Sunday night was one I will always remember. It was the last time I will attend a wedding.
My Jewish co-worker, Cosmo, got married. The Sunday evening affair wasn't because he's from the Hebrew nation, it was because it was a night when they could hold the ceremony in the locale of their choosing without having to wait more than two years.
Mrs. Cosmo, for the record, ain't Jewish. She's a southern gal. Her exact denomination I cannot say, but the fact she doesn't eat kosher meals meant that the affair was only partly Jewish. So I'm not sure if I can claim to have been a spectator at a full-fledged Jewish ceremony, but this one was good enough for me.
The ceremony was held outdoors in Minneapolis. On a beautiful October afternoon an outdoor wedding would have been ideal. On Sunday, however, it was cloudy. I think it sprinkled for a minute or two prior to the ceremony, but the skies never opened up. We were under a giant tent anyway, overlooking the mighty Mississippi River. It wouldn't have been ideal, but had it rained, we would have survived.
The short ceremony had the token readings and sermons, with a few Jewish references and explanations thrown in for good measure. The finale was the stomping on the wine glass, or whatever the glass is that they break. We were all instructed to yell "mazal tov" upon Cosmo's ceremonial stomping on the glass. Sadly his performance was underwhelming, as I didn't hear any shattering of glass, and therefore I missed my cue. More Gentile I could not be at that moment.
The reception was at the site of the wedding, and it was largely non-denominational. Most of the music, dancing, eating and drinking was no different than any other reception I've attended.
But prior to dinner there was the ceremonial introduction of the newlyweds. They didn't introduce the wedding party, which curiously featured five bridesmaids and six groomsmen, but they introduced the happy couple. I didn't think anything of that, until the happy couple headed to the dance floor, and the live band started playing all the Jewish hits. People quickly descended upon the dance floor, dancing in circles around Cosmo and Robyn.
Before long they were being raised up above the crowd in chairs, just like I've seen in the movies. I was a bit surprised to see all of this take place before dinner.
If you wanted to play "Spot the Gentile," the pre-dinner dance was the time to do it. As many at the reception found their way to the dance floor, the Gentiles like me stood back and watched the drama unfold.
And the damn thing wouldn't end! Every time I thought they'd be wrapping up the dance, the music would kick in, again. Even Cosmo said the festivities went a little long. I swear the whole song and dance exceeded 20 minutes.
Following dinner the reception was rather Gentile in nature, although there was no dollar dance, bunny hop or garter toss. I don't know why, and I didn't ask questions. I'll do that when Cosmo returns to work.
There was an open bar all evening, so I pretty much paid for the cost of my wedding gift with drinks during the reception. A couple of co-workers attended, so that gave me reason to stick around past dinner. I kept hoping something unique was going to happen, given it was my last wedding reception, but no such luck. The Jews let me down.
I enjoyed the experience, especially watching the Princess of Power strut her stuff. I met her a few years ago, and she's hot. I was stunned she didn't have a boyfriend with her at the wedding. Despite that, I'm a realist, and not nearly creepy enough to hit on her.
So why is it the last wedding/reception I will attend? Because I'm bored with them, plain and simple.
People are lame. I went to another co-worker's wedding on May 31, and it's remarkable how many people bail out after dinner on a Saturday night. They don't have anywhere else to go, they don't have a four-hour drive home after the wedding. But they act like sticking around and socializing with friends and/or relatives is a pain in the ass. Maybe it is, but this is a recurring phenomena at weddings.
I can't say I entirely blame people. Most weddings have a DJ, and that means being subjected to a painful musical formula that includes that damn chicken dance and other assorted crap. I think I've been suicidal more than once as a result of the tedious musical format so many wedding receptions seem to follow. (Nobody really wants to dance to "Staying Alive.")
Beyond that, I find that the weddings I attend these days are less of a cause for celebration than those of past years. Most of my best friends have gotten married, with the exception of Chip and Monica, and I don't expect a close friend or family member to get married any time soon.
So what happens when my 25-year-old cousin gets married in a few years? I send him a gift and save him a few bucks on an overpriced dinner. What happens when Monica gets married? I feel bad that I'm not there, but a rule is a rule. Friends, family, co-workers, it doesn't matter. I'm not going to put up with the farce that is a wedding any more.
