I readily admit from the get-go that I am not a big NASCAR fan. Heck, I'd go as far to say that it really doesn't have that much of an "excitement" factor for me, but living in the Carolinas you can't swing a dead cat without hitting something that has somebody's favorite driver's number on it. NASCAR is as much a part of the culture of the South as buttermilk biscuits and grits with "redeye" gravy. There is no faster way to get your ass kicked, than to walk into a convenience store in Cabarrus County and yell, "Earnhardt Sucks!!" I honestly think if I put more effort into it I might enjoy it more...then again I enjoy watching Rugby...it's not for everybody to say the least...I get the mindset of your typical NASCAR fan.
It's one thing to bring your cooler and sit in the stands and another to have a nice big ass suite where they wait on you hand and foot while watching them do left turns all day, but to really get a feel for this kind of racing you have to have an infield pass. So, I have this friend that enjoys this sport and he invites me to join him every year for the NASCAR All-Star event in Charlotte, NC.
The infield is a primordal oozing of all types of civilized human beings. NASCAR gets a bad reputation for being this redneckish-Hillbilly type of environment...yes, they do permeate the fan base but from where I was sitting, NASCAR is able to attract some high-rollers in that fan base as well. That is evident by the amount of very expensive RVs situated in the infield. Seriously, what better way to enjoy a sporting event than having the luxury of finishing the race, retreating to the air-conditioned confines of a palace on wheels, enjoying a few more adult beverages and not worrying about getting into traffic until the morning?
Parked right along side those tricked out million dollar rigs are your blue collar types that drive the official vehicle of the NASCAR infield...the converted THOMAS School bus. I must have seen about forty of them over the course of the weekend with endless amounts of modifications. Being a child of the seventies, my first thought was: "When was David Cassidy, Shirley Jones and the rest of the Partridge Family going to perform their greatest hits?" I was humming that damn theme song every time I walked by one of those buses and I could have sworn I saw Danny Bonaducci duck into a Porta-John right before the Green flag was dropped.
What makes the retired school bus such a popular form of transportation for the infield inhabitants? Your not going to be able to see the race sitting in the infield unless your elevated to some degree...that is, unless your content, like many were, by watching it on the televisions next to their nice RVs spreading Grey Poupon and Brie on French Bread with thinly sliced pastrami. "Get Vertical" is the war cry in the infield and there is no better platform for race watching than on top of a big ass school bus! Why is that you ask? You can roll a Thomas school bus down an incline and it will structurally remain intact, seriously, you want your children to be safe driving that 1.5 miles to school, don't cha? NASCAR fans have taken that over-engineered mindset and transformed the "sloth moving scourge" of morning commuters everywhere into a well respected pachyderm with railings and a platform capable of supporting 40-50 well hydrated race fans. The inventiveness of these people knows no bounds.
Just beneath the RVs and BAB's (Big Ass Buses) in the pecking order of a typical NASCAR infield fall the "Tent Dwellers." Nothing is cheap anymore and that includes NASCAR...heck, an individual ticket for the infield, obtained ahead of time, runs fifty bucks. Throw in the spot itself, which is around 200 hundred dollars and you've got to get a second mortgage just to see Dale Jr. finish last... again. I don't know about the other speedways but Charlotte has a infield bathhouse, which is damn convenient for life in a tent. Don't feel sorry for these people. I saw some setups that would make an Arab Sheik feel like he was living in a lean-to shelter. A lot of these fans are bringing in generators that can run small appliances such as fans, stove units, HD TV's and air conditioners...yes, I said AC. I'm thinking, if you can drag all that crap out there, why not just spend extra and rent a friggin RV??
That about sums up my general observations of life in a NASCAR infield. Do yourself a favor and take in one of these races. I had a blast and even if your not quite the NASCAR fan...like me...there is still plenty to do; it's just a longer version of football tailgating and the "People Watching" alone would make for another entertaining blog entry. As I'm officially partaking in these events, I might want to latch onto a driver to keep me interested...there is only one driver that qualifies name wise that would be worth following... but alas, Dick Trickle is retired...ok, we'll settle on Ricky Bobby. See you in the winner's circle.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Born to Run...Maybe...Forget about it!!
I have been doing a lot of reading here lately. Man, Kindle is awesome, I highly recommend one for all you out there in Laugisch Land. Since my desire to lose weight and keep it off is still paramount in my train of thought I wanted to catch up on some "running" books. Not that I'm ballooning but my weight has slowly crept back up from my ghoulishly looking 192 lb. frame (yes, I was told I looked anorexic!) in the Fall of '09 to my current weight of 215. I know...that's 23 lbs. I'm not too alarmed as I can still fit comfortably in a pair of "Relaxed fit" 36" waist Levis. I have also been hitting the gym; typically averaging three days/week with my main man Jeremy, a rather large former rugger who can juggle Volkswagens and an occasional Hyundai. The dude is not a freak, but freakishly strong...leastwise, from this atrophied 47 year old man's point of view. To his credit he hasn't belittled me or called me a "mangina" yet and has the temperament to deal with my rapidly decaying body and mind. I'll take his word on the subject as he attributes most of my weight gain to muscle development. I can proudly say I can bench press 170 lbs and squat 205. As a comparison, Jeremy is throwing up 300+ on the bench and squat rack. The dude is strong.
