first two explanations Werd proposes (lack of will power, peer pressure) are not the case. I have no problem having a beer or two and stopping, and if I don’t want to drink I have no problem abstaining from alcohol while I’m around friends who are drinking. I can confidently say that most (not all) of the friends I drink with are in the same position. The next explanation used is taste. I do like the taste of beer and certain liquors, such as whiskey, but I’d be a fool to pretend that I get intoxicated because I like the taste. I like the taste of orange juice, but I rarely drink it in quantities larger than a glass at a time.

To be perfectly blunt, I would argue Werd’s fun argument (“Don’t tell me because it’s fun”). It’s a lot of fun, that’s a fact. But I understand Werd’s trepidation surrounding this reasoning. We are held to a higher standard and to live life based on “fun” is selfish and hedonistic. And the results of intoxication (headaches, exhaustion, etc.) certainly aren’t very much fun.

So why do we do it?

I’ve actually been thinking about the reasoning a lot lately, particularly since I’ve had to cut back drastically because of my marathon training. What, exactly, is the draw? I had an interesting conversation with a girl at WeFest about it, and felt like I was on to something. It was, and still is, an undeveloped theory (and I’m sure the girl thought I was certifiably insane), but now’s a good chance to give it a try.

The essence of humanity is connection. We are creatures designed to be social, to be in fellowship, to know and be known, to be loved and accepted. We long to be vulnerable, to be open, to let someone see who we truly are and not be ashamed.

It’s true that some people drink to escape themselves, so that they can be someone else for a while.

But speaking for myself and the people I surround myself with, I feel free to be truer to who I am when I’m intoxicated. Our daily lives are spent building barriers that prevent connection. We have so many boundaries created by social customs, mutual misunderstandings, intolerance, etc. that it becomes nearly impossible to communicate honestly on a personal level.

Alcohol, by lowering inhibitions, establishes a comfort zone. I can have conversations, deeply personal, intense conversations, that I would never have without a few drinks. I can talk to a complete stranger about important issues like spirituality or premarital sex (both conversations I had at WeFest) with complete openness. These types of connections would be nearly impossible for me to establish in any other setting. I believe most people have the same difficulties.

This is what I was trying to explain to the girl I mentioned at WeFest. How amazing that tens of thousands of young people drove for hours to camp out in a field, be filthy and tired for days, just so that they could feel that connection to each other. Like I said, she thought I was crazy, so it’s very possible that I’m way off base.

Of course I think it’s unfortunate that this is a reality. I wish I could maintain that level of vulnerability and honesty without alcohol. I’m working on it, but so far I still find it difficult. Do I think this is a good excuse, or a justification? Probably not, but for now it’s what I’ve got…

Thoughts?

Thanks for reading.

WeFest: The Tenth Circle of Hell Part 2

I’ll begin with the disclaimer that I’m not really into country music. The fact that most country artists don’t write their own songs costs them a degree of credibility in my eyes. When they sing about love or loss I simply don’t believe them because they are singing in the first person about someone else’s experiences.

That and I really don’t care about their trucks, their dogs, their tractors or their women. I think Toby “we’ll stick a boot up their ass” Keith is ignorant, I’ve heard rumors that Keith Urban is a coke snorting dick, and Alan Jackson seems to have about as much personality as an old boot.

With that said, those mo-fos put on one hell of a show. Each night of concerts was better than the last. Starting on Thursday with Jackson rolling out hit after hit (many of which I was completely unaware he even sang) to Friday with Keith Urban bouncing all over the stage (he plays a mean guitar, too) to Saturday with Toby Keith whipping the swelling crowd into a frenzy and paying tribute to our soldiers (I found it very respectful, but bear in mind I was intoxicated).

I’m in some ways embarrassed to say that Toby Keith was my favorite performer of the weekend. I still think he’s ignorant, but his songs are perfect for a mega concert full of drunkards – cheeky, irreverent and catchy with simple choruses even country newbs can sing along to.

