I don't watch much football these days, at least not the American kind. But lots of folks do, and we're all about inclusion at G:TB. So here's The Sundays singing about the summer. I definitely like Harriet Wheeler and summer.
Sunday, September 08, 2019
Friday, September 06, 2019
I Don't Work There No More
Many of us endeavor to play at the games that brought us joy (and pain) as younger men. Mark plays basketball. I play soccer. Dave wears visors. Danimal swims, bikes, and runs. Increasingly, our bodies send us signals that question the wisdom of such efforts. I sprained my ankle badly enough playing soccer last November that it still hurt in February, for example.
I recently set a personal fitness goal, putting a stake in the ground and saying that I plan to be playing soccer when I turn 60. Ambitious, perhaps, but even if I'm successful, I've got nothing on Ryuichi Nagayama.
The 86 year-old Nagayama is a physician in Tokyo. More relevant to our topic today, he also plays lock for the Fuwaka Rugby Club, which is comprised of players aged 40 and above. Fuwaka RC was founded in 1948, and is one of about 150 clubs in Japan that field over-40 squads.
“You tackle and battle each other, but the gathering after the play is so enjoyable and fun,” says Nagayama, who knows his way around a rugby party, and according to legend, fucks up 'I Used to Work in Chicago' on purpose so he can shoot the boot for kicks. (Pun not intended, but it made me giggle so I left it in.)
As I type these words, I know for a near certainty that Whitney and Mr. KQ are feeling an itch that they can't quite explain. In Whitney's case, there's medication for that.
Here's to Dr. Nagayama and to never really growing up.
I recently set a personal fitness goal, putting a stake in the ground and saying that I plan to be playing soccer when I turn 60. Ambitious, perhaps, but even if I'm successful, I've got nothing on Ryuichi Nagayama.
The 86 year-old Nagayama is a physician in Tokyo. More relevant to our topic today, he also plays lock for the Fuwaka Rugby Club, which is comprised of players aged 40 and above. Fuwaka RC was founded in 1948, and is one of about 150 clubs in Japan that field over-40 squads.
“You tackle and battle each other, but the gathering after the play is so enjoyable and fun,” says Nagayama, who knows his way around a rugby party, and according to legend, fucks up 'I Used to Work in Chicago' on purpose so he can shoot the boot for kicks. (Pun not intended, but it made me giggle so I left it in.)
As I type these words, I know for a near certainty that Whitney and Mr. KQ are feeling an itch that they can't quite explain. In Whitney's case, there's medication for that.
Here's to Dr. Nagayama and to never really growing up.
Wednesday, September 04, 2019
Gheorghasbord
Whittling some metaphorical sticks while avoiding grappling with the issues of our time. Here's what's rattling through the aging brain.
All right for me and the fam, too, which is a blessing. We spent last weekend at friends' river house at the confluence of the Rappahannock River and the Chesapeake Bay. Many of you know that we adopted a puppy a few months ago. This weekend was her first chance to really cut loose off the leash. Between the various families at the house, there were a total of five dogs. It was bedlam from breakfast to bedtime. There's a little salt pond on one side of the house, and our puppy, JoJo, discovered how much she loves water. There may be no return. Hard to imagine how much we love this goofy spaz that only entered our life in June.
I've been reading the New York Times' epic 1619 Project, which traces the history of slavery in America from its beginning to its undeniable impacts on our present day society. The project is comprised of a series of stories on a broad range of topics, from the actual mechanics of slavery, to enslaved people's impacts on music and art, to how slavery explains Atlanta's current fucked-up traffic patterns, among many things. It's unsparing, and it's hard to read. Predictably, elements of our intelligentsia call it leftist propaganda, probably without having read any of it. Regardless, it's important, and more of those of us who live comfortable lives free from ever having to personally confront what it's like to be the other should try to digest it. Slavery colors our world today, whether we try to deny it.
A little bit more whiplash to end these meanderings. Someone on Twitter posted yesterday that the President* stands like he's a centaur whose missing his hind legs and now I can't unsee that image. Here for your viewing pleasure.
Watched a bit of Federer/Dimitrov last night, an evening after watching Nadal play Maren Cilic. I texted Zman on Monday wondering how Nadal's body doesn't simply explode from the force he applies to his strokes. Lots of HGH, according to our expert. Nadal is 33 years old, Federer a preposterous 38. The Swiss star looked every one of those years last night, fading badly over the final two sets to lose his quarterfinal match to the journeyman Bulgarian. The Flushing Meadows crowd was visibly upset at the champion's wilting. He's defied time for an amazingly long stretch. Perhaps time's caught up. Fed's always had a pretty good perspective on his career, and he seems to understand what's important, saying post-match, “I’m looking forward to family time and all that stuff. So life’s all right.”
Life's all right, indeed.
 |
| My dog, thinking deep thoughts. Right before rolling in dead fish guts. |
Speaking of goofy spazzes, check out Charlie Slowes' call of Kurt Suzuki's walkoff homer from last night's Mets/Nationals game. As Whit noted in the comments from the previous post, the Mets blew a 10-4, 9th inning lead, giving up seven runs in the bottom of the 9th to lose 11-10. Thomas Boswell says it's one of the 20 worst losses in the long history of Major League Baseball. Ouch, babe.
Moving along, please fasten your seatbelts, because the jarring disconnect between the last nugget and the next may cause injury.The radio call of Kurt Suzuki's #WALKOFF home run is the song of the summer.@CharlieSlowes // @DaveJageler pic.twitter.com/bOavak1BxI— Washington Nationals (@Nationals) September 4, 2019
I've been reading the New York Times' epic 1619 Project, which traces the history of slavery in America from its beginning to its undeniable impacts on our present day society. The project is comprised of a series of stories on a broad range of topics, from the actual mechanics of slavery, to enslaved people's impacts on music and art, to how slavery explains Atlanta's current fucked-up traffic patterns, among many things. It's unsparing, and it's hard to read. Predictably, elements of our intelligentsia call it leftist propaganda, probably without having read any of it. Regardless, it's important, and more of those of us who live comfortable lives free from ever having to personally confront what it's like to be the other should try to digest it. Slavery colors our world today, whether we try to deny it.
A little bit more whiplash to end these meanderings. Someone on Twitter posted yesterday that the President* stands like he's a centaur whose missing his hind legs and now I can't unsee that image. Here for your viewing pleasure.