Back to reading. Kindle is way cool in that you have such an amazing vault of books and material to download and naturally Amazon discounts the "E" books. Anyways, I found one titled, Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. No, it is not the autobiography of Springsteen and The E Street Band. This guy's thesis is that Man was born to run and chronicles the history of man running, feats of Ultra-Marathoners and this little know tribe of Indians in Mexico that are considered the worlds greatest distance runners. Ok, look at that word closely...Ultra-Marathon. We know at some point these people are running 26 miles...it's the Ultra part that boggles me. How many of you out there not familiar with this sport would say 50 miles is an extremely high number for this type of event? From the sectional-couch from which I sit, 10 miles is "Ultra" in my book, ...26 is phenominal...50 would be superhuman!! Here's the kicker...50 miles is a walk in the park for these sadists...100 miles is considered your every 'ole day run of the mill Ultra-Marathon.
It is an eye opening look at running, the human body and extreme endurance. Leadville Colorado is home to the Leadville Trail 100 miler. During one of these races in the early 1990's Indians from the Taramahura tribe in Mexico competed in this event taking 2 of the top 3 spots. They were 55 and 53 years old respectively. No, that is not a misprint...and they also ran the damn thing in rubber sandals.
It got me to thinking as I have resumed running for the past 3 years: Why don't I try a marathon? I'm not even thinking about one of those 100 mile monstrosities just a regular 5-6 hour, 26 mile jaunt. They run the Marine Corp Marathon in downtown Washington DC every year and I have decided to enter it when I hit the big Five-Oh here in a couple of years. I'm trying to assess if I've finally stumbled upon that mid-life crisis that the experts say happens to old farts such as myself. Having your house repossessed is a crisis. Deciding to run in a marathon isn't quite as stressful. I think the older I get and after every birthday I'm asking, "Now what?" I can't accept that getting older means I'm closer to the "Old Folks" home, but rather what mountain am I going to conquer this week? I'll borrow a quote from a friend who states unequivocally that,"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, loudly proclaiming---WOW WHAT A RIDE!!" Take care and in the words of one of my favorite bands, The Doobie Brothers, "It Keeps You Running."
Back to reading. Kindle is way cool in that you have such an amazing vault of books and material to download and naturally Amazon discounts the "E" books. Anyways, I found one titled, Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. No, it is not the autobiography of Springsteen and The E Street Band. This guy's thesis is that Man was born to run and chronicles the history of man running, feats of Ultra-Marathoners and this little know tribe of Indians in Mexico that are considered the worlds greatest distance runners. Ok, look at that word closely...Ultra-Marathon. We know at some point these people are running 26 miles...it's the Ultra part that boggles me. How many of you out there not familiar with this sport would say 50 miles is an extremely high number for this type of event? From the sectional-couch from which I sit, 10 miles is "Ultra" in my book, ...26 is phenominal...50 would be superhuman!! Here's the kicker...50 miles is a walk in the park for these sadists...100 miles is considered your every 'ole day run of the mill Ultra-Marathon.
It is an eye opening look at running, the human body and extreme endurance. Leadville Colorado is home to the Leadville Trail 100 miler. During one of these races in the early 1990's Indians from the Taramahura tribe in Mexico competed in this event taking 2 of the top 3 spots. They were 55 and 53 years old respectively. No, that is not a misprint...and they also ran the damn thing in rubber sandals.
It got me to thinking as I have resumed running for the past 3 years: Why don't I try a marathon? I'm not even thinking about one of those 100 mile monstrosities just a regular 5-6 hour, 26 mile jaunt. They run the Marine Corp Marathon in downtown Washington DC every year and I have decided to enter it when I hit the big Five-Oh here in a couple of years. I'm trying to assess if I've finally stumbled upon that mid-life crisis that the experts say happens to old farts such as myself. Having your house repossessed is a crisis. Deciding to run in a marathon isn't quite as stressful. I think the older I get and after every birthday I'm asking, "Now what?" I can't accept that getting older means I'm closer to the "Old Folks" home, but rather what mountain am I going to conquer this week? I'll borrow a quote from a friend who states unequivocally that,"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, loudly proclaiming---WOW WHAT A RIDE!!" Take care and in the words of one of my favorite bands, The Doobie Brothers, "It Keeps You Running."
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
My Darkness
There is a Darkness that resides in my soul. It has been churning since I was a young lad. It’s not a brooding and sinister train of thought in the vein of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, oh no, but it has become a part of me that I don’t quite understand as I feel my character is better than what this darkness demands. I blame my father for most of it, you see, he was my idol; an Airborne Jumpmaster Paratrooper that walked into our family’s living room every evening with those shiny boots, ultra-starched uniform, sporting bright yellow chevrons of a Sergeant First Class on his sleeves and that ever distinctive beret. He was my real live GI Joe and I knew from the time I was seven years old that I wanted to be him…to be a soldier.
You can well imagine my upbringing, living in Fayetteville, NC, especially during Vietnam where almost everyone’s father on Cheltenham Road was in the military. Growing up in that era, I was Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, George Custer, Geronimo and Sgt. Fury running wild with all the other kids and my older brothers. It didn’t matter where or when, every season there was some fort to defend, a bunker to breach or we would partake in a rival neighborhood raiding party on our trusty schwinn steeds. As I fondly look back on those days, even then…I really enjoyed playing soldier.
Knowing that, it struck me as odd that I found my father crying at the kitchen table upon learning that his unit had been activated to Vietnam. I couldn’t comprehend his sobbing because in my mind I just assumed every soldier wanted to go to war. I envied him. Even when he returned, a shot up and mentally anguished shell of his former self, I still had dreams of marching off to battle…even more now that he had returned and had become this enigma to our family, I so wanted to experience what he went through… to feel the sting of the whip, the adrenaline of an life altering event. This is my darkness… to experience true physical combat, to charge into battle and kill the enemy if necessary.