The only disappointment was Carrie Underwood. Her songs are some of the few country tunes I would listen through if they happened to come on the radio. Plus I’ve got a bit of a crush. She looked overwhelmed by the massive audience (sort of a deer in the headlights effect) and ended up playing the whole show way too safe. And she had a side-pony. Enough said.

The real treats of the WeFest concert bowl actually had nothing to do with the concerts at all. One of these was found in an obscure corner of the bowl. A gamblers dream game, which was essentially a combination of roulette and darts. The game consisted of a large checkerboard, a single thrower, and a circle of gambling addicts willing to win or lose on a whim. Participants placed money on the color they thought the dart would hit (red, white, or black (line)). Hit the color, double your money. You can imagine the wild swings. I’m not even sure how the game could’ve been legal.

And then there was the legendary Oof-Da Taco. Heaps of ground beef, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, jalapeños and sour cream all atop what could most accurately be described as a puff pastry. My fellow concert-goers had been hyping the Oof-Da for months, so by the time I got in line for my first experience my expectations were sky-high. I wasn’t disappointed. Messy to eat, brutal the next morning, but definitely worth the trouble.

I felt like I was hung over for a week after WeFest. Severe dehydration, a mild case of sunstroke, and several days in dangerously unsanitary conditions had left my immune system weakened and my body begging me for a little compassion. It truly was a harrowing, horrifying experience.

WeFest, I loathe you…until next year.

Thanks for reading.

WeFest: The Tenth Circle of Hell

So I’m sure you’ve all noticed that it’s been nearly two weeks now since my adventures at WeFest, the super-sized country music festival in Detroit Lakes, MN, and I have yet to even mention it, let alone post an article about it. The truth is, it’s taken me this long to process, assess, decompress, detoxify, and move past the post traumatic stress of arguably the most hellish voluntary experience known to man (outside of war, but I’d say people who volunteer to go to war are a little unhinged to begin with).

Allow me to give you the rundown of a typical WeFest day. Everybody was up by 8 AM at the latest. The sun baking our poorly ventilated tents haphazardly pitched in treeless fields made sure of it. Once up, the typical WeFester had to make a choice: either face a wicked hangover, pop an Advil and attempt to rehydrate, or have a drink, catch a quick buzz and hope that for the rest of the day you won’t even remember you have a head to ache.

Most opt for the latter.

The showers at WeFest were crowded and virtually unusable (imagine the collected grime of thousands of people spending days in the dirt). Most mornings we had someone drive us into town where we would grab breakfast, a round of screwdrivers and a bath in the lake (which was actually awfully refreshing).

We’d finally make it back to camp around noon, at which point it was time to “go walking” (apparently a WeFest tradition of literally just walking around). Assuredly more fun than it sounds, the beauty of “walking” lies in the people. We met some strange characters on our walks, from a beer guzzling WeFest medic cruising around on a four wheeler to a vagrant who looked as if he made a regular home of that desolate field, and WeFest built up around him.

It helped that we had a tricked out Radio Flyer, customized in John Deere green and reinforced to hold 600+ lbs, to cart our cooler around in (a particularly effective mode of transportation when it came to hills).

You can find pretty much anything at WeFest, depending on where you walk. Slip-N-Slides, pools, booze-infused watermelons, yard games galore, dance parties. It truly is a party for the Renaissance man.

The lengths of our walks varied depending on the groups’ energy level, success in finding outrageous people/events, and most importantly, beer supply. We’d typically hobble back to the campsite at around five and someone would drunkenly fire up the grill for dinner (which we would eat dangerously undercooked because no one had the patience to wait it out).

And then it was the night time, which we all know is the right time. The concerts, the crowds, and of course, the Oof-da Tacos.

To be continued...

Thanks for reading.

Barry Bonds: My Fallen Hero

Last week, as we all know, Barry Bonds broke Hank Aaron’s longstanding career home run record when he blasted his 756th longball 435 feet over the right-center field fence.