Monday, September 02, 2019
In Solidarity with Mark and Danimal
While Team Gheorghe sends well wishes to our Florida brethren, and in a desperate need for more #content, this morning I give you a smattering of songs associated with liquid water in the form of droplets that have condensed from atmospheric water vapor and then become heavy enough to fall under gravity. Please feel free to jump in the comments and tell me what I missed. In the immortal words of Ollie Williams, IT'S GON' RAIN!
Friday, August 30, 2019
Take Me to the River
Good morning, GheorghieFriends! A brief drop-by this morning for me, as I cap a four-week whirlwind of travel with a relatively short three-hour jaunt to Whitestone, VA, at the confluence of the Rappahannock River and the Chesapeake Bay. Our friends have a house there, and I plan to spend the next three days paddling around on a kayak, chasing my puppy around, and drinking too much good beer.
Al Green and Talking Heads played a song for me.
May you all have a labor-free Labor Day.
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
G:TB State Fair Month
Molten cream cheese hurts when it spills from within the crispy envelope of a perfectly fried pickle and lands on one's hand.
This was one of many things I learned when I visited the Minnesota State Fair last week.
Like the Teej before me, I ventured boldly into that Midwestern staple on a mission to see, smell, taste, and experience all of nature's bounty. At least all that can be fried.
I went with colleagues on the Fair's opening day. I was told by everyone that the first day of the Fair's two-week run is generally the best, because the grounds are in the best shape and the yellowjackets haven't yet figured out where the good trash cans are. Everyone was right.
The first day of this year's Fair set a new attendance record, with more than 133,000 Minnesotans (and me) passing through the turnstiles. As you can see in this shitty photo I took as I turned onto one of the main thoroughfares, that's a shitload of folks.
Shortly upon my entry, I met up with my team, and one of the fellas who works for me made it a point to grab me a beer. It's good to be the king. Our meeting point was Fresh French Fries (one of two on the 322-acre property). We met there because it's operated by the family of a colleague of mine. His father started the concession 40 years ago. It's grown to the point where each of the two stands go through 240,000 pounds of potatoes each year, and gross more than $1.2m in 12 days. My colleague Dan always takes vacation during the Fair to run one of the stands. Pretty tidy little business.
And so my first fried food of the Fair was all in the family.
After we scarfed a good helping of fries, we played some midway games. I lost at a shooting game where one shoots actual bb's at target, at whack-a-mole, and at that stupid game where you try to knock over three leaded bottles with a softball. Then I lost to Tony at bumper cars. Tony's a former Green Beret, so he knows how to handle his ride.
It was at that point that I went to the fried pickle stand. Man, do I love fried pickles. It turns out that I also love fried pickles with cream cheese, but I didn't learn that until after I received a second-degree burn on my hand and realized that the prudent course of action was to wait until they cooled down.
I recovered quickly, numbing the pain with another beer, before enjoying cheese curds, lefse, shrimp and grits balls, fried feta, and roasted corn in relatively rapid succession. I closed out my gustatory efforts with a sampler courtesy of the Minnesota Brewer's Guild.
I didn't take any pictures with my head inserted into a cartoon body, but I did visit The Current's booth, which was cool. I missed out on seeing Belinda Carlisle and Hootie & The Blowfish, because bad planning, but I saw Pete Buttigieg and Amy Klobuchar's teams working their booths with gusto. Saw the Trump booth, too, but gave it a wide berth.
Crowds annoy me as much as the next guy, and perhaps more, but the Minnesota Nice vibe in St. Paul, combined with postcard-perfect weather, several tasty brews, and gleeful work friends happy to be playing hooky to make for a most excellent afternoon. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.
Just let your cream cheese-filled fried treat cool for just a minute.
This was one of many things I learned when I visited the Minnesota State Fair last week.
Like the Teej before me, I ventured boldly into that Midwestern staple on a mission to see, smell, taste, and experience all of nature's bounty. At least all that can be fried.
I went with colleagues on the Fair's opening day. I was told by everyone that the first day of the Fair's two-week run is generally the best, because the grounds are in the best shape and the yellowjackets haven't yet figured out where the good trash cans are. Everyone was right.
The first day of this year's Fair set a new attendance record, with more than 133,000 Minnesotans (and me) passing through the turnstiles. As you can see in this shitty photo I took as I turned onto one of the main thoroughfares, that's a shitload of folks.
Shortly upon my entry, I met up with my team, and one of the fellas who works for me made it a point to grab me a beer. It's good to be the king. Our meeting point was Fresh French Fries (one of two on the 322-acre property). We met there because it's operated by the family of a colleague of mine. His father started the concession 40 years ago. It's grown to the point where each of the two stands go through 240,000 pounds of potatoes each year, and gross more than $1.2m in 12 days. My colleague Dan always takes vacation during the Fair to run one of the stands. Pretty tidy little business.
And so my first fried food of the Fair was all in the family.
After we scarfed a good helping of fries, we played some midway games. I lost at a shooting game where one shoots actual bb's at target, at whack-a-mole, and at that stupid game where you try to knock over three leaded bottles with a softball. Then I lost to Tony at bumper cars. Tony's a former Green Beret, so he knows how to handle his ride.
 |
| Trained killer, that Tony |
I recovered quickly, numbing the pain with another beer, before enjoying cheese curds, lefse, shrimp and grits balls, fried feta, and roasted corn in relatively rapid succession. I closed out my gustatory efforts with a sampler courtesy of the Minnesota Brewer's Guild.
I didn't take any pictures with my head inserted into a cartoon body, but I did visit The Current's booth, which was cool. I missed out on seeing Belinda Carlisle and Hootie & The Blowfish, because bad planning, but I saw Pete Buttigieg and Amy Klobuchar's teams working their booths with gusto. Saw the Trump booth, too, but gave it a wide berth.
Crowds annoy me as much as the next guy, and perhaps more, but the Minnesota Nice vibe in St. Paul, combined with postcard-perfect weather, several tasty brews, and gleeful work friends happy to be playing hooky to make for a most excellent afternoon. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.
Just let your cream cheese-filled fried treat cool for just a minute.
Sunday, August 25, 2019
Walkoff
With last night's surprise announcement from Andrew Luck fresh in our minds, a video tour of dudes who left us way too early. At least for the sake of our entertainment. They probably left right on time for their own purposes.
And one who left after a very full career on his very own terms.
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Group Participation Post
It's back to school time around the nation, and I suppose there are lots of photos of fresh-faced kidlets all over Facebook. I rarely go there anymore, so I'm missing out. So let's fill some space and brag on our progeny all at the same time.