I'll send a gift, but it's time to start doing things for me and stop doing things for everyone else. Nobody will miss me at their wedding, and I won't miss the charade that is a wedding/reception.
My last wedding was a quasi-Jewish affair. It was nice to see one in action, to see something a little different than what I am use to. It was a memorable, and relatively enjoyable, experience. Given it was the last wedding I will ever attend, it was nice to go out on a high note.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
No. 8
I had hoped Saturday's bike ride would be a cause for greater celebration, but it's not.
On Saturday I finished the Headwaters 100, a bike ride originating in Park Rapids, Minn.
It was my second stab at the bike ride, which has three different routes, one approximately 45 miles, another approximately 75 miles. Guess what the third route is.
This bike ride has been on my calendar since June, but things change, and had it been rainy and miserable on Saturday there was no chance I was going to bike 100 miles. Upon arrival in the Park Rapids area on Friday afternoon it started to rain...an ominous sign.
But the rain cleared out overnight and gave way to clear skies on Saturday. It was about 50 degrees when I started the ride at 8 a.m., better than I remember it being in 2002 when I previously tackled the Headwaters 100.
And the high temperature for the day was forecast in the upper 60s...so I had little to complain about. The only drawback to the day: there was a decent breeze out of the north. But given a choice between Friday evening's weather and Saturday's weather, it was no contest.
And despite a breeze out of the north, the longest northerly stretch of my 100-mile ride was early in the day, which is always appreciated when you bicycle. If you're going to fight the wind, fight it early rather than late.
The ride is named for the state park north of Park Rapids, Itasca State Park. It's the home of Lake Itasca, the headwaters of the Mississippi River. Clever name, eh?
After about 30 miles the ride leads you into the park, where you loop around the lake on a 15-mile road before exiting and traveling through the rolling hills of the greater Park Rapids area, periodically passing other lakes. It's a bit challenging of a ride because of the rolling hills, but there aren't any killer climbs, so I can't complain about the route.
The final 12 miles are mostly flat, as the ride finishes on an old railroad bed trail. When I hit the rest stop at mile 88 I felt like I was already finished, because the last 12 miles were relatively easy, and I knew they would be.
While it was a bit cool through the morning hours, it was far from miserable. There was never any doubt I'd finish the 100-mile ride, unless a freak physical or mechanical breakdown sidelined me prior to the finish line, but that didn't happen.
I admired the fall colors occasionally, cursed the cool autumn air that kept my nose running most of the day and regretted that I would not be reaching my goal of 2,008 miles at the end of the day, as I was about 250 short at that point. It's no small task completing 100 miles in a day, and that's reason enough to celebrate, but I still have work to do, given the lackluster August and September I've had on the bicycle...due in large part to repeated mechanical problems. But that's another story for another jukebox.
Despite my less-than-ecstatic mood, it is the first year I have pushed myself to complete two century rides in one year. Why did I do it? Why will I push myself harder in 2009? I'm insane, and I'll go to my grave living that way. To paraphrase somebody I no longer speak to, or respect, conformity is one of the greatest disservices you can do to yourself. I botched the quote, but you get the idea.
On Saturday I finished the Headwaters 100, a bike ride originating in Park Rapids, Minn.
It was my second stab at the bike ride, which has three different routes, one approximately 45 miles, another approximately 75 miles. Guess what the third route is.
This bike ride has been on my calendar since June, but things change, and had it been rainy and miserable on Saturday there was no chance I was going to bike 100 miles. Upon arrival in the Park Rapids area on Friday afternoon it started to rain...an ominous sign.
But the rain cleared out overnight and gave way to clear skies on Saturday. It was about 50 degrees when I started the ride at 8 a.m., better than I remember it being in 2002 when I previously tackled the Headwaters 100.
And the high temperature for the day was forecast in the upper 60s...so I had little to complain about. The only drawback to the day: there was a decent breeze out of the north. But given a choice between Friday evening's weather and Saturday's weather, it was no contest.
And despite a breeze out of the north, the longest northerly stretch of my 100-mile ride was early in the day, which is always appreciated when you bicycle. If you're going to fight the wind, fight it early rather than late.
The ride is named for the state park north of Park Rapids, Itasca State Park. It's the home of Lake Itasca, the headwaters of the Mississippi River. Clever name, eh?