Everyone in my family knew I was going become a soldier, but strangely, at the moment of my departure for the recruiting station, my father took me aside and begged me not to follow him into the Airborne Infantry. There was something in his far off distant eyes, conveying a look of anguish that told me I should listen to him. Instead, I became a “Redleg” Artillery Missile Man and to be quite honest, the Army was handing out 2500 dollar enlistment bonuses and that was quite of bit of money that I couldn’t pass up…even for an idealistic young eighteen year old like me. I did participate in war, but not in the sense of true combat during my 11 year tenure in the Army; it was the “Cold War” between the United States and Russia during the 1980’s. Not exactly what I had in mind and when real war did break out with Iraq, Desert Storm 1991, they weren’t sending nukes to the Gulf and my unit was relegated to guarding housing areas and PX’s. The dilemma starring me in the face was the prospect of challenging for future promotions with guys who had been in combat. It was a no brainer, I left the Army a bitter war-less veteran unable to quench this darkness.
It has been almost twenty years since I hung up my Army boots, and sadly, my darkness still calls to me like a siren, “Mark, Mark…grab your rifle and follow me.” Don’t get me wrong…I’m not a “War monger” and I detest the thought of putting American soldiers in harm’s way knowing that some of them might never return and I don’t hang out at the local VFW swapping war stories. The key to understanding this particular disposition of mine, knowing the environment I grew up in and having been a soldier, gone through the training, lived in the muck, rain and snow … I still want to know how I would have held up in a combat environment; in other words: how would I have measured up? I have come to the realization that it’s an experience I’ll never know.
Don’t feel sorry for me though, as I have reached an understanding with my Darkness. Combat takes on many disguises; it’s just how you interpret it. I drive by that Men’s Shelter on Wilmington St. everyday. I Know I’m not at a point in my life where I have to sacrifice my pride for a warm meal and a bed, but I can’t stand before you today and say I won’t have a job tomorrow. For me, this has become a heated battle, a full on in your face fire fight to make it. I don’t think there is a single person I know that hasn’t been affected by the recent global economic situation…some of us are struggling to put food on the table, pay the mortgage and are living from month to month. I’ve finally found that great battle to fight. Just living…and making ends meet, is combat enough for us all…why complicate it anymore by throwing in a few grenades?
You can well imagine my upbringing, living in Fayetteville, NC, especially during Vietnam where almost everyone’s father on Cheltenham Road was in the military. Growing up in that era, I was Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, George Custer, Geronimo and Sgt. Fury running wild with all the other kids and my older brothers. It didn’t matter where or when, every season there was some fort to defend, a bunker to breach or we would partake in a rival neighborhood raiding party on our trusty schwinn steeds. As I fondly look back on those days, even then…I really enjoyed playing soldier.
Knowing that, it struck me as odd that I found my father crying at the kitchen table upon learning that his unit had been activated to Vietnam. I couldn’t comprehend his sobbing because in my mind I just assumed every soldier wanted to go to war. I envied him. Even when he returned, a shot up and mentally anguished shell of his former self, I still had dreams of marching off to battle…even more now that he had returned and had become this enigma to our family, I so wanted to experience what he went through… to feel the sting of the whip, the adrenaline of an life altering event. This is my darkness… to experience true physical combat, to charge into battle and kill the enemy if necessary.
Everyone in my family knew I was going become a soldier, but strangely, at the moment of my departure for the recruiting station, my father took me aside and begged me not to follow him into the Airborne Infantry. There was something in his far off distant eyes, conveying a look of anguish that told me I should listen to him. Instead, I became a “Redleg” Artillery Missile Man and to be quite honest, the Army was handing out 2500 dollar enlistment bonuses and that was quite of bit of money that I couldn’t pass up…even for an idealistic young eighteen year old like me. I did participate in war, but not in the sense of true combat during my 11 year tenure in the Army; it was the “Cold War” between the United States and Russia during the 1980’s. Not exactly what I had in mind and when real war did break out with Iraq, Desert Storm 1991, they weren’t sending nukes to the Gulf and my unit was relegated to guarding housing areas and PX’s. The dilemma starring me in the face was the prospect of challenging for future promotions with guys who had been in combat. It was a no brainer, I left the Army a bitter war-less veteran unable to quench this darkness.
It has been almost twenty years since I hung up my Army boots, and sadly, my darkness still calls to me like a siren, “Mark, Mark…grab your rifle and follow me.” Don’t get me wrong…I’m not a “War monger” and I detest the thought of putting American soldiers in harm’s way knowing that some of them might never return and I don’t hang out at the local VFW swapping war stories. The key to understanding this particular disposition of mine, knowing the environment I grew up in and having been a soldier, gone through the training, lived in the muck, rain and snow … I still want to know how I would have held up in a combat environment; in other words: how would I have measured up? I have come to the realization that it’s an experience I’ll never know.
Don’t feel sorry for me though, as I have reached an understanding with my Darkness. Combat takes on many disguises; it’s just how you interpret it. I drive by that Men’s Shelter on Wilmington St. everyday. I Know I’m not at a point in my life where I have to sacrifice my pride for a warm meal and a bed, but I can’t stand before you today and say I won’t have a job tomorrow. For me, this has become a heated battle, a full on in your face fire fight to make it. I don’t think there is a single person I know that hasn’t been affected by the recent global economic situation…some of us are struggling to put food on the table, pay the mortgage and are living from month to month. I’ve finally found that great battle to fight. Just living…and making ends meet, is combat enough for us all…why complicate it anymore by throwing in a few grenades?