Here are my two at 15 and 17. The one on the left is the younger, though she long ago passed her sister in height. It's the last first day of school for my 17 year-old, which caused no shortage of weepiness for my wife. That's a weird thing.
Danimal's Animals: 11, 8, 7. They are two weeks in because Florida. Happy Friday everyone! And in the last one hour, have spoken to two different work associates, one of whom dropped their oldest off to college, and the other the youngest. Message of the day - cherish the moments or whatever.
Here are my two at 15 and 17. The one on the left is the younger, though she long ago passed her sister in height. It's the last first day of school for my 17 year-old, which caused no shortage of weepiness for my wife. That's a weird thing.
Pile on below - let's see how handsome your kids, pets, nieces, nephews, etc, are. I know you're a good-looking bunch, so give us a look at the extended G:TB family at this milestone time.
Danimal's Animals: 11, 8, 7. They are two weeks in because Florida. Happy Friday everyone! And in the last one hour, have spoken to two different work associates, one of whom dropped their oldest off to college, and the other the youngest. Message of the day - cherish the moments or whatever.
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
Back in the Saddle
The days during and following the annual OBFT interlude tend to be sparse here from both a content perspective and the quality of thought on offer. I aim to make no particular improvement in the latter, though I suppose this is definitive evidence of the former.
I understand that my man TR is in need of some balm for his injured self, and so I offer this obituary headline from today's Washington Post:
This could be an exercise in prurience, but in actual fact, Mr. Whittington was a serious archivist of things pornographic. Employed by the Library of Congress for his entire professional career, Whittington cataloged such things as telephone books at work ("I was in charge of every phone book in the freaking world.") and developed a collection of more than 5,000 recordings of blues and doo-wop music in his spare time.
But porn was his passion, curatorially speaking. In a 2002 article in the Post, he explained his collection: “I have bawdy house coins from whorehouses in the 1860s,” he told gettingit.com. “One coin says, ‘10 cents for lookie, 25 cents for feelie, 50 cents for doie.’ I have one film from 1913 called ‘Free Ride,’ which is supposed to be [the] oldest film they’ve found in the U.S.”
He had a copy of the first commercial sex videotape sold to the general public, a version of “Deep Throat” playable only on an obsolete Betamax machine. Mr. Whittington had a Betamax player, of course, but one piece of equipment he never owned was a computer. As a result, his expertise remained rooted in the era before magazines and videotapes gave way to the Internet."
Whittington sold most of his collection in 1999 to the Museum of Sex, but retained a few items that appealed to his sense of history. And while he had the collection, he had an amusing attitude towards the views of others, saying, “When people come here, at least I don’t bore them,” he said. “They may leave shaking their heads, but they’re not bored.”
Get to work, TR. I've found something that'll keep your mind off the pain.
I understand that my man TR is in need of some balm for his injured self, and so I offer this obituary headline from today's Washington Post:
Ralph Whittington, erotica collector extraordinaire, dies at 74
But porn was his passion, curatorially speaking. In a 2002 article in the Post, he explained his collection: “I have bawdy house coins from whorehouses in the 1860s,” he told gettingit.com. “One coin says, ‘10 cents for lookie, 25 cents for feelie, 50 cents for doie.’ I have one film from 1913 called ‘Free Ride,’ which is supposed to be [the] oldest film they’ve found in the U.S.”
He had a copy of the first commercial sex videotape sold to the general public, a version of “Deep Throat” playable only on an obsolete Betamax machine. Mr. Whittington had a Betamax player, of course, but one piece of equipment he never owned was a computer. As a result, his expertise remained rooted in the era before magazines and videotapes gave way to the Internet."
Whittington sold most of his collection in 1999 to the Museum of Sex, but retained a few items that appealed to his sense of history. And while he had the collection, he had an amusing attitude towards the views of others, saying, “When people come here, at least I don’t bore them,” he said. “They may leave shaking their heads, but they’re not bored.”
Get to work, TR. I've found something that'll keep your mind off the pain.
Friday, August 16, 2019
Goon for Goons
A not insignificant contingent of Gheorghies is tearing it up at OBFT. They could probably use more content. In an effort to facilitate good times, I’ve embedded “Heaven is Humming,” a new album by a new-ish band called Goon. Squeaky and Dave will like it because it sounds like other stuff they like. Whit will like it because he likes everything. Everyone else will tolerate it because they’re too drunk to care.
I think it sounds like My Bloody Valentine smushed with Alice in Chains. "Northern Saturn" and "Critter" are my faves so far. Enjoy.
I think it sounds like My Bloody Valentine smushed with Alice in Chains. "Northern Saturn" and "Critter" are my faves so far. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 14, 2019
What's With the Whitneys?
It's been a busy week for the Whitneys. We had a team conference call yesterday, and whew, there's just a lot going on.
Whitney Houston, still the most famous Whitney among us despite leaving the World o' Whitneys in 2012, was celebrated once again last week on what would have been her 56th birthday. In addition, a Hologram Tour is being planned -- you know, in which you would go to a Whitney Houston concert even though she died seven years before. They say:
The band Whitney, last spotted in the Gheorghie Dome in a 2016 post that included a felchy video, has a follow-up album set to release in two weeks. It's called Forever Turned Around, and it features the lead single below, "Giving Up." The falsetto is still there, and it's the same variety of pleasant sleepop that will put a little spring in your . . . bed so you can get those precious moments of REM (the sleep, not the band).
A. Whitney Brown, last seen blogging politically a couple of years ago, apparently gave that up after the cataclysmic election of 2016. But just last week, he appeared in Austin with Lauren Hough and Shannon McCormick for a public reading of Volume II of the Mueller Report. So there's that.
Eli Whitney, generally regarded as the most important among Team Whitney, reported to the group that he was still dead, as was the modern usage of his cotton gin. Frankly, this member of our unit has been coasting a bit of late and could use some newsworthy action to surround him.
Whitney Cummings, comedienne extraordinaire, has been all over social media the past couple of days. It seems that sometime recently she accidentally posted a semi-nude picture of herself on Instagram, deleting it quickly but not quickly enough to keep some scoundrels from capturing it and threatening to make it public unless she paid them. Coolly, she turned the event on its ear by posting the unabridged nipple pic herself. Amusingly, fans and strangers have responded by posting embarrassing and/or nude pics of themselves. And if she engineered this stunt as a promotional tool, then color me impressed. The full pic is here, for you pervs.