After about 30 miles the ride leads you into the park, where you loop around the lake on a 15-mile road before exiting and traveling through the rolling hills of the greater Park Rapids area, periodically passing other lakes. It's a bit challenging of a ride because of the rolling hills, but there aren't any killer climbs, so I can't complain about the route.
The final 12 miles are mostly flat, as the ride finishes on an old railroad bed trail. When I hit the rest stop at mile 88 I felt like I was already finished, because the last 12 miles were relatively easy, and I knew they would be.
While it was a bit cool through the morning hours, it was far from miserable. There was never any doubt I'd finish the 100-mile ride, unless a freak physical or mechanical breakdown sidelined me prior to the finish line, but that didn't happen.
I admired the fall colors occasionally, cursed the cool autumn air that kept my nose running most of the day and regretted that I would not be reaching my goal of 2,008 miles at the end of the day, as I was about 250 short at that point. It's no small task completing 100 miles in a day, and that's reason enough to celebrate, but I still have work to do, given the lackluster August and September I've had on the bicycle...due in large part to repeated mechanical problems. But that's another story for another jukebox.
Despite my less-than-ecstatic mood, it is the first year I have pushed myself to complete two century rides in one year. Why did I do it? Why will I push myself harder in 2009? I'm insane, and I'll go to my grave living that way. To paraphrase somebody I no longer speak to, or respect, conformity is one of the greatest disservices you can do to yourself. I botched the quote, but you get the idea.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Holy shammy!
I made another 10-day cameo at the Minnesota State Fair this year. I worked the same job as last year, and every night I had achy feet to prove it. Unlike last year, I didn't keep tally of the bizarre T-shirt encounters I had. There were a few, but somehow I wasn't as amused as I was last year.
But I was amazed...amazed that the dudes at the nearby shammy booth didn't lie to people. Last year I watched two hucksters tell people, hour after hour, that "I can't do this for everyone, but for the first X people that buy a roll of shammies at $20, I'll throw in a second roll of shammies absolutely free."
I never heard them suggest otherwise last year, nor did I see it. It was two rolls for $20 plus tax, which meant a lot more money coming in than if they were selling them at one roll at $10 plus tax, or one roll at $21, I suspect.
News flash: There's a nationwide shammy shortage. Forget the war, forget the economy, people can't get a roll of shammies at their local fair.
The fair started out like any other, with the hucksters selling two rolls of shammies day after day. It was the same cast of characters as last year, but one thing was different.
People need shammies now more than ever.
Seriously.
There's a commercial I've never seen, evidently, and it's hawking shammies in 27 inches of living color. (I see the infomercial for Slim n' Lift body shaper all the time, dammit.)
That commercial, which I am told has nothing to do with the State Fair hucksters, has raised the demand for shammies at fairs across our great nation. In Stinktown the shammy hucksters were out of product after the first weekend.
In Minnesota they made it to day 10 before the supply ran thin.
The hucksters talk as if their company is selling the shammies featured on the commercial, and they have a new banner for their booth, clearly associating their product with the shammies seen on TV. Whether they're associated with the commercial or not, demand for their product is better than ever. I couldn't believe how many people were fascinated by the hucksters as soon as they saw the banner in their booth. I guess if I saw a demonstration for Slim n' Lift I'd stop, too.
On day 10 of the 12-day extravaganza I saw something I never thought I'd see, one roll for $21. They were throwing in some lame shammy sponge absolutely free, but for the first time in my two years of state fair merchandising, I saw the hucksters cut the offer down to one roll.
The booth was so desperate for product that the owner was importing shammies of different colors, indicative I suppose of a different supplier. The green and pink and blue and orange and fuscia shammies didn't last that long, however, as sales remained brisk.
What puzzled me was that by late Saturday night, the hucksters were back to selling two rolls for $21, as if they stemmed the tide.
But by day 11 it was clear the end was near. They were back to single-roll sales, for the most part, although they inexplicably went back to two rolls for a little while. Occasionally they were throwing in any random square of shammy they could find to make the deal sound sweeter than it was. Bottom line, they were still moving product at one roll for $21.
The state fair Nazis don't like their vendors to pack up early, so the sales pitches were cut back to one per hour instead of the non-stop six per hour the hucksters normally did. That helped extend the supply into today, day 12, but they still sold out of their last few hundred by mid-afternoon.