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Season of Giving...A Man's Perspective
Admit it, how many of you saps out there have fallen for the ole "banana in the tailpipe" routine during Christmas? Don't play stupid with me; that's usually my role and I know when the guys out there are being timid. I'm referring to the ploy usually taken by the spousal unit where upon she gets you to agree to NOT exchanging gifts during the Holiday Season. Yep, I thought so...it happens quite frequently. It happened to me last year.
It wasn't the first time where I fell victim to the cunning and manipulative mind that is Claudia Laugisch and I thought she really meant it when she said, "don't get me anything." Valentine's Day of 2005 was one of those occasions where she stated this; this particular day comes right after the holidays and we just didn't have a whole lot to spend on each other. I knew even the slightest gesture was better than nothing and even though we weren't exactly swimming in dough I said, "what the hell" and got her some candy, flowers and a Neil Diamond cd. I was proud of myself...until she handed me my Valentine's bag. I was thinking how sweet it was of her to get me some candy and a card. Oh yeah, there was candy and a card alright...not to mention the 1983 Sports Illustrated Collectors edition of NC STATE's National Basketball Championship. You know the one with Sidney Lowe, Thurl Bailey and Derek Whitenburg on the cover. It was in mint condition; she bid for it on eBay. I wanted to stab an ice pick in my throat and Needless to say, the Niel Diamond cd resides in my truck.
Fast forward to last Christmas. A very similar scenario, trying to make ends meet and our budget is just a little tight...she suggests questionably, "lets not exchange gifts this year?" I eye her quizzically and my mind races back to the shattered and broken carcass of my psyche after the Valentine's Day massacre in 2005, "Are you sure about that?" I ask. She is quite adamant in her response and I think nothing of it as we found ourselves completely swamped trying to prepare for Christmas, a wedding and working our asses off. Last year was one of those weird years where we were extremely busy in December.
We spent the joyous occasion at Claudia's sister's place in DC as we usually do. It's Christmas morning and the kids, Max and Joe are making out like bandits with their gifts and it's a special year as Brenda and Pete have welcomed baby Evie to their family the previous July and it's her first Christmas. I'm having a great time watching the kids and Max hands me a present to open. I look at it and see the card, it read, "To Mark, From Claudia." You can well imagine my shock of seeing this present before me, especially as it was the last one under the tree. There I am, with her family starring at me as I open the gift...I'm praying that it's underwear, a tie, anything that says "inexpensive and frugal" so I can play it off like it's no big deal.
It was a surreal moment as I pealed back the wrapping and lifted up a box that read, "GARMIN." I was hoping like hell that somehow a large elephant would suddenly appear and trample around the room just so the focus wasn't on me. Can someone say, "Awkward??" It's been said, "that which does not kill you can make you stronger," really applied that day. Claudia knew I was embarrassed and gave me a wide berth and incredibly, I was saved by the fact that Claudia's gift from her sister was a Kindle book reader and she was so consumed with it that she didn't focus on the fact that her worthless husband of 20 years didn't get her a Christmas gift!!
Let this be a lesson for all you men. A woman that you deeply love is going to approach you and tell you that it's ok if you don't get her a gift for Valentine's Day, or for her Birthday and yes, even Christmas. She's not a guy or a close friend you were in combat with who would be thrilled with a just a six pack under the tree...she's woman...which means your going to be fighting a losing battle if your trying to read her mind or even understand her. Get her the gift and make it special...it doesn't matter if she doesn't get you anything...you just make sure that something for her is under that fricken tree!!
As for me, Claudia hasn't kicked me to the curb yet...which means she's either gotten over last year's debacle or she is allowing me to redeem myself this coming Christmas. She damn sure won't be getting a Mercedes Benz...but it will be significant enough that I might be able turn the tables on her this year with a little one-upsmanship. Ain't Love Grand? Take care everyone and have a safe and wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year.
It wasn't the first time where I fell victim to the cunning and manipulative mind that is Claudia Laugisch and I thought she really meant it when she said, "don't get me anything." Valentine's Day of 2005 was one of those occasions where she stated this; this particular day comes right after the holidays and we just didn't have a whole lot to spend on each other. I knew even the slightest gesture was better than nothing and even though we weren't exactly swimming in dough I said, "what the hell" and got her some candy, flowers and a Neil Diamond cd. I was proud of myself...until she handed me my Valentine's bag. I was thinking how sweet it was of her to get me some candy and a card. Oh yeah, there was candy and a card alright...not to mention the 1983 Sports Illustrated Collectors edition of NC STATE's National Basketball Championship. You know the one with Sidney Lowe, Thurl Bailey and Derek Whitenburg on the cover. It was in mint condition; she bid for it on eBay. I wanted to stab an ice pick in my throat and Needless to say, the Niel Diamond cd resides in my truck.
Fast forward to last Christmas. A very similar scenario, trying to make ends meet and our budget is just a little tight...she suggests questionably, "lets not exchange gifts this year?" I eye her quizzically and my mind races back to the shattered and broken carcass of my psyche after the Valentine's Day massacre in 2005, "Are you sure about that?" I ask. She is quite adamant in her response and I think nothing of it as we found ourselves completely swamped trying to prepare for Christmas, a wedding and working our asses off. Last year was one of those weird years where we were extremely busy in December.
We spent the joyous occasion at Claudia's sister's place in DC as we usually do. It's Christmas morning and the kids, Max and Joe are making out like bandits with their gifts and it's a special year as Brenda and Pete have welcomed baby Evie to their family the previous July and it's her first Christmas. I'm having a great time watching the kids and Max hands me a present to open. I look at it and see the card, it read, "To Mark, From Claudia." You can well imagine my shock of seeing this present before me, especially as it was the last one under the tree. There I am, with her family starring at me as I open the gift...I'm praying that it's underwear, a tie, anything that says "inexpensive and frugal" so I can play it off like it's no big deal.