Gheorghie Whitney, well he's still here. Thursday is his first day on the 26th Annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip. Today, meanwhile, is his last day at his current job. After eight years working for a nonprofit serving people with disabilities -- his role being to find and create jobs for people with disabilities -- it's time to move on. The new gig is in workforce development and involves talent development. The "talent" isn't what you think, pervs. It's a reasonably high-profile position for him, locally speaking, and there may be some resultant absence and/or pseudonymmetry at G:TB ahead. Perhaps not. There will certainly be plenty more 3rd person usage.
Anyway, like I said, it's been a heck of a week in Whitney World.
Whitney Houston, still the most famous Whitney among us despite leaving the World o' Whitneys in 2012, was celebrated once again last week on what would have been her 56th birthday. In addition, a Hologram Tour is being planned -- you know, in which you would go to a Whitney Houston concert even though she died seven years before. They say:In a BASE Hologram production, audiences are not watching a show, they are drawn into an ultra-realistic experience where fantasy becomes reality. More importantly, they are interacting, applauding and enjoying the production together, which is the basis for all communal entertainment.It's akin to what we are doing at this year's fishing trip with Dave not being able to make it, or when you can't see Rob because of the fairly tall bar at Tortuga's.
The band Whitney, last spotted in the Gheorghie Dome in a 2016 post that included a felchy video, has a follow-up album set to release in two weeks. It's called Forever Turned Around, and it features the lead single below, "Giving Up." The falsetto is still there, and it's the same variety of pleasant sleepop that will put a little spring in your . . . bed so you can get those precious moments of REM (the sleep, not the band).
Eli Whitney, generally regarded as the most important among Team Whitney, reported to the group that he was still dead, as was the modern usage of his cotton gin. Frankly, this member of our unit has been coasting a bit of late and could use some newsworthy action to surround him.
Whitney Cummings, comedienne extraordinaire, has been all over social media the past couple of days. It seems that sometime recently she accidentally posted a semi-nude picture of herself on Instagram, deleting it quickly but not quickly enough to keep some scoundrels from capturing it and threatening to make it public unless she paid them. Coolly, she turned the event on its ear by posting the unabridged nipple pic herself. Amusingly, fans and strangers have responded by posting embarrassing and/or nude pics of themselves. And if she engineered this stunt as a promotional tool, then color me impressed. The full pic is here, for you pervs.Gheorghie Whitney, well he's still here. Thursday is his first day on the 26th Annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip. Today, meanwhile, is his last day at his current job. After eight years working for a nonprofit serving people with disabilities -- his role being to find and create jobs for people with disabilities -- it's time to move on. The new gig is in workforce development and involves talent development. The "talent" isn't what you think, pervs. It's a reasonably high-profile position for him, locally speaking, and there may be some resultant absence and/or pseudonymmetry at G:TB ahead. Perhaps not. There will certainly be plenty more 3rd person usage.
Anyway, like I said, it's been a heck of a week in Whitney World.
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
Living on a Fair
My twitter timeline has been bombarded the last few days with news that 2020 Democratic Presidential hopefuls are hitting the Iowa State Fair, presumably to try and win the hearts and minds of those corn-loving folks who have too much influence in Presidential politics, but also I presume to consume mass amounts of delicious fair food.
Here's a full list of the new 2019 foods at the Iowa State Fair. Some of my favorites...
If you'd like some balls in your mouth:
Berkshire Bacon Balls on a Stick
X-Treme Balls
I'm always a big proponent of any food item placed on a stick:
Chicken Parmesan Stick
Brownie Waffle Stick
Chocolate Brownie Waffle Stick
How 'bout dem apples:
Apple Cider Shake Up
Apple Fritter Funnel Cake
Apple Nachos
Apple Slices with Fresh Ground Honey Roasted Peanut Butter
Boozy Pecan Caramel Apple
Caramel Apple Bites
Caramel Apple Cider Shake
Salted Caramel Apple Shake
Poutine on the Ritz:
Dessert Poutine
Double Pork Poutine
Slaughter House Poutine
Rainbow Poutine
Chicken Bacon Ranch Poutine
Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops taste gooood:
Bacon Wrapped Pig Wings
Bauder Ultimate Bacon Crisp
Smoked Ham & Eggs
Tangled Onion Pork Po-Boy
Chuckie's Pork Strip Basket
As you might recall, I too enjoy fair foods. I jumped in the wayback machine, and found my trip to the Indiana State Fair in the GTB archives. Here, in it's entirety, is that now ten-year old opus:
Some of you may remember I had a pretty fun time at the fair last year, so I figured this time around I'd chronicle my gastronomical conquests in picture form for our loyal readers (right now rob is sobbing in his office, realizing this is the post that pushes his LeBron extravaganza down the page). No more intro required, let the gluttony begin...
12:29pm
Regular corn dog, small diet Pepsi
I mean, it's the fair. You've got to start with a corn dog. And you have to be careful in your corn dog selections - they need to be fresh out of the fryer or else they're not worth it. If you go to a stand that only has corn dogs rotating on a rack, move on. It's not like you're limited in corn dog stand choices.
12:46pm
Pick up free Blow Pop from Better Business Bureau of Indiana at ridiculous Expo Hall
The BBB slogan? "Don't Be a Sucker". Seriously folks, the team of monkeys you had working around the clock couldn't come up with something better? [Note: Blow Pop was eaten as "dessert" exactly 12 hours later]
12:53pm
Sample Shoup's new hogburger
It's freakin' delicious. Went back through the line two more times.
1:59pm
Photo op with Indiana state hero Veal Armstrong...and a talking goat
Stepping into the different animal barns at the fair is like walking through a portal into another dimension. A dimension of denim and poor dental hygiene. Hard to describe, but entertaining as all hell.
Here's a full list of the new 2019 foods at the Iowa State Fair. Some of my favorites...
If you'd like some balls in your mouth:
Berkshire Bacon Balls on a Stick
X-Treme Balls
I'm always a big proponent of any food item placed on a stick:
Chicken Parmesan Stick
Brownie Waffle Stick
Chocolate Brownie Waffle Stick
How 'bout dem apples:
Apple Cider Shake Up
Apple Fritter Funnel Cake
Apple Nachos
Apple Slices with Fresh Ground Honey Roasted Peanut Butter
Boozy Pecan Caramel Apple
Caramel Apple Bites
Caramel Apple Cider Shake
Salted Caramel Apple Shake
Poutine on the Ritz:
Dessert Poutine
Double Pork Poutine
Slaughter House Poutine
Rainbow Poutine
Chicken Bacon Ranch Poutine
Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops taste gooood:
Bacon Wrapped Pig Wings
Bauder Ultimate Bacon Crisp
Smoked Ham & Eggs
Tangled Onion Pork Po-Boy
Chuckie's Pork Strip Basket
As you might recall, I too enjoy fair foods. I jumped in the wayback machine, and found my trip to the Indiana State Fair in the GTB archives. Here, in it's entirety, is that now ten-year old opus:
Some of you may remember I had a pretty fun time at the fair last year, so I figured this time around I'd chronicle my gastronomical conquests in picture form for our loyal readers (right now rob is sobbing in his office, realizing this is the post that pushes his LeBron extravaganza down the page). No more intro required, let the gluttony begin...