So why not sell all those rolls at $21 each? Me thinks its simple economics. The wholesale cost of those things has to be damn cheap. People are more likely to respond favorably to a great deal rather than a great demonstration. When they see one roll of shammies for $21, a lot of people probably figure it's not much of a bargain, even though the average family will save about $100 in paper towel purchases per year (allegedly). But when there's a second roll for that same $21, two friends can split the cost of two rolls, and feel good about their purchase. Or dad could buy an extra set for the family cabin and feel like he's getting a great bargain in the process.
If the rolls were $10 plus tax, a lot of people would only buy one, but the buy-one-get-one-free gimmick ensures many people are committing $20 to the life-saving shammies. It's marketing brilliance. Sell people two of something instead of one and increase your profits exponentially. What a country.
A country with a shammy shortage, no less.
But I was amazed...amazed that the dudes at the nearby shammy booth didn't lie to people. Last year I watched two hucksters tell people, hour after hour, that "I can't do this for everyone, but for the first X people that buy a roll of shammies at $20, I'll throw in a second roll of shammies absolutely free."
I never heard them suggest otherwise last year, nor did I see it. It was two rolls for $20 plus tax, which meant a lot more money coming in than if they were selling them at one roll at $10 plus tax, or one roll at $21, I suspect.
News flash: There's a nationwide shammy shortage. Forget the war, forget the economy, people can't get a roll of shammies at their local fair.
The fair started out like any other, with the hucksters selling two rolls of shammies day after day. It was the same cast of characters as last year, but one thing was different.
People need shammies now more than ever.
Seriously.
There's a commercial I've never seen, evidently, and it's hawking shammies in 27 inches of living color. (I see the infomercial for Slim n' Lift body shaper all the time, dammit.)
That commercial, which I am told has nothing to do with the State Fair hucksters, has raised the demand for shammies at fairs across our great nation. In Stinktown the shammy hucksters were out of product after the first weekend.
In Minnesota they made it to day 10 before the supply ran thin.
The hucksters talk as if their company is selling the shammies featured on the commercial, and they have a new banner for their booth, clearly associating their product with the shammies seen on TV. Whether they're associated with the commercial or not, demand for their product is better than ever. I couldn't believe how many people were fascinated by the hucksters as soon as they saw the banner in their booth. I guess if I saw a demonstration for Slim n' Lift I'd stop, too.
On day 10 of the 12-day extravaganza I saw something I never thought I'd see, one roll for $21. They were throwing in some lame shammy sponge absolutely free, but for the first time in my two years of state fair merchandising, I saw the hucksters cut the offer down to one roll.
The booth was so desperate for product that the owner was importing shammies of different colors, indicative I suppose of a different supplier. The green and pink and blue and orange and fuscia shammies didn't last that long, however, as sales remained brisk.
What puzzled me was that by late Saturday night, the hucksters were back to selling two rolls for $21, as if they stemmed the tide.
But by day 11 it was clear the end was near. They were back to single-roll sales, for the most part, although they inexplicably went back to two rolls for a little while. Occasionally they were throwing in any random square of shammy they could find to make the deal sound sweeter than it was. Bottom line, they were still moving product at one roll for $21.
The state fair Nazis don't like their vendors to pack up early, so the sales pitches were cut back to one per hour instead of the non-stop six per hour the hucksters normally did. That helped extend the supply into today, day 12, but they still sold out of their last few hundred by mid-afternoon.
So why not sell all those rolls at $21 each? Me thinks its simple economics. The wholesale cost of those things has to be damn cheap. People are more likely to respond favorably to a great deal rather than a great demonstration. When they see one roll of shammies for $21, a lot of people probably figure it's not much of a bargain, even though the average family will save about $100 in paper towel purchases per year (allegedly). But when there's a second roll for that same $21, two friends can split the cost of two rolls, and feel good about their purchase. Or dad could buy an extra set for the family cabin and feel like he's getting a great bargain in the process.
If the rolls were $10 plus tax, a lot of people would only buy one, but the buy-one-get-one-free gimmick ensures many people are committing $20 to the life-saving shammies. It's marketing brilliance. Sell people two of something instead of one and increase your profits exponentially. What a country.