It was a surreal moment as I pealed back the wrapping and lifted up a box that read, "GARMIN." I was hoping like hell that somehow a large elephant would suddenly appear and trample around the room just so the focus wasn't on me. Can someone say, "Awkward??" It's been said, "that which does not kill you can make you stronger," really applied that day. Claudia knew I was embarrassed and gave me a wide berth and incredibly, I was saved by the fact that Claudia's gift from her sister was a Kindle book reader and she was so consumed with it that she didn't focus on the fact that her worthless husband of 20 years didn't get her a Christmas gift!!
Let this be a lesson for all you men. A woman that you deeply love is going to approach you and tell you that it's ok if you don't get her a gift for Valentine's Day, or for her Birthday and yes, even Christmas. She's not a guy or a close friend you were in combat with who would be thrilled with a just a six pack under the tree...she's woman...which means your going to be fighting a losing battle if your trying to read her mind or even understand her. Get her the gift and make it special...it doesn't matter if she doesn't get you anything...you just make sure that something for her is under that fricken tree!!
As for me, Claudia hasn't kicked me to the curb yet...which means she's either gotten over last year's debacle or she is allowing me to redeem myself this coming Christmas. She damn sure won't be getting a Mercedes Benz...but it will be significant enough that I might be able turn the tables on her this year with a little one-upsmanship. Ain't Love Grand? Take care everyone and have a safe and wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Giant in a Field of Lost Shoes
I found myself starring out at a long line of white uniformed clad cadets running across, what is known as the "Field of Lost Shoes." It was a pseudo reenactment of what a real Corp of VMI Cadets actually did in the Battle of New Market, Virginia, in May of 1864 during the Civil War. Those cadets, ranging in age from 15 to 21, charged across that field under cannon and musket fire, and even had to overcome a driving rain on a recently plowed field. The valiant cadets, as they moved forward, constantly lost their footwear due to the suction of the muddy terrain...hence the "Field of Lost Shoes." Undaunted, they stormed the Union lines, overran an artillery battery and forced a retreat. Not bad for what amounted to be a bunch of snot nosed kids.
I was there for a particular reason; my niece, Paige Marie, was amongst those cadets plodding their way across that field minus the cannon and musket fire and driving rain. She had just participated in the Cadet Oath that a "rat" must abide by during their tenure at the Virgina Military Institute and the reenactment was a time served lesson to remind them that a cadet must always be ready when called upon. Anyways, there I was panning up and down the line searching in vain for any particular body movement that I would consider to be a LAUGISCH trait. I then noticed one particular cadet who's stature was smaller and the fact that the M-14 rifle she was toting around was damn near taller than she was. None the less, there she was hoofing it across the "Field of Lost Shoes" on her way to glory.
Your guess is as good as mine as to why on God's green Earth she chose the regimented and Spartan conditions of VMI for her choice of college. She's a girl for Christ Sake and naturally, she's my niece. Now before anyone starts jumping my ass about that last comment...pump your brakes and give me an opportunity to explain myself. I don't have a problem with women doing this or for that matter what most would consider "Mens Work." Heck, I work with women on a daily basis and even have had one as my direct supervisor for a spell...and naturally, being married for 21 years, it suffices to say that Claudia has been "in charge" for most of that duration except on Sundays and American Holidays. I will even go as far to say that the finest officer I served under in the Army...was a woman and a West Pointer.
Back to that niece of mine. It wasn't like she decided upon VMI as a dare or just for "shits and giggles." Oh no, she planned this out and she was well aware of the academic and physical requirements. She does come from a long line of military veterans...both her grandfathers are long tenured Army veterans and survivors of Vietnam and her father and I combined for 20 years as fellow Army Redleg Artillerymen. As much as I would like to believe she is following in that traditional vein, I think her reasoning is just as simple that she has decided to challenge herself mentally and physically. She has a lot of endearing qualities that remind me of my mother, which would be her Grandma Helen. If you know the woman then you are well aware of her outspoken ways and she has a pugnacious, bulldog mentality honed from a lifetime of people telling her she shouldn't do this or shouldn't do that because of her physical handicap. Her hands have prevented her from doing most things normal folks take for granted, but I and most of my family don't view it as her handicap...just a hindrance.
Paige is Helen Jr. in my book....but, with a complete set of hands. She is outspoken as dear Mom and has the same "pugnacious bulldog" quality that her Grandmother possesses. As much as our family tries to figure out why she chose VMI, I just resign myself to the fact that this a path of education she is suited for when you realize who her grandmother is. If she ever finds herself feeling down or just can't quite muster the motivation to do one more push-up I would hope she conjures up Dear 'Ole Mom's spirit and guts it out.
"Paigy" is going to be fine and will make us even prouder; I applaud her for choosing the "path less traveled" but she's still my niece...that cute little girl who would yell "Stupid Boy!" at the TV when we watched horror movies together and I can't help but smile when I here that infectious laugh of hers. Here's to you young lady...Hip-Hip-Hooray!!
I was there for a particular reason; my niece, Paige Marie, was amongst those cadets plodding their way across that field minus the cannon and musket fire and driving rain. She had just participated in the Cadet Oath that a "rat" must abide by during their tenure at the Virgina Military Institute and the reenactment was a time served lesson to remind them that a cadet must always be ready when called upon. Anyways, there I was panning up and down the line searching in vain for any particular body movement that I would consider to be a LAUGISCH trait. I then noticed one particular cadet who's stature was smaller and the fact that the M-14 rifle she was toting around was damn near taller than she was. None the less, there she was hoofing it across the "Field of Lost Shoes" on her way to glory.