12:15pm
Arrive at the fair
It's 95 degrees and humid as shit. I'm a moron and didn't wear a t-shirt. Land war in Asia...now this blunder. Tough start to day.
Arrive at the fair
It's 95 degrees and humid as shit. I'm a moron and didn't wear a t-shirt. Land war in Asia...now this blunder. Tough start to day.
12:29pm
Regular corn dog, small diet Pepsi
I mean, it's the fair. You've got to start with a corn dog. And you have to be careful in your corn dog selections - they need to be fresh out of the fryer or else they're not worth it. If you go to a stand that only has corn dogs rotating on a rack, move on. It's not like you're limited in corn dog stand choices.
12:46pm
Pick up free Blow Pop from Better Business Bureau of Indiana at ridiculous Expo Hall
The BBB slogan? "Don't Be a Sucker". Seriously folks, the team of monkeys you had working around the clock couldn't come up with something better? [Note: Blow Pop was eaten as "dessert" exactly 12 hours later]
12:53pm
Sample Shoup's new hogburger
It's freakin' delicious. Went back through the line two more times.
1:59pm
Photo op with Indiana state hero Veal Armstrong...and a talking goat
Stepping into the different animal barns at the fair is like walking through a portal into another dimension. A dimension of denim and poor dental hygiene. Hard to describe, but entertaining as all hell.
2:16pm
Pulled pork BBQ sandwich from the Indiana Pork Association, another diet Pepsi
You like how I keep getting the diet sodas, as if that's gonna make a difference?
You like how I keep getting the diet sodas, as if that's gonna make a difference?
2:21pm
Snack on other people's absurd World Famous King Taters
What exactly are they, you say? Take a look.
3:33pm
Fish fry (jackson pollock white fish), yet another small diet Pepsi
The fish fry stand had zero shade around it. I almost passed out waiting for this item.
Snack on other people's absurd World Famous King Taters
What exactly are they, you say? Take a look.
3:33pm
Fish fry (jackson pollock white fish), yet another small diet Pepsi
The fish fry stand had zero shade around it. I almost passed out waiting for this item.
5:00pm
Ribeye steak sandwich at Indiana Beef Association tent, a Lemonade
Starting to develop some serious stomach issues at this point, had to stop halfway through this sandwich as I had the meat sweats. Genuine concern is starting to show on the folks I am at the fair with. Burgess Meredith urges me on.
Ribeye steak sandwich at Indiana Beef Association tent, a Lemonade
Starting to develop some serious stomach issues at this point, had to stop halfway through this sandwich as I had the meat sweats. Genuine concern is starting to show on the folks I am at the fair with. Burgess Meredith urges me on.
6:09pm
Deep fried pizza, more diet Pepsi
In six hours I've developed diabetes and have surely clogged three arteries. And a big middle finger to deep fried pizza. What a disappointment. I assumed we would take a slice of pie, dip it in a fryer, and then hand it to me. Nope - the dough is simply fried and then lathered with marinara sauce and some cheese. Of course I still ate the whole damn thing.
Deep fried pizza, more diet Pepsi
In six hours I've developed diabetes and have surely clogged three arteries. And a big middle finger to deep fried pizza. What a disappointment. I assumed we would take a slice of pie, dip it in a fryer, and then hand it to me. Nope - the dough is simply fried and then lathered with marinara sauce and some cheese. Of course I still ate the whole damn thing.
7:05pm
Deep fried cookie dough
Anyone had a portable defibrillator?
Deep fried cookie dough
Anyone had a portable defibrillator?
8:45pm
One chicken tender, one fry, one ping only
By now we are at the Keith Urban concert at the fair (I would never be called a country music fan by any stretch, but I have now seen this guy twice, and he puts on a damn good show). Apparently, if you are a female going to a Keith Urban concert, you wear daisy dukes so short the pockets show and cowboy boots that make you like like an Amarillo whore. And you wear that no matter what shape or size you are. I was partially blinded by some of the sartorial choices.
One chicken tender, one fry, one ping only
By now we are at the Keith Urban concert at the fair (I would never be called a country music fan by any stretch, but I have now seen this guy twice, and he puts on a damn good show). Apparently, if you are a female going to a Keith Urban concert, you wear daisy dukes so short the pockets show and cowboy boots that make you like like an Amarillo whore. And you wear that no matter what shape or size you are. I was partially blinded by some of the sartorial choices.
11:48pm
Exit fair.
Exit fair.
Victory pose. Note corndog stick in right hand.
Obviously, I have no choice but to go back next year. However, I need your help in deciding how I'll entertain myself in Year 3, without ended up in the ICU of St. Vincent's.
Friday, August 09, 2019
A Part of History
This evening in Leesburg, Virginia, I'll be one of 5,000 people to attend the very first game at Segra Field, the home of Loudoun United. The Loudoun team is the USL affiliate of DC United, competing in the second division of American professional soccer.
Loudoun United is in the midst of its inaugural season as a franchise. Despite having no real home of its own (the team has played at Audi Field in DC and various small venues in the area), the squad has carved out a respectable 5-4-9 record, good for 14th in the 18-team league. Of note, the local side trounced defending USL champions Louisville City, 3-0, on July 28.
Most of you will recall the vital role yours truly played in ensuring our local political officials approved the stadium plan for Loudoun United. Humility being my general modus operandi, I don't take credit for it. But I think we all know how big a deal I am. Just happy to help, really.
As I scan the USL standings, it's a bit of a kick to see Loudoun County, my home, listed among places like Charlotte, Indianapolis, Louisville, Memphis, Atlanta, and Ottawa. The team is putting us on the map, baby.
