The subtitle of this post should probably be "Should You Blog While Drinking?" I'm not sure, but I'm gonna anyway.
I'm by myself this weekend: my lovely wife has taken our children to visit her parents; I stayed home with the dog. I was mildly productive earlier, having straightened a few things around the house and shoveled the dusting of snow off the driveway, so I can laze about for the the rest of the day. It's been good so far: I watched the Illinois/ohio state basketball game, watched the Blackhawks put a thumping on those bastard Red Wings. Now I'm sitting in front of a fire, listening to some tunes, sauntering my way through my fourth Lone Star beer. Mellow, relaxed, just chillin', as the youngsters say (or said, or whatever).
Wandering through the radio channels coming over our satellite TV, I settled on SIRIUS 1st Wave, a channel that plays the beginnings of alternative music. Over the waves comes U2's "Wild Horses", from their Zooropa album, and I get to thinking of an old friend of mine, the guy that I went to that concert with, ages ago. His name was Dave, and man, did we have a blast at that show. We had seats in the 13th row, 10 seats from the thrust stage that wandered through the crowd. While Bono was singing "Mysterious Ways" he was out there, and looked right at us. One big step and I could have reached out and shook his hand. Really one of those "Fuck, yeah!" kind of moments. Magical, in a way that was only partially influenced by the marijuana and Crazy Horse Malt Liquor Dave had talked me into getting. About as cool as it gets to a couple of 20-somethings (Dave was 21, I was 23).
That was just one night in a string of good ones in our all-too-brief friendship. We had met at our job, one of two I had at the time, the other being a gig as a limousine lot overseer at the music theatre where we saw the show. Our mutual employment was at a mall store, framing bad art for the tragically hip and woefully misguided. Dave was a mananger, in the sense that he managed to screw most things up, and I did the framing, in between ignoring orders from Dave and making sure things got done right. But we got along well: we had a lot of shared interests, one of the most enjoyable being seeing which one of us could make the other look like the biggest fool when a cute girl wandered into the store. (I have to give Dave his due credit: we fought to a draw on most occasions.) So we moved from work buddies to getting a beer after work (and during, a few times), to hanging out on the weekends. We frequented all of the small blues bars in the city, strictly avoiding the Kingston Mines as a poseur hang-out (it still might be; I haven't been there in years), and closed them on a regular basis. Our two distinct favorites were b.l.u.e.s. etcetera and Rosa's. One memorable night at b.l.u.e.s. etc., we sat stage-side for a two-set performance by Sugar Blue, the great harmonica player, known by most people for his harp work on the Rollling Stones' hit "Miss You". Sugar was a great guy: he talked to us before the show, during the set break, and for an hour after. Another of those special memories I have locked away, and Dave was there.
On a Saturday later that same summer, Rosa's was the final stage of an epic bender Dave and I rolled through with another friend in tow. Highlights of the night included subduing a roaring drunk at a basement dive I've long forgotten the name of, getting high in an alley behind The Alley with two punk chicks I can best describe as partially clothed, free hot dogs at Demon Dogs (due to a misplaced order slip), walking into a yuppie bar and walking straight out after the bartender flipped us off before we were entirely inside, forgetting where my car was parked, drinking at a Mexican place where no one spoke English until we remembered, driving to what we thought was within a block of Rosa's (it was more like five), moving a road construction horse to create a parking space, getting eyeballed by two of Chicago's finest on patrol, and Dave nearly breaking his neck trying to get down the stairs into the joint.
The joint itself was pretty empty for a Saturday night, but it turns out they had had a big afternoon show, and the rest of the night was just passing time. However, much to our delight, the 10:00 show was the last show of the Texas Rubies before they headed back to...you guessed it, Texas. The Rubies were a small 3-piece band fronted by two tall, blonde Texan women, belting out Janis Joplin-style blues with more heart than talent. But it was a decent show, and we sat for an hour and a half, indignantly drinking our $1 cans of Black Label beer* and crooning along when they covered songs we could remember the words to.