A country with a shammy shortage, no less.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Stinktown is sexy?
I heard this being discussed on the radio last week, and I was a bit speechless.
Stinktown is sexy.
That's right, Milwaukee has been described as sexy. The whole damn city: sexy.
I'm not making it up. The wise folks at Marie Claire magazine decided there's nothing than their 20- and 30-something readership wants more than a list of 101 sexy things. And they needed a sexy city to put on the list, so naturally they turned to Stinktown.
Because Stinktown has a massive summer music festival, a bunch of ethnic festivals, a NASCAR race and an occasional Harley Davidson anniversary rally, somehow Stinktown is now sexy.
I'm not sure if any major city can really be defined as sexy. Every major city has blight, poverty and homelessness. Those things are all appealing, but sexy? I don't think so!
Chip and his buddy have often talked about creating a website, packerparkas.com. The website would be dedicated to all the women who aren't sexy, but think bundling up in an over-sized green and gold Green Bay Packers jacket makes them sexy. Cheering for Aaron Rodgers doesn't make you sexy. Sorry ladies, it's true. Just like those stupid ankle tattoos don't make you sexy. It takes more than that. Trust me.
Considering the Sexy 101 list includes a sexiest sport (tennis), a sexiest polish (CND Nail Gloss, $6) and a sexiest office supply (Muji stapler, $4), it's no surprise the sexiest city is Stinktown. The list is highly ridiculous, so why shouldn't its choice for the sexiest city be equally ridiculous?
I've been to Stinktown, many times. I'm not sure what deserves to be the sexiest city, but it ain't Stinktown, I guarantee it.
But let's pretend, just for a minute, that it is.
If that's the case, the end is near. It was a nice run for planet Earth.
Stinktown is sexy.
That's right, Milwaukee has been described as sexy. The whole damn city: sexy.
I'm not making it up. The wise folks at Marie Claire magazine decided there's nothing than their 20- and 30-something readership wants more than a list of 101 sexy things. And they needed a sexy city to put on the list, so naturally they turned to Stinktown.
Because Stinktown has a massive summer music festival, a bunch of ethnic festivals, a NASCAR race and an occasional Harley Davidson anniversary rally, somehow Stinktown is now sexy.
I'm not sure if any major city can really be defined as sexy. Every major city has blight, poverty and homelessness. Those things are all appealing, but sexy? I don't think so!
Chip and his buddy have often talked about creating a website, packerparkas.com. The website would be dedicated to all the women who aren't sexy, but think bundling up in an over-sized green and gold Green Bay Packers jacket makes them sexy. Cheering for Aaron Rodgers doesn't make you sexy. Sorry ladies, it's true. Just like those stupid ankle tattoos don't make you sexy. It takes more than that. Trust me.
Considering the Sexy 101 list includes a sexiest sport (tennis), a sexiest polish (CND Nail Gloss, $6) and a sexiest office supply (Muji stapler, $4), it's no surprise the sexiest city is Stinktown. The list is highly ridiculous, so why shouldn't its choice for the sexiest city be equally ridiculous?
I've been to Stinktown, many times. I'm not sure what deserves to be the sexiest city, but it ain't Stinktown, I guarantee it.
But let's pretend, just for a minute, that it is.
If that's the case, the end is near. It was a nice run for planet Earth.
Monday, August 18, 2008
They bled me to death (unedited)
I'm a fraud and chronic liar, but I really think I have donated blood and/or blood products for the last time.
I hate needles. I couldn't adminster a shot or draw blood to save my soul, and the thought of taking a needle in the arm, leg or butt has no appeal to me. (I've experienced them all!) While I hate needles, I'm also a sado-masochist, evidently. Since my senior year in high school I have found my way to blood drives, donating a pint of Fonzie's best A positive.
Ironically I have passed out twice, both while giving much smaller blood samples for pre-employment physicals for jobs working in hospital kitchens.
I'm a good candidate for donating blood because I haven't pumped my body full of heroin, had tattoos or piercings or had sex with another man, even once, since 1977.
Some years I have donated blood six times. A few years ago I took an extended hiatus from donating. I figured a guy having heart surgery might be better off not donating pints on top of all the viles he's giving up every so often.