For those that follow these things, there's a W&M connection at play tonight, as well. Antonio Bustamante, W&M Class of 2019, is a striker for Loudoun United. In the aforementioned 3-0 win over Louisville City, he scored his first professional goal and recorded an assist. The buildup to the tally starts around 0:15 in the video below:
The stadium is a little gem of a thing, just down the hill from my local youth club's facility. In the coming year, DC United also plans to build a new headquarters facility in the same area, moving their training operations to Leesburg, as well. Soccer mecca, y'all.
I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't excited about tonight's game and the team's presence in my town. As the game grows in our country, and I work to help kids grow as people and players, this is a pretty damn cool thing.
Viva Loudoun!
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The outlying elements of the stadium aren't quite complete, but we're ready to kick off this evening.
Our soccer Club's complex is in the center-left part of the image, up the hill from Segra Field. |
Most of you will recall the vital role yours truly played in ensuring our local political officials approved the stadium plan for Loudoun United. Humility being my general modus operandi, I don't take credit for it. But I think we all know how big a deal I am. Just happy to help, really.
As I scan the USL standings, it's a bit of a kick to see Loudoun County, my home, listed among places like Charlotte, Indianapolis, Louisville, Memphis, Atlanta, and Ottawa. The team is putting us on the map, baby.
For those that follow these things, there's a W&M connection at play tonight, as well. Antonio Bustamante, W&M Class of 2019, is a striker for Loudoun United. In the aforementioned 3-0 win over Louisville City, he scored his first professional goal and recorded an assist. The buildup to the tally starts around 0:15 in the video below:
The stadium is a little gem of a thing, just down the hill from my local youth club's facility. In the coming year, DC United also plans to build a new headquarters facility in the same area, moving their training operations to Leesburg, as well. Soccer mecca, y'all.
I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't excited about tonight's game and the team's presence in my town. As the game grows in our country, and I work to help kids grow as people and players, this is a pretty damn cool thing.
Viva Loudoun!
Wednesday, August 07, 2019
Excerpt from an Autobiography
BBD's "Poison" used to play incessantly in the Pizza Hut delivery/take-out store on Monticello Avenue in 1990.
Rob and Doug Malone and I would make pizzas and fold boxes and clean the store. Orders would come in and we would rush out to get it to them within 30 minutes or . . . you know. Rob drove his Escort, when the steering wheel worked. I drove my Accord. Doug drove an old Audi with New York plates, evincing his Long Island heritage and Yankee demeanor.
It's driving me out of my mind
That's why it's hard for me to find
Upon our return to the store, we'd rejoin the motley cast of characters. Big Bruce, the elephantitic young fellow. The married couple working together, which was kind of an amusing novelty until we later learned they'd once been jailed for pedophilia. Such can be an impediment to gainful employment, so fold a box and take the next call for a Meat Lover's at the Rodeway Inn, you two.
Can't get it outta my head
Miss her, kiss her, love her
Rob kept me from getting fired one time when I ducked out to go to Harborfest in Norfolk. I never properly punched him in the face for doing that. We all three were nearly terminated when we skipped out in favor of Buffett at Cary Field. That weekend we delivered nothing, nothing but stupid jokes and drunken attempts at romance with our then-and-not-future girlfriends. It was a soundtrack reprieve. Somewhat.
You got fins to the left, fins to the right
And you're the only bait in town
Soon, though, it was back to the Hut, and not some Buffettian bungalow . . . though that word shares a syllable with what Pizza Hut represented to us. I kept drawing snake eyes on deliveries: a trailer here, Bruce Hornsby's dad there. The latter notorious for issuing an Andrew Jackson on his repeated, identical $19.70 order and telling drivers to keep the change. That's just the way it was, and some things would never change. Or qualify as "change."
Ah, but don't you believe them
To look back and think of the torment of that summer . . . the three classes I "took" in the Department Soon To Be Known As My Former Major . . . the marathon 1985 season of Strat-o-matic baseball sprawled out across a misnomer of a dining room table . . . MTV . . . the incessant mockery 'twixt the finest collection of my college era's comic comrades ever assembled, a clown-car residence of 6 adult males in a 2 BR/1 BA . . . the 40 ounces per vessel and the 4 dollars per hour . . . and the Bell . . . and the Biv . . . and the DeVoe . . .
That girl is poisonnnnnnnn
Never trust a big butt and smile
Years later. Decades later. I'm re-enrolled in the College. As a free treat on the evening of the last class of the summer 2019 session, there's a stack of large, 16" circular gestures topped variably for the students. From the Hut. That food is poison.
Poisonnnnnnnn
Folks around my world are always stunned when I inform them that this episode, this small chapter of magnets on car doors and punch-clocks and embossed name plates and differing definitions of "supreme" and taking pies home to housemates and gas bills (but $1.15/gal) and three bad brothers two of whom you know so well and the endless box making and the really, really endless playing of BBD, I mean endless nonstop ceaseless and any other way you and Roget could label it, it . . . well, it created this devastatingly amusing and despondently sad cry for help, the kind of help like you need if you ingested
P O I S O N N N N N N N
Rob and Doug Malone and I would make pizzas and fold boxes and clean the store. Orders would come in and we would rush out to get it to them within 30 minutes or . . . you know. Rob drove his Escort, when the steering wheel worked. I drove my Accord. Doug drove an old Audi with New York plates, evincing his Long Island heritage and Yankee demeanor.
It's driving me out of my mind
That's why it's hard for me to find
Upon our return to the store, we'd rejoin the motley cast of characters. Big Bruce, the elephantitic young fellow. The married couple working together, which was kind of an amusing novelty until we later learned they'd once been jailed for pedophilia. Such can be an impediment to gainful employment, so fold a box and take the next call for a Meat Lover's at the Rodeway Inn, you two.
Can't get it outta my head
Miss her, kiss her, love her
Rob kept me from getting fired one time when I ducked out to go to Harborfest in Norfolk. I never properly punched him in the face for doing that. We all three were nearly terminated when we skipped out in favor of Buffett at Cary Field. That weekend we delivered nothing, nothing but stupid jokes and drunken attempts at romance with our then-and-not-future girlfriends. It was a soundtrack reprieve. Somewhat.
You got fins to the left, fins to the right
And you're the only bait in town
Soon, though, it was back to the Hut, and not some Buffettian bungalow . . . though that word shares a syllable with what Pizza Hut represented to us. I kept drawing snake eyes on deliveries: a trailer here, Bruce Hornsby's dad there. The latter notorious for issuing an Andrew Jackson on his repeated, identical $19.70 order and telling drivers to keep the change. That's just the way it was, and some things would never change. Or qualify as "change."