I realize this isn’t the timeliest response to such a historic event. Aaron’s mark of 755 career homeruns had endured for 33 years. Barry Bonds has already become an infamous public figure, whether for his mind-boggling athletic feats (73 home runs in a single season), his alleged steroid use, or his tempestuous relationship with the media, teammates and fans. In reality, this story was a big deal. And yet it has taken me a week to respond.

To be honest, I still don’t know how I feel about it. The truth is that Barry Bonds was my hero. Back when Barry Bonds was batting .330, hitting 30 home runs, stealing 30 bases, and winning Gold Gloves I looked up to him as everything baseball could be. He was, in my eyes, the prototype of the complete player.

When he was traded to the San Francisco Giants, they quickly became my favorite team. I followed every player, from Matt Williams to Will Clark. From John Burkett to Rod Beck (RIP). I saved my money to buy a San Francisco fitted hat. When it became dirty and faded from overuse, I bought another one. I used my remaining cash to buy Barry Bonds baseball cards (I still have an impressive collection). My best friend even got the San Fran logo shaved into the back of his head.

And when the media went after him, saying he was a pompous ass, that he was a terrible teammate and he was degrading to his fans, I defended him. I truly believed he was misunderstood, that he was just a private person and that he was uncomfortable with all the attention.

I still think he’s misunderstood, but at the time I didn’t understand him either. The truth is, Barry Bonds is a child. Maybe it’s because his father, former major leaguer Bobby Bonds, was virtually absent as young Barry grew up, and as a result he never matured into a man. Maybe it’s because he lived a life of privilege. He was always so naturally gifted that everything he ever wanted was handed to him.

Whatever the reason, Barry Bonds is an insecure, immature child. According to longtime girlfriend Kimberly Bell, this is the reason he started using steroids in the first place. His jealousy of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa as they pursued the single season home run record in ’98 led him to jeopardize his career and his life for a taste of that spotlight. He had won multiple league MVP awards, even more Gold Gloves. He was one of baseball’s highest paid players. Opposing pitchers feared him and he was a future first ballot Hall of Famer. But it wasn’t good enough.

When the allegations of steroid use first surfaced, I defended Bonds as I always had. I maintained that it was a new workout regimen that led to the increased bulk and spike in homerun production. But eventually the delusions wore off, and I now see him for the cheater that he is.

Barry Bonds stole my childhood. I have no idol I can turn to; no role model I grew up with that I can nostalgically remember as a representative of better times. I can never say to my children “let me tell you about a time when baseball players were real American heroes.” For all the records he holds, my favorite baseball player has become a disgrace.

I’m tired of being angry at Barry Bonds. What’s done is done, and my disillusionment has sunk into apathy.

Congratulations, Barry, on your awe-inspiring achievement. But if anybody asks, my favorite player was Darryl Strawberry. At least he was honest about his drug problem.

Thanks for reading.

WWN: A Eulogy

Weekly World News, the delightful harbinger of shockingly delicious, borderline unbelievable tabloid fodder, has finally decided to call it quits, leaving me dismayed, morose and lost in a world now devoid of alien babies, celebrity clones and bat-boys hiding in caves. To whom will I turn for my facts?!?

Arguably the granddaddy of shock pseudo-journalism, WWN has spent the past 28 years delivering such headlines as “Preacher Explodes During Sermon,” “Saddam and Osama’s Gay Wedding,” and “Firefighter Fired for Fighting Fire With Fire.” (Where do they come up with this stuff? If only I were so brilliant…)

Now the WWN, which boasts to be the “World’s Only Reliable Newspaper” will unplug the presses, turn out the lights and lock its doors “due to the challenges in the retail and wholesale magazine marketplace that have impacted the newsstand.”