* I say indignantly because in high school, Black Label was our beer of choice, being $6.99 for a case of returnable bottles, meaning drink 3 cases, get the 4th free! And here we were paying a dollar a bottle for brew that normally cost us 30 cents. Robbery! Where underage high schoolers got such cheap beer is nobody's goddamned business, so don't ask.
It was the kind of steady fun that marks a day well-spent. After Rosa's we left the city, after shoving the construction horse we moved into the trunk of my car, and made our way back to the suburbs. We hit a few places on the way home, until at last I pulled into my driveway as the sun was coming up. I remember sitting in my car for a while, just enjoying the buzz, dragging it out as long as I could. A few weeks later I started classes again and started playing rugby as well; Dave had his own classes, and tried to start a band. We saw each other a few times, but the times grew fewer in the way they do, being pulled apart by the vagaries of life. I lost contact with Dave for a few years, but never forgot the fun we had.
It was about this time of the year, 16 years ago, when I went back to the mall where I worked and stopped by the store, to see if anyone I knew was still working there. One girl was; she had worked with Dave and I, and she was the manager now. I asked if she knew where Dave was, and her face sank. "You haven't heard, then?"
"Heard what?" I asked.
"Dave committed suicide over Thanksgiving. His parents found him hanging in his bedroom. His girlfriend broke up with him and he flipped."
I was stunned into complete silence. I gave Cheryl a hug, and just walked away.
Sixteen years later, I still don't have any real answers. I don't know why, and it still bothers me. I'm both sad and angry; time has only slighty mellowed the anger and softened the sadness. And any time I hear a track from Zooropa, I think of Dave, and what might have been.
RIP, Dave Lusk. Tonight I drink to you.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Warm Fuzzy Puppies
This post is for a particular friend...you know who you are...
Said friend said she didn't know I had a blog, and in any case she figured it wasn't about puppies. Well, my other one sure isn't...unless the puppies in question happen to be the Dogs of War (Havoc!). But here at the Ripper McQueen show, the attitude is much more laid back: a calm, blue ocean of thought. My laughin' place. So I thought I'd do a post about my puppy.
First things first: my puppy really isn't a puppy. He's almost 8, which makes him, according to the vet, a certified canine senior citizen. A spry and extremely fit senior citizen, but one nonetheless. I can see the subtle changes: the greying on his muzzle now reaches back to near his eyes; he is more measured and flowing in his pursuit of squirrels and ducks, instead of the reckless abandon of his younger years. His bark has become more dignified: no longer the "I'll tear you up if you don't get out of my yard!" war cry, but more the "I see you...don't make me come out there and tear you up" growl.
He is, however, still a puppy in many ways. He absolutely refuses to be where his people aren't: if we're outside, he must be. If we go in, so must he. If you sit longer than 3.89 seconds, he regards it as his right to attempt to occupy ever inch of your lap, which is the equivalent of having a 45-lb. sandbag across your legs. He carries his stuffed pheasant around like a security blanket, when he is not tearing out the stuffing and mangling it into the wad of random filth all dog toys eventually become. In the summer, he will maintain a constant and vigilant patrol of the back yard for hours on end, keeping the Varmint Cong under close eye until it's time to go inside, at which point he will collapse into a mound of dog jelly and fall into a sleep just short of needing a tactical nuclear device to rouse him from. Unless, of course, someone drops food on the floor...
He is my boon companion, all a dog should be: loyal, obedient, protective, a source of joy and a convenient space heater on cold winter nights. He is a dog you can sit down and have a beer with, who listens without complaining and never asks you if you think you've had enough; he follows you willingly into your misery and leads you back out again, and any secrets you tell him remain between you, he, and God alone. A Man's Dog in every way.
Here's to you, Kaiser!
My wife's cat? He's a jerk...
Said friend said she didn't know I had a blog, and in any case she figured it wasn't about puppies. Well, my other one sure isn't...unless the puppies in question happen to be the Dogs of War (Havoc!). But here at the Ripper McQueen show, the attitude is much more laid back: a calm, blue ocean of thought. My laughin' place. So I thought I'd do a post about my puppy.