Ah, but don't you believe them
To look back and think of the torment of that summer . . . the three classes I "took" in the Department Soon To Be Known As My Former Major . . . the marathon 1985 season of Strat-o-matic baseball sprawled out across a misnomer of a dining room table . . . MTV . . . the incessant mockery 'twixt the finest collection of my college era's comic comrades ever assembled, a clown-car residence of 6 adult males in a 2 BR/1 BA . . . the 40 ounces per vessel and the 4 dollars per hour . . . and the Bell . . . and the Biv . . . and the DeVoe . . .
That girl is poisonnnnnnnn
Never trust a big butt and smile
Years later. Decades later. I'm re-enrolled in the College. As a free treat on the evening of the last class of the summer 2019 session, there's a stack of large, 16" circular gestures topped variably for the students. From the Hut. That food is poison.
Poisonnnnnnnn
Folks around my world are always stunned when I inform them that this episode, this small chapter of magnets on car doors and punch-clocks and embossed name plates and differing definitions of "supreme" and taking pies home to housemates and gas bills (but $1.15/gal) and three bad brothers two of whom you know so well and the endless box making and the really, really endless playing of BBD, I mean endless nonstop ceaseless and any other way you and Roget could label it, it . . . well, it created this devastatingly amusing and despondently sad cry for help, the kind of help like you need if you ingested
P O I S O N N N N N N N
Monday, August 05, 2019
A Solution to All of Our Problems
Usually, I meander my way through the beginnings of a post, constructing a comma-filled and clause-ridden introduction that defies everything I was taught as a high school journalism student about who, what, where, when, how lede construction. Not today, though. No sir. Not today. Today, I'm gonna get right to the point, quickly, succinctly, without fanfare. In fact, I'm not even going to use my own words, such a hurry I'm in to tell you about what may well be the biggest news of the week. Possibly of the year. Or maybe of all time. Hard to say, really, as I'm not a scientist, or a historian. But still, really big news. Here's what National Geographic has to say about it. It being the big news:
"A tiny, old star just 12 light-years away might host two temperate, rocky planets, astronomers announced today. If they’re confirmed, both of the newly spotted worlds are nearly identical to Earth in mass, and both planets are in orbits that could allow liquid water to trickle and puddle on their surfaces."
Shit.
With all that said, I actually buried the lede. The star's name, my friends, is most fortuitous.
I give you Teegarden's star:
Teeg's star, as you've undoubtedly concluded, is very close in name to Teej's star. And while we all know that Jess is Teej's terrestrial star, the celestial version, being so close to our own solar system, offers us potential salvation.
Those planets, that's what I'm thinking about. We're fucking ours up something fierce. We need options. Teej's star gives us exactly that.
We're gonna jump into big-ass spaceships, Battlestar Galactica-style, don our best funky socks and Brian Posehn t-shirts, and colonize those motherfuckers. We're starting over as a race, and Teej is gonna lead us. No nazi sympathizers. No guns allowed. People of all shapes, sizes, colors, sexual orientation, and creeds. Except for Mike Pence's creed. Some things shouldn't be tolerated.
Garden of Eden, meet Teej's Garden of Olive. All you can eat breadsticks with a hate-free trompe l'oeil backdrop. We've solved the problem.
Hallelujah.
"A tiny, old star just 12 light-years away might host two temperate, rocky planets, astronomers announced today. If they’re confirmed, both of the newly spotted worlds are nearly identical to Earth in mass, and both planets are in orbits that could allow liquid water to trickle and puddle on their surfaces."
Shit.
With all that said, I actually buried the lede. The star's name, my friends, is most fortuitous.
I give you Teegarden's star:
Teeg's star, as you've undoubtedly concluded, is very close in name to Teej's star. And while we all know that Jess is Teej's terrestrial star, the celestial version, being so close to our own solar system, offers us potential salvation.
Those planets, that's what I'm thinking about. We're fucking ours up something fierce. We need options. Teej's star gives us exactly that.
We're gonna jump into big-ass spaceships, Battlestar Galactica-style, don our best funky socks and Brian Posehn t-shirts, and colonize those motherfuckers. We're starting over as a race, and Teej is gonna lead us. No nazi sympathizers. No guns allowed. People of all shapes, sizes, colors, sexual orientation, and creeds. Except for Mike Pence's creed. Some things shouldn't be tolerated.
Garden of Eden, meet Teej's Garden of Olive. All you can eat breadsticks with a hate-free trompe l'oeil backdrop. We've solved the problem.
Hallelujah.
Sunday, August 04, 2019
I Know It When I Hear It
Shoutout to Justice Potter Stewart in today's filler: The New Pornographers have announced a new record, entitled In the Morse Code of Brake Lights. It'll be released on September 27. Of note, A.C. Newman, Neko Case, and the gang will be at the 9:30 Club on November 5, should anyone like to join me.
Here's the first single from the new album, "Falling Down the Stairs of Your Smile":
Here's the first single from the new album, "Falling Down the Stairs of Your Smile":
Friday, August 02, 2019
Llenwer
We need filler. Our Doofus Overlord is in Wales. Et voila! Videos from my favorite Welsh band.
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Hope Springas Eternal
Several of us are approaching a time in modern life commonly expressed in negative terms. Midlife crisis seems so harsh, really. Richard Ford talked about "the existence period" in Independence Day, as protagonist Frank Bascombe moved through his mid-40s in "the condition of honest independence" following a divorce and reordering of his life. I always found that a little melancholy, to be honest.
No, we need something else for our not-yet-but-we-can-see-it-from-here-over-the-hill gang. A modest proposal from me, then. In the spirit of youth being wasted on the young, I call for a reimagining of social norms. I call, my friends, for adult rumspringa. Or as Whitney knows it, life. Apparently it will involve karaoke.
I'm still working on the details, so I could use a little help. Our bodies can't take the fast life like they used to, so we probably need to limit the duration of our sabbatical from the real world. Amish kids get two years. We don't really need that much.
So let's say we get a 90-day break from the real world.
Our companies have to give us our jobs when we return, but they don't have to pay us while we're away. While I'm still waiting to hear any of the candidates in tonight's Democratic Presidential debate mention it, this seems like an excellent opportunity for the Federal Government to test Universal Basic Income for middle-aged people. We could take an advance on our Social Security to finance our alternate reality. The Gheorgheverse ranks among the generally fortunate, from a socio-economic perspective, so we've got to figure out how to make this public policy work for everyone, or it's one more privilege that we'll need to check.