Really, it’s my own fault. It’s your fault. We all share in the blame. Let’s not lie to ourselves; we weren’t as supportive of the WWN as we could’ve been. Sure, I would peruse the pages in the checkout lines like anybody else, but I never actually bought a copy (at least I would never admit to it). I enjoyed the quirky stories about alien impregnations as much as the next guy, but naturally I questioned their veracity. And now these stories are gone forever, relegated to the tombs of briny ship captains telling tales of monstrous sea serpents and manipulative mothers ominously warning children about the boogieman so they will eat their broccoli. It’s a shame we will have to bear for the rest of our days.

Then again, maybe it’s the WWN’s fault. Maybe if the editors were more attuned to the inclinations of supermarket impulse buyers. Maybe if the fact-checkers were more on point. After all, how could the ghost of Elvis be haunting a herd of cattle in Northern Texas and the still-living Elvis simultaneously be dwelling in a cave in the Himalayas?

Maybe there’s no one to blame. Maybe it was market forces. No room for the little guy in the overcrowded magazine industry. Maybe we’ve become too jaded, too cynical to believe in the fantastic. Maybe we’re too smart for our own good.

Any way you look at it, we’ve lost a prestigious American publication that strove to report the facts, no matter how bizarre. As we gather ourselves in collective mourning, let us remember the better days. The days of “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse Lost – Wandering Near Paris” “Man Searches for His Own Severed Head,” and “Chocoholic Mom Has Sugar-Coated Baby.”

Weekly World News, I salute you.

Thanks for reading.

Goodbye, KG

To this day I remember the 1995 NBA Draft. Minnesota had the 5th pick of the night, and when their turn rolled around there were a number of good players on the board. Dominant Oklahoma State big man Bryant Reeves was there, as was star Arizona point guard Damon Stoudamire. At the time drafting a player straight out of high school was unheard of, so when David Stern took the microphone and announced that McHale and friends had selected Kevin Garnett of Farragut Academy High School, I was shocked, I was speechless.

As the 7 foot, rail thin man-child strolled to the stage, his long gait, long arms and gaunt face looking underdeveloped, almost frail, I remember thinking to myself “the NBA’s gonna eat this kid alive.” McHale’s tenure with the team had just begun, and already he had assured his own demise. Or so I thought.

What we all know now that I didn’t know then is that Kevin Garnett was a godsend. In the years since, McHale has proven himself truly incompetent, incapable of running a basketball team. But this adolescent, known then only as Da Kid, was the luckiest thing that ever happened to him.

As KG matured into The Big Ticket and eventually The Franchise, he became the face of Minnesota sports. He became our bragging rights. He evolved into a new breed of player, able to do it all: shoot, pass, rebound, defend. He established himself as one of the top 25 players of all time. He was a leader on and off the court. He demanded the respect of players, coaches and fans alike. He was, and still is, one of few saving graces for the NBA.

But that’s not why I’m sad to see him go. I’ll miss Kevin Garnett because in a sports world plagued by dishonesty, immaturity and selfishness, KG was a class act. He was a man of integrity, honor, commitment. He was a warrior that battled night in and night out to win. Even when upper management failed, time and again, to provide him with supporting players, Kevin Garnett held his head high and did everything a man can be expected to do when asked to carry the hopes of millions on his shoulders.

Kevin Garnett never brought us shame. He never embarrassed us. He was never arrested for drug possession or assault. He stood up for his teammates when they needed support, but he never instigated a bench clearing brawl. He was never accused of cheating, never accused of betting on games, never accused of rape. When even Kirby Puckett let us down, Kevin Garnett became our hero.

And he was loyal to a fault. He loved Minnesota, he loved the Twin Cities and he loved the fans, even when we failed to show him the love in return. I wish Kevin Garnett nothing but the best. I hope he gets his ring in Boston. I hope they become a dynasty. I hope he shows Glen Taylor and Kevin McHale what could have been. He has every right to be angry at an organization that was dishonest and disloyal, but I hope he realizes that he will be missed.

Thanks for reading.