A year or more ago I returned to Memorial Blood Centers, a local agency that conducts blood drives and collects all sorts of funky blood products at fixed-site locations, including a few in the Twin Cities. Instead of going to a blood drive at a church or house of ill repute, you go to a strip mall and bleed for them. It's like selling plasma, but without the paycheck. And by the way, call it what you want, but when you get cash for two hours at a plasma center, you aren't donating jack shit.
A few months ago they invited me to donate blood platelets rather than whole blood. You can donate platelets more often, the end result doesn't take as much out of you, physically, and the need is greater than the need for whole blood. Platelets don't have the same shelf life, evidently.
The drawback: You have to sign on for a couple of hours.
I've been through the process three times this summer. And now it's time to retire!
It's not the time commitment that bothers me. And lord knows I've been far less careless with my health and welfare than the average skank, but I've reached the breaking point.
Each time you visit, you have to go through the tedious health screening. I get it, they can't blow the process off. But I'm tired of having to answer the same questions each time I visit. I still haven't spent five years in Europe, I've still never had any of those weird diseases I've never heard of, and I still haven't had sex with another man, even once, since 1977.
I realize the answers to some of the questions may have changed since my last visit four weeks ago, but I'm tired of the hoops. I ain't jumpin' through them for a while, if ever again. I'm tempted to get a tattoo just so I can be blacklisted.
I have no personal story about how blood donations have made a difference in my life. I became a blood donor simply to face a fear I've had, and I continued to challenge myself to face that fear for 20 years. I passed my test, it's time to move on.
There are a few petty reasons that support my decision, but those aren't worth explaning. I'm a petty human being, and after more than 3 gallons of A positive and a few platelets, it's time to stop doing so much for everyone else and start doing more for me.
I hate needles. I couldn't adminster a shot or draw blood to save my soul, and the thought of taking a needle in the arm, leg or butt has no appeal to me. (I've experienced them all!) While I hate needles, I'm also a sado-masochist, evidently. Since my senior year in high school I have found my way to blood drives, donating a pint of Fonzie's best A positive.
Ironically I have passed out twice, both while giving much smaller blood samples for pre-employment physicals for jobs working in hospital kitchens.
I'm a good candidate for donating blood because I haven't pumped my body full of heroin, had tattoos or piercings or had sex with another man, even once, since 1977.
Some years I have donated blood six times. A few years ago I took an extended hiatus from donating. I figured a guy having heart surgery might be better off not donating pints on top of all the viles he's giving up every so often.
A year or more ago I returned to Memorial Blood Centers, a local agency that conducts blood drives and collects all sorts of funky blood products at fixed-site locations, including a few in the Twin Cities. Instead of going to a blood drive at a church or house of ill repute, you go to a strip mall and bleed for them. It's like selling plasma, but without the paycheck. And by the way, call it what you want, but when you get cash for two hours at a plasma center, you aren't donating jack shit.
A few months ago they invited me to donate blood platelets rather than whole blood. You can donate platelets more often, the end result doesn't take as much out of you, physically, and the need is greater than the need for whole blood. Platelets don't have the same shelf life, evidently.
The drawback: You have to sign on for a couple of hours.
I've been through the process three times this summer. And now it's time to retire!
It's not the time commitment that bothers me. And lord knows I've been far less careless with my health and welfare than the average skank, but I've reached the breaking point.
Each time you visit, you have to go through the tedious health screening. I get it, they can't blow the process off. But I'm tired of having to answer the same questions each time I visit. I still haven't spent five years in Europe, I've still never had any of those weird diseases I've never heard of, and I still haven't had sex with another man, even once, since 1977.
I realize the answers to some of the questions may have changed since my last visit four weeks ago, but I'm tired of the hoops. I ain't jumpin' through them for a while, if ever again. I'm tempted to get a tattoo just so I can be blacklisted.
I have no personal story about how blood donations have made a difference in my life. I became a blood donor simply to face a fear I've had, and I continued to challenge myself to face that fear for 20 years. I passed my test, it's time to move on.
There are a few petty reasons that support my decision, but those aren't worth explaning. I'm a petty human being, and after more than 3 gallons of A positive and a few platelets, it's time to stop doing so much for everyone else and start doing more for me.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Oops, I did it again!