First things first: my puppy really isn't a puppy. He's almost 8, which makes him, according to the vet, a certified canine senior citizen. A spry and extremely fit senior citizen, but one nonetheless. I can see the subtle changes: the greying on his muzzle now reaches back to near his eyes; he is more measured and flowing in his pursuit of squirrels and ducks, instead of the reckless abandon of his younger years. His bark has become more dignified: no longer the "I'll tear you up if you don't get out of my yard!" war cry, but more the "I see you...don't make me come out there and tear you up" growl.
He is, however, still a puppy in many ways. He absolutely refuses to be where his people aren't: if we're outside, he must be. If we go in, so must he. If you sit longer than 3.89 seconds, he regards it as his right to attempt to occupy ever inch of your lap, which is the equivalent of having a 45-lb. sandbag across your legs. He carries his stuffed pheasant around like a security blanket, when he is not tearing out the stuffing and mangling it into the wad of random filth all dog toys eventually become. In the summer, he will maintain a constant and vigilant patrol of the back yard for hours on end, keeping the Varmint Cong under close eye until it's time to go inside, at which point he will collapse into a mound of dog jelly and fall into a sleep just short of needing a tactical nuclear device to rouse him from. Unless, of course, someone drops food on the floor...
He is my boon companion, all a dog should be: loyal, obedient, protective, a source of joy and a convenient space heater on cold winter nights. He is a dog you can sit down and have a beer with, who listens without complaining and never asks you if you think you've had enough; he follows you willingly into your misery and leads you back out again, and any secrets you tell him remain between you, he, and God alone. A Man's Dog in every way.
Here's to you, Kaiser!
My wife's cat? He's a jerk...
Monday, October 4, 2010
It's That Time
Hunting season is upon us again, and I'm thrilled. I spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning sitting in an uncomfortable tree stand and didn't see a thing, and had a great time. We know there are deer on the land we hunt, so it's just a matter of time.
Hopefully that time will be this coming weekend. It's the special Youth Firearm Hunt, and I'll be taking my 9-year-old son on his first trip. In fact, both of my hunting buddies will be bringing their sons as well. Three fathers taking three sons after their first deer. That's about as good as life gets in my book. With a little bit of luck, we'll be hauling back three bucks by Sunday evening, but even if we don't, the time spent will be well-spent indeed. It is an all-too-rare occurrence these days where fathers give lessons to their sons on how to be men. The sad reality is that these days many adult males have no idea what it takes to be a man. But not around here.
In five days my son will take another step on his journey to manhood, and I thank God for the opportunity to be there to guide him along.
Hopefully that time will be this coming weekend. It's the special Youth Firearm Hunt, and I'll be taking my 9-year-old son on his first trip. In fact, both of my hunting buddies will be bringing their sons as well. Three fathers taking three sons after their first deer. That's about as good as life gets in my book. With a little bit of luck, we'll be hauling back three bucks by Sunday evening, but even if we don't, the time spent will be well-spent indeed. It is an all-too-rare occurrence these days where fathers give lessons to their sons on how to be men. The sad reality is that these days many adult males have no idea what it takes to be a man. But not around here.
In five days my son will take another step on his journey to manhood, and I thank God for the opportunity to be there to guide him along.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Some Time With The Boy
I took my son fishing for a few hours yesterday. It was our third time out, and like the previous two, I wasn't all that thrilled about it. I love the outdoors, but fishing is one thing I never got into. But a friend of mine was out with his son and invited us to join them, and my son wanted to go, so we met them at a small pond on the other side of town.
Fortunately, the fish were biting. On his third cast my son hooked his first fish ever, a small sunfish, and in so doing hooked himself, and me by proxy, to the sport of fishing. I was content to watch him fish and bait his hook for him (the attitude shared by my friend with his son, even though my friend is a respectable fisherman), and sat on the banks watching his casts. Over the course of 90 minutes or so my son caught 5 fish (all sunfish) and had himself a grand time. It was by far the most fun I've ever had fishing.