Your guess is as good as mine as to why on God's green Earth she chose the regimented and Spartan conditions of VMI for her choice of college. She's a girl for Christ Sake and naturally, she's my niece. Now before anyone starts jumping my ass about that last comment...pump your brakes and give me an opportunity to explain myself. I don't have a problem with women doing this or for that matter what most would consider "Mens Work." Heck, I work with women on a daily basis and even have had one as my direct supervisor for a spell...and naturally, being married for 21 years, it suffices to say that Claudia has been "in charge" for most of that duration except on Sundays and American Holidays. I will even go as far to say that the finest officer I served under in the Army...was a woman and a West Pointer.
Back to that niece of mine. It wasn't like she decided upon VMI as a dare or just for "shits and giggles." Oh no, she planned this out and she was well aware of the academic and physical requirements. She does come from a long line of military veterans...both her grandfathers are long tenured Army veterans and survivors of Vietnam and her father and I combined for 20 years as fellow Army Redleg Artillerymen. As much as I would like to believe she is following in that traditional vein, I think her reasoning is just as simple that she has decided to challenge herself mentally and physically. She has a lot of endearing qualities that remind me of my mother, which would be her Grandma Helen. If you know the woman then you are well aware of her outspoken ways and she has a pugnacious, bulldog mentality honed from a lifetime of people telling her she shouldn't do this or shouldn't do that because of her physical handicap. Her hands have prevented her from doing most things normal folks take for granted, but I and most of my family don't view it as her handicap...just a hindrance.
Paige is Helen Jr. in my book....but, with a complete set of hands. She is outspoken as dear Mom and has the same "pugnacious bulldog" quality that her Grandmother possesses. As much as our family tries to figure out why she chose VMI, I just resign myself to the fact that this a path of education she is suited for when you realize who her grandmother is. If she ever finds herself feeling down or just can't quite muster the motivation to do one more push-up I would hope she conjures up Dear 'Ole Mom's spirit and guts it out.
"Paigy" is going to be fine and will make us even prouder; I applaud her for choosing the "path less traveled" but she's still my niece...that cute little girl who would yell "Stupid Boy!" at the TV when we watched horror movies together and I can't help but smile when I here that infectious laugh of hers. Here's to you young lady...Hip-Hip-Hooray!!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Ramen Noodle Man
"Well, hello my friends...hello...it's good to see you once again." That was Neil Diamond for all the rock stars out there. I fail miserably trying to sing his stuff, it sounds much better when I type it...although, I have considered adding "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" to my karaoke playlist...but let's face reality here, I don't have the voice to pull that shit off. Anyways, I have been noticeably absent from blogging this summer due to this thing called work. I don't know about you, but I have been straight up busting ass since July 4th...but I'm not complaining. This Fat Bastard is just glad to have a J-O-B period.
I usually have a routine at work where I hit the gym for some weight training at lunch and afterward I do SUBWAY. I do love that place...12" ham on wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, cucumbers, banana peppers, jalapenos and the customary vinegar & oil, S&P and oregano. I know what your thinking, "Christ Mark, that's not a sub...it's a salad wrapped in bread!" It really is but I'm a creature of habit and it has very little fat. I love it so much that I would be willing to challenge their spokesperson "Jared" to a no holds barred, "Texas Cage-Loser Leave Town Match." Have you seen that guy? I have no doubt in my mind that I could take him...hey, I'm lifting weights now, that has to account for something...by the way, I'm bench-pressing 170 lbs...snort, flex, sigh...yeah, I'm a regular 'ole "muscle man." ( If you haven't quite figured out that I'm full of shit, I just don't know what to tell you.)
That routine has had to change somewhat. I still go to the gym, but work has picked up to the point that I have had to skip my usual stop at SUBWAY and have something to eat at the office. How many of you out there bring your lunch to work? Yeah, it's gotten to the point that I'm having to do the same, but I gotta tell ya...I really hate trying to figure out what to bring in the morning and I'm too damn lazy at night to slap together a PB&J sandwich and put it in a bag. I will eat them, but come on Man! I'm 47 years old and it's not cool at my advanced age to show up at work and tell my coworkers that I'm eating sandwiches that "Mommy" made me. It also prevents that one friggin comedian in the office from asking me "Where's your Scooby-Doo Lunch box and Thermos?"(I did have one when I was eight and it was the coolest)
So what does a hip, cool-mo-dee Environmental Engineer like myself do on these occasions? Es cargo? Scampi? If your patiently waiting for me to tell you and you haven't caught the title of my thread, then maybe I'm targeting the wrong audience...Yes, I eat Ramen Noodles. No, it's not quite as revealing as say "I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried," or "I once worked at NASA," but that right there is my life in a nut shell...Ramen friggin Noodles. I know, working for the NCDOT is not like living in Sparta or the Hanoi Hilton and if I can afford SUBWAY on a daily basis, then I can damn sure afford some cheap frozen dinners or something at least a little more exotic than Ramen friggin Noodles.
My problem is that I'm just a simple minded SOB. Sure, I love tasty and other Worldly foods but there's something about them, them being the noodles, that keeps me grounded in reality. I ate Ramen Noodles in college to make ends meet...trying to pay bills, taking 15 semester hours and working the graveyard shift at UPS made 10 packs of noodles for a dollar a sound financial decision. I didn't eat them when I was in the Army, but I did eat enough MRE's and cold food to appreciate Grandma's Sunday dinner spread. More than anything, eating the noodles is just convenient. All it takes is a bowl, fill it with water and the noodles. Add the little "seasoning" packet, nuke it for four minutes and viola!! Lunch is ready after about 5 minutes to allow the noodles to "fatten" up and for that little "something, something" I squirt a little hot sauce on them.