It's not nearly as cool as a trip to Puerto Vallarta, but on Tuesday I received a call from my local Cub Foods grocery store, telling me I'm the winner in a prize drawing I entered. Somehow I can't resist signing up for prize drawings at the grocery store, even though the prizes are never spectacular.
My prize: a portable grill from a no-name steak manufacturer. I haven't seen it yet but I think it's intended to be for tailgaiting, as the grill is adorned with the Minnesota Twins logo. It's not the big, fancy gas grill Fuddrucker's was giving away this summer, but I'll take what I can get.
I've won five prizes this summer from contests, the grill is the second best prize I've won.
One day I'm going to win the lottery, I know it. You heard it here first! (Oddly I rarely buy lottery tickets, so when I do win it, the world will be that much more pissed at me.)
My prize: a portable grill from a no-name steak manufacturer. I haven't seen it yet but I think it's intended to be for tailgaiting, as the grill is adorned with the Minnesota Twins logo. It's not the big, fancy gas grill Fuddrucker's was giving away this summer, but I'll take what I can get.
I've won five prizes this summer from contests, the grill is the second best prize I've won.
One day I'm going to win the lottery, I know it. You heard it here first! (Oddly I rarely buy lottery tickets, so when I do win it, the world will be that much more pissed at me.)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
7 years running
Doug and I made our annual pilgrimage to the Minnesota/Wisconsin border for Camp Swamp this past weekend.
Swamp is a college friend who grew up in Small Town, Wis. After college Swamp wound up back in the same western Wisconsin area. I suppose it's nice to go home again, although I have no interest in living in Indiana again, or Coon Rapids, Minn., for that matter.
Swamp grew up camping on sandbars and along the banks of the Chippewa River, and he invited Doug and me to join him for an overnight on the river several years ago. That first trip was in August 2002. This year's trip marked our seventh annual pilgrimage.
Loading everything into a boat and navigating a sometimes shallow river to find a sandbar suitable for camping is a weird experience. Once you get there, you don't go very far. Even if it's a one-night trip, it can be a challenging experience. There's something about camping on sand that's different than camping in the woods. There's no shade to block the sun on a sandbar, there's little firewood to be found and while walking on sand sounds pleasurable, the sand gets hot when it's sunny, and the lack of solid footing can become rather annoying. Never mind the fact you can't avoid getting sand in anything and everything you bring for the trip. I swear there was a grain of sand on every Italian sausage I ate this past weekend.
Swamp was an unlikely friend when I went to college. Despite that, Doug and I have remained friends with him since we all graduated. Our one night of camping is the one time of the year I see him, typically, and I'd hate to give it up.
Why is it that I go out of my way to visit a friend who would have stopped calling me years ago had I not made an effort to stay in touch? I don't know, but it's who I am. For better or worse, I'll keep going back to Camp Swamp as long as I physically can, sand be damned.
Swamp is a college friend who grew up in Small Town, Wis. After college Swamp wound up back in the same western Wisconsin area. I suppose it's nice to go home again, although I have no interest in living in Indiana again, or Coon Rapids, Minn., for that matter.
Swamp grew up camping on sandbars and along the banks of the Chippewa River, and he invited Doug and me to join him for an overnight on the river several years ago. That first trip was in August 2002. This year's trip marked our seventh annual pilgrimage.
Loading everything into a boat and navigating a sometimes shallow river to find a sandbar suitable for camping is a weird experience. Once you get there, you don't go very far. Even if it's a one-night trip, it can be a challenging experience. There's something about camping on sand that's different than camping in the woods. There's no shade to block the sun on a sandbar, there's little firewood to be found and while walking on sand sounds pleasurable, the sand gets hot when it's sunny, and the lack of solid footing can become rather annoying. Never mind the fact you can't avoid getting sand in anything and everything you bring for the trip. I swear there was a grain of sand on every Italian sausage I ate this past weekend.
Swamp was an unlikely friend when I went to college. Despite that, Doug and I have remained friends with him since we all graduated. Our one night of camping is the one time of the year I see him, typically, and I'd hate to give it up.
Why is it that I go out of my way to visit a friend who would have stopped calling me years ago had I not made an effort to stay in touch? I don't know, but it's who I am. For better or worse, I'll keep going back to Camp Swamp as long as I physically can, sand be damned.
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