To cap off the day, the final fish my son caught was a "miracle catch": snagging a fish with a bare, unbaited hook. As he was making his final casts, I was kidding with him about being so Zen in his fishing. No sooner were the words out of my mouth when the bobber sank, he yanked, and reeled in his second largest fish. (None of them were large enough to keep, but that's beside the point.) Guess that will teach me to get all mystical on a nine-year-old...
Fortunately, the fish were biting. On his third cast my son hooked his first fish ever, a small sunfish, and in so doing hooked himself, and me by proxy, to the sport of fishing. I was content to watch him fish and bait his hook for him (the attitude shared by my friend with his son, even though my friend is a respectable fisherman), and sat on the banks watching his casts. Over the course of 90 minutes or so my son caught 5 fish (all sunfish) and had himself a grand time. It was by far the most fun I've ever had fishing.
To cap off the day, the final fish my son caught was a "miracle catch": snagging a fish with a bare, unbaited hook. As he was making his final casts, I was kidding with him about being so Zen in his fishing. No sooner were the words out of my mouth when the bobber sank, he yanked, and reeled in his second largest fish. (None of them were large enough to keep, but that's beside the point.) Guess that will teach me to get all mystical on a nine-year-old...
The Pipes Are Callin'
This story was just too interesting not to share. On August 17th, 2010, another hero of World War II passed away. His name was Bill Millin, and he was the piper for Britain's 1st Special Service Brigade. During the invasion of Normandy, while his fellows were storming Sword Beach with rifles, he was playing the bagpipes to keep up moral. Amazing.
Read about it here. (h/t Jawa Report)
Read about it here. (h/t Jawa Report)
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
On Hurricanes
Hurricanes are amazing things. At the moment, Hurricane Earl is thundering toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina as a Category 3 storm (hurricane ratings explained here). For a great many of us in America, especially those of us in the Midwest, we have no idea what a hurricane is really like; they're reduced to satellite images and pictures on the news. Powerful images, certainly, but lacking perspective. I got some first-hand perspective on hurricanes during my honeymoon in 1995, when Hurricane Erin hit Florida.
My new bride and I were spending a week in a condo on Indian Rocks Beach, south of Clearwater and west of St. Petersburg, enjoying our first-floor corner digs. We were literally right on the beach, the sand being 20 feet away from the balcony of our bedroom. (The sunsets, always beautiful on the Gulf of Mexico, are downright magical when you can enjoy them from a private balcony with a drink in your hand.) We were a bit troubled when we heard the news of the impending storm, but more over how much beach time we would lose rather than any real danger. Then the clouds came, and the wind, and the beginnings of the rain, and my attitude began to change.
The night before the brunt of the storm hit, I was sitting on the balcony watching the waves leap and crash onto the beach. The winds were howling and driving whitecaps along the waves. I had been to that area of the Gulf several times as a kid, as my grandfather had lived in St. Pete since I before I was born. I had never before (or since, in my few times back) seen waves that large on the Gulf. The sea was just downright angry, or certainly looked it to me; Erin was only a Category 1 hurricane, so I can still only imagine being in the face of a Category 5 storm. I got an idea of just how strong the winds were thanks to a pelican. Right next to the condo building, on the south side, is a small bird sanctuary. Not that pelicans need a sanctuary, as they're all over the place, but they find it a convenient place to relax, I guess. I was standing, leaning on the rail, and happened to look over toward the sanctuary just as a pelican tried to take off. He fluttered for a bit, gained about 10 feet of altitude, and then was slammed down to earth by a gust of wind. Literally. Like a hand reached out of the storm and said, "You ain't goin' nowhere!" The bird was airborne, then grounded, just like that. He must have gotten the hint, because he waddled in between some bushes and stayed there.
The next day was was of the more interesting days of my life. My grandfather had called in the morning, offering to have us at his house if the storm got too much on the beach. We said thanks, but declined, and decided, of all things, to go to a movie (it was raining, wasn't it? And the movie was The Net, with Sandra Bullock). Getting into, and out of, the theatre, was like a kid's game show on Nickelodeon. One minute, the sky was bright and clear; the next, it was raining so hard you literally could not see 10 feet in front of you. And that could change in a matter of seconds. I remember trying to time our way back to the car after the movie. We waited for about 15 minutes, watching the rain/shine cycle replay, and finally decided to make a dash for the car. We almost made it. We ran through a very light sprinkle, reached the car, and as I was fumbling with the keys, the sky opened up. My wife and I dove into the car and managed to shut the doors just as a blinding sheet of rain swept through. And I do mean sheet. From where we were parked, there was a space between us and the next car...and the rain hid that car from our view completely.