I have visions of opening up my own little Bar one day, yep, even have the name..."Der Kreiger." That's "The Warrior" for you all you non-Germanic types and every little drinking establishment has a special night, such as "Open Mike," "College Night" and "Karaoke Night." My theme night will be dedicated to veterans and as such I will have discounts on warm crappy beer and even break out MRE's for that extra touch and yes Ramen noodles. There's nothing better than to sit around a bar and hear America's finest bitch about warm beer and crappy food. So, if you find your self roaming Tobacco Road in the near future and see a marquee that reads, "Veterans Night, Warm Beer and Noodles," come on in and we'll swap some stories and I'll serve you up nice hot-piping bowl of Ramen Noodles. Take care folks.
I usually have a routine at work where I hit the gym for some weight training at lunch and afterward I do SUBWAY. I do love that place...12" ham on wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, cucumbers, banana peppers, jalapenos and the customary vinegar & oil, S&P and oregano. I know what your thinking, "Christ Mark, that's not a sub...it's a salad wrapped in bread!" It really is but I'm a creature of habit and it has very little fat. I love it so much that I would be willing to challenge their spokesperson "Jared" to a no holds barred, "Texas Cage-Loser Leave Town Match." Have you seen that guy? I have no doubt in my mind that I could take him...hey, I'm lifting weights now, that has to account for something...by the way, I'm bench-pressing 170 lbs...snort, flex, sigh...yeah, I'm a regular 'ole "muscle man." ( If you haven't quite figured out that I'm full of shit, I just don't know what to tell you.)
That routine has had to change somewhat. I still go to the gym, but work has picked up to the point that I have had to skip my usual stop at SUBWAY and have something to eat at the office. How many of you out there bring your lunch to work? Yeah, it's gotten to the point that I'm having to do the same, but I gotta tell ya...I really hate trying to figure out what to bring in the morning and I'm too damn lazy at night to slap together a PB&J sandwich and put it in a bag. I will eat them, but come on Man! I'm 47 years old and it's not cool at my advanced age to show up at work and tell my coworkers that I'm eating sandwiches that "Mommy" made me. It also prevents that one friggin comedian in the office from asking me "Where's your Scooby-Doo Lunch box and Thermos?"(I did have one when I was eight and it was the coolest)
So what does a hip, cool-mo-dee Environmental Engineer like myself do on these occasions? Es cargo? Scampi? If your patiently waiting for me to tell you and you haven't caught the title of my thread, then maybe I'm targeting the wrong audience...Yes, I eat Ramen Noodles. No, it's not quite as revealing as say "I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried," or "I once worked at NASA," but that right there is my life in a nut shell...Ramen friggin Noodles. I know, working for the NCDOT is not like living in Sparta or the Hanoi Hilton and if I can afford SUBWAY on a daily basis, then I can damn sure afford some cheap frozen dinners or something at least a little more exotic than Ramen friggin Noodles.
My problem is that I'm just a simple minded SOB. Sure, I love tasty and other Worldly foods but there's something about them, them being the noodles, that keeps me grounded in reality. I ate Ramen Noodles in college to make ends meet...trying to pay bills, taking 15 semester hours and working the graveyard shift at UPS made 10 packs of noodles for a dollar a sound financial decision. I didn't eat them when I was in the Army, but I did eat enough MRE's and cold food to appreciate Grandma's Sunday dinner spread. More than anything, eating the noodles is just convenient. All it takes is a bowl, fill it with water and the noodles. Add the little "seasoning" packet, nuke it for four minutes and viola!! Lunch is ready after about 5 minutes to allow the noodles to "fatten" up and for that little "something, something" I squirt a little hot sauce on them.
I have visions of opening up my own little Bar one day, yep, even have the name..."Der Kreiger." That's "The Warrior" for you all you non-Germanic types and every little drinking establishment has a special night, such as "Open Mike," "College Night" and "Karaoke Night." My theme night will be dedicated to veterans and as such I will have discounts on warm crappy beer and even break out MRE's for that extra touch and yes Ramen noodles. There's nothing better than to sit around a bar and hear America's finest bitch about warm beer and crappy food. So, if you find your self roaming Tobacco Road in the near future and see a marquee that reads, "Veterans Night, Warm Beer and Noodles," come on in and we'll swap some stories and I'll serve you up nice hot-piping bowl of Ramen Noodles. Take care folks.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Give Me Some Real Football
So who's watching any of this Soccer World Cup? I'm being truthful when I tell you that I don't really enjoy "The World's Game," but I'm drawn to this World Cup like a moth to a flame. A more appropriate analogy would be that I'm a very large bug stuck on your windshield...come on...you've seen me, the grotesquely large insect that when struck by the car made everyone think that somehow it was a small bird. Yep, that's me, I'm wearing my ass for a hat, barely have a pulse and I have one Marty Feldman eye still attached to my mangled corps that is now interwoven in the wiper blades. I'm now stuck there waiting for the wind pressure to whisk me away, or God forbid, the driver should hit his intermittent wiper switch and smear my carcass all over the rest of the glass.
So here I am, just your average bug on the windshield of life, starring at the ongoings of this thing the World calls football. There is a certain level of this sport that you have to appreciate, man...those guys are amazing in how they dribble the ball down the field, the stamina...it has a certain grace that in time, most Americans could learn to accept. It leads to the question: why isn't this sport as mainstream in the good 'ole USA as American Football, Baseball, Basketball and Hockey?