Airlines and other travel entities will offer discounted fares for springers. (That's what they'll call us. I'm working on it.) Those of us that are married or in relationships can bring our significant others with us. It's not The Purge, you jerks. And we're not looking to sew wild oats, just mild oats.
Like the spring breaks of our youth, there will likely be concentrations of springers in warm, laid-back places, but they'll have better accommodations - Japanese toilets, for example. And we won't have to sleep 2-3 per bed, unless we choose to do so.
The bands of our youth will have permanent gigs. Hell, Whit and I just saw Elvis Costello and Blondie, and they still sound good. For the metalhead set, Bang Tango and Faster Pussycat are still touring. Just bring earplugs.
We're so much better at eating now than we were then, so the food had better be good. But not too rich. Maybe a plant-based springer package, then.
Reading back through my thoughtfully constructed proposal, I realize that I've basically described a very pleasant, if short, retirement. Ah, fuck it. If you can't say it, you can't do it.
Did I mention that springer haunts will play the movies of our adolescence.
No, we need something else for our not-yet-but-we-can-see-it-from-here-over-the-hill gang. A modest proposal from me, then. In the spirit of youth being wasted on the young, I call for a reimagining of social norms. I call, my friends, for adult rumspringa. Or as Whitney knows it, life. Apparently it will involve karaoke.I'm still working on the details, so I could use a little help. Our bodies can't take the fast life like they used to, so we probably need to limit the duration of our sabbatical from the real world. Amish kids get two years. We don't really need that much.
So let's say we get a 90-day break from the real world.
Our companies have to give us our jobs when we return, but they don't have to pay us while we're away. While I'm still waiting to hear any of the candidates in tonight's Democratic Presidential debate mention it, this seems like an excellent opportunity for the Federal Government to test Universal Basic Income for middle-aged people. We could take an advance on our Social Security to finance our alternate reality. The Gheorgheverse ranks among the generally fortunate, from a socio-economic perspective, so we've got to figure out how to make this public policy work for everyone, or it's one more privilege that we'll need to check.
Airlines and other travel entities will offer discounted fares for springers. (That's what they'll call us. I'm working on it.) Those of us that are married or in relationships can bring our significant others with us. It's not The Purge, you jerks. And we're not looking to sew wild oats, just mild oats.
Like the spring breaks of our youth, there will likely be concentrations of springers in warm, laid-back places, but they'll have better accommodations - Japanese toilets, for example. And we won't have to sleep 2-3 per bed, unless we choose to do so.
The bands of our youth will have permanent gigs. Hell, Whit and I just saw Elvis Costello and Blondie, and they still sound good. For the metalhead set, Bang Tango and Faster Pussycat are still touring. Just bring earplugs.We're so much better at eating now than we were then, so the food had better be good. But not too rich. Maybe a plant-based springer package, then.
Reading back through my thoughtfully constructed proposal, I realize that I've basically described a very pleasant, if short, retirement. Ah, fuck it. If you can't say it, you can't do it.
Did I mention that springer haunts will play the movies of our adolescence.
Monday, July 29, 2019
Real American Hero
Slow days around these parts, what with the heat and the mid-summer vacation season in full swing. I think our loyal readership could use a bit of a boost. Something with energy, and verve, and all kinds of whimsy.
Craig Engels is the cure for what ails a body.
Engels is an American distance runner, primarily known for his prowess in 800 and 1500m races. In fact, he just upset reigning Olympic gold medalist Matthew Centrowitz to win the national title in the 1500m.
That's cool, and all.
But once you get a look at Engels in all of his free-flowing glory, you'll understand why we celebrate him today. You really only need the description at the 0:16 mark to get the point, but watch the whole race just for kicks.
The flow is real.
Craig Engels is the cure for what ails a body.
Engels is an American distance runner, primarily known for his prowess in 800 and 1500m races. In fact, he just upset reigning Olympic gold medalist Matthew Centrowitz to win the national title in the 1500m.
That's cool, and all.
But once you get a look at Engels in all of his free-flowing glory, you'll understand why we celebrate him today. You really only need the description at the 0:16 mark to get the point, but watch the whole race just for kicks.
The flow is real.
Saturday, July 27, 2019
Rollin' on a River
A few weeks ago, I posted a preview of my trip through the Allagash Wilderness Waterway in Northern Maine. Today, you get a photographic tour of the seven-day, six-night, 112-mile paddle made by 10 intrepid extended family members.
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| After a night spent at Pelletier's Campground in St. Francis, ME, we took two vans deep into the wilderness on logging roads to get to the put-in on Chamberlain Lake |
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| We had 15-20 mph winds on our first two days on the lake, which put us well behind schedule. But it meant that we got this sunset from Gravel Beach: |
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| We busted our humps on the third day, making 31 miles and finally getting onto the Allagash River proper. |
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| On the fourth night, my cousin and I paddled out to see an enormous moon, and our photog shot this one. Might see this framed somewhere in my house the next time you come over. |
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| We unloaded our canoes for the six-mile run down Chase Rapids. The Maine Department of Agriculture, Conservation and Forestry State Parks and Public Lands charges $10/group to shuttle gear. We'd have paid 100x that to avoid a six-mile portage. |
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| We did, however, have to portage about 1/3 mile to get around Allagash Falls. Which features a 40-foot drop, and looks like this. |
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| We ran about two dozen rapids, most like this one. Fun, and not really all that dangerous |
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| We saw a ton of wildlife on the trip, from six moose (one from really close - those are enormous beasts), dozens of eagles, a friendly bunny, lots of mergansers, a bunch of chipmunks, an osprey, terns, and too many really tiny chub. |
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| A lot of stuff going on here on the fifth night. Some tired dudes drinking beer, a little bit of river pickin' and singin', a bit of cooking, possibly my cousin taking a leak in the background. |
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| Late in the week, a tailwind strong enough to move the boats under sail power. For about 10 minutes. It was fun while it lasted. |
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| We finished where we started, in St. Francis, and then we headed into town, where we crushed a bunch of greasy food and some big beers. Best meal ever. It included poutine. |
You can see all 181 pictures our trip photographer took at this link. Hard for me to find words to do the week justice. Great group of guys, including my 69 year-old uncle and his 75 year-old brother. They first did this trip 53 years ago. Circle of life, and such. Seven days without cell service in an epically beautiful setting, working my muscles to soreness each day, eating heartily, going to bed early and getting up with the sun. I love my creature comforts, but there something simple and pure to be said for ditching them for a bit.
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