The wind and the rain kept up that attitude for the rest of the day, which wasn't all that bad, really, as it provided us with an opportunity to have a romantic dinner in. It also provided us with some extra memories of our honeymoon. But I could do without one if we ever spend an anniversary there.
My new bride and I were spending a week in a condo on Indian Rocks Beach, south of Clearwater and west of St. Petersburg, enjoying our first-floor corner digs. We were literally right on the beach, the sand being 20 feet away from the balcony of our bedroom. (The sunsets, always beautiful on the Gulf of Mexico, are downright magical when you can enjoy them from a private balcony with a drink in your hand.) We were a bit troubled when we heard the news of the impending storm, but more over how much beach time we would lose rather than any real danger. Then the clouds came, and the wind, and the beginnings of the rain, and my attitude began to change.
The night before the brunt of the storm hit, I was sitting on the balcony watching the waves leap and crash onto the beach. The winds were howling and driving whitecaps along the waves. I had been to that area of the Gulf several times as a kid, as my grandfather had lived in St. Pete since I before I was born. I had never before (or since, in my few times back) seen waves that large on the Gulf. The sea was just downright angry, or certainly looked it to me; Erin was only a Category 1 hurricane, so I can still only imagine being in the face of a Category 5 storm. I got an idea of just how strong the winds were thanks to a pelican. Right next to the condo building, on the south side, is a small bird sanctuary. Not that pelicans need a sanctuary, as they're all over the place, but they find it a convenient place to relax, I guess. I was standing, leaning on the rail, and happened to look over toward the sanctuary just as a pelican tried to take off. He fluttered for a bit, gained about 10 feet of altitude, and then was slammed down to earth by a gust of wind. Literally. Like a hand reached out of the storm and said, "You ain't goin' nowhere!" The bird was airborne, then grounded, just like that. He must have gotten the hint, because he waddled in between some bushes and stayed there.
The next day was was of the more interesting days of my life. My grandfather had called in the morning, offering to have us at his house if the storm got too much on the beach. We said thanks, but declined, and decided, of all things, to go to a movie (it was raining, wasn't it? And the movie was The Net, with Sandra Bullock). Getting into, and out of, the theatre, was like a kid's game show on Nickelodeon. One minute, the sky was bright and clear; the next, it was raining so hard you literally could not see 10 feet in front of you. And that could change in a matter of seconds. I remember trying to time our way back to the car after the movie. We waited for about 15 minutes, watching the rain/shine cycle replay, and finally decided to make a dash for the car. We almost made it. We ran through a very light sprinkle, reached the car, and as I was fumbling with the keys, the sky opened up. My wife and I dove into the car and managed to shut the doors just as a blinding sheet of rain swept through. And I do mean sheet. From where we were parked, there was a space between us and the next car...and the rain hid that car from our view completely.
The wind and the rain kept up that attitude for the rest of the day, which wasn't all that bad, really, as it provided us with an opportunity to have a romantic dinner in. It also provided us with some extra memories of our honeymoon. But I could do without one if we ever spend an anniversary there.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Fantasy Season
Well, fantasy football season is here again. Something to make watching all those other games worthwhile, the ones you have players in, at least. I'm not quite sure what the appeal of fantasy football is; I resisted it for a long time myself, but now I'm going into my 8th season. New league (2 new leagues, actually), new teams, new rules. It should be fun, but being an optimist, I always say that. Fact is, the last 2 seasons for me have sucked big time. Injuries and running into everyone's hot week have gotten tiresome. I probably won't watch more football because of fantasy; less so, actually, as I'm now hopelessly addicted to deer hunting.
My first draft is in half an hour...here's to pretend pigskin!
My first draft is in half an hour...here's to pretend pigskin!
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