That answer unfolded right before my very own eyes as I watched the final 30 minutes of the USA vs. Algeria match. A trio of us decided to catch lunch at a Sports pub that had it on and let me be honest with you..I had no intention of watching it because it was soccer...it was because it was the USA and our country could be engaging another country in tiddlywinks and I would want us to stomp the shit out of them. Yes...I'm that ugly American that hates to lose.
Anyways, back to the reason why soccer ranks somewhere between "Curling" and "Horseshoes" in the American sports landscape. It was an exciting match that had a lot at stake for the American squad; they had to win to advance to the quarterfinals. A loss or tie and it was over. This is what is so incredibly wrong with soccer; after ninety damn minutes of regulation the score was 0-0...if I see one more World Cup match end in a 0-0 draw I'm going to puke! Seriously, I went to the can twice and came back and asked "What did I miss?" and my sardonic office mate, Jeff, telling me they panned the crowd and showed former President Bill Clinton "hitting on an unsuspecting intern." While I'm ranting about why soccer frustrates me...they do seem to have the same inexplicable shoddy officiating as other American sports...but damn if I didn't think someone out there doesn't want America to advance as we have been seriously hosed on two goals.
The drama that unfolded afterwards will be the talk of sportscenter til at least Saturday and God Bless Landon Donavon for putting the dagger into the hearts of those cheating little bastards from Algeria.
Yeah, that's right I called them cheaters. Did you see how many penalties they had to call on them? Don't get me started on our previous match where we had a game winning goal and half our guys were being mugged and a foul was called on us. How does soccer handle misconduct? A yellow card...are you fricking kidding me? That's another thing about soccer that infuriates the hell out of me...there are too many ways to cheap shot someone and get away with it...which is also why this sport is slow to catch on in this country. Most Americans pride themselves on sportsmanship and we know how to take care of the ones that get out of line...we invented the "Bench Clearing Brawls" in Baseball, we have "Enforcers" in Hockey and we have "Hatchet Men" in Basketball. and least we forget, the infamous "Clothesline" or "Crackback" in our own real Football. By no means am I defending some horrifically bad American Sports misconduct through the ages, but the cowardly display I see in soccer shouldn't be tolerated in America.
With all that going against it, there I am...watching and jumping with euphoria as our newest sports hero Donovan keeps this team on a course with destiny. We Americans, least wise this one, likes it when we are the underdog on the World Stage and I can't help but compare this team to a ragtag group of American College kids who stunned the world back in the winter of 1980...so, grab your "Vuvuzela" and meet me at the pub and we'll root for our scrappy lads and pray that we can see a couple of more goals scored. Cheers.
So here I am, just your average bug on the windshield of life, starring at the ongoings of this thing the World calls football. There is a certain level of this sport that you have to appreciate, man...those guys are amazing in how they dribble the ball down the field, the stamina...it has a certain grace that in time, most Americans could learn to accept. It leads to the question: why isn't this sport as mainstream in the good 'ole USA as American Football, Baseball, Basketball and Hockey?
That answer unfolded right before my very own eyes as I watched the final 30 minutes of the USA vs. Algeria match. A trio of us decided to catch lunch at a Sports pub that had it on and let me be honest with you..I had no intention of watching it because it was soccer...it was because it was the USA and our country could be engaging another country in tiddlywinks and I would want us to stomp the shit out of them. Yes...I'm that ugly American that hates to lose.
Anyways, back to the reason why soccer ranks somewhere between "Curling" and "Horseshoes" in the American sports landscape. It was an exciting match that had a lot at stake for the American squad; they had to win to advance to the quarterfinals. A loss or tie and it was over. This is what is so incredibly wrong with soccer; after ninety damn minutes of regulation the score was 0-0...if I see one more World Cup match end in a 0-0 draw I'm going to puke! Seriously, I went to the can twice and came back and asked "What did I miss?" and my sardonic office mate, Jeff, telling me they panned the crowd and showed former President Bill Clinton "hitting on an unsuspecting intern." While I'm ranting about why soccer frustrates me...they do seem to have the same inexplicable shoddy officiating as other American sports...but damn if I didn't think someone out there doesn't want America to advance as we have been seriously hosed on two goals.
The drama that unfolded afterwards will be the talk of sportscenter til at least Saturday and God Bless Landon Donavon for putting the dagger into the hearts of those cheating little bastards from Algeria.
Yeah, that's right I called them cheaters. Did you see how many penalties they had to call on them? Don't get me started on our previous match where we had a game winning goal and half our guys were being mugged and a foul was called on us. How does soccer handle misconduct? A yellow card...are you fricking kidding me? That's another thing about soccer that infuriates the hell out of me...there are too many ways to cheap shot someone and get away with it...which is also why this sport is slow to catch on in this country. Most Americans pride themselves on sportsmanship and we know how to take care of the ones that get out of line...we invented the "Bench Clearing Brawls" in Baseball, we have "Enforcers" in Hockey and we have "Hatchet Men" in Basketball. and least we forget, the infamous "Clothesline" or "Crackback" in our own real Football. By no means am I defending some horrifically bad American Sports misconduct through the ages, but the cowardly display I see in soccer shouldn't be tolerated in America.
With all that going against it, there I am...watching and jumping with euphoria as our newest sports hero Donovan keeps this team on a course with destiny. We Americans, least wise this one, likes it when we are the underdog on the World Stage and I can't help but compare this team to a ragtag group of American College kids who stunned the world back in the winter of 1980...so, grab your "Vuvuzela" and meet me at the pub and we'll root for our scrappy lads and pray that we can see a couple of more goals scored. Cheers.
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