There are some decisions in life that, while relatively inconsequential, are still incredibly difficult to make.
It seems to me like many of these situations arise yearly right around my birthday.
One conundrum I encounter is the singing. Do it or not?
The Happy Birthday song is a perennial favorite around the nation since it was popularized by a hit musical in the late 1930s. You won’t see it in many movies or musicals today though, since the holders of the copyright charge an arm and a leg for it–look for characters singing “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” instead.
Now I know I’m not a Jolly Good Fellow, but I think I might rather have that sung at a party in my honor rather than the “Happy Birthday to you” which used to get dusted off every time mom walked in with a dessert full of candles.
Speaking of birthday dessert, whether to have pie or cake on your birthday is another tough decision with almost no weight behind it.
Of course, birthday cake with candles and your family singing is an American tradition. It just wouldn’t be a party without it.
While you could stick candles in a pie, it’s much harder to get wax off of crust than it is to pick it out of frosting.
Considering that many guests don’t take to extremely sweet things, which cake with its sugary frosted goodness always is, pie may be a better option
Pie also goes much better with ice cream, another staple of the birthday party. The trouble is that you’re going to need more than one if you’re planning on having more than eight friends at your party.
But that brings up another highlight of cake, the fact that there are always leftovers.
Need a high energy snack in the next few days after your birthday? How about some cake? Feeling down and in need of a pick-me-up? I suggest cake–especially chocolate. Looking for an easy breakfast because you woke up late after your party? Cake?
There’s the sticking point though, cake isn’t nearly as good for breakfast as pie.
And with pie you can pretend you’re eating healthy because it has fruit in it. It won’t be true, but who cares, you have pie.
If you wanted to pretend to have a healthy cake you could get a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. It’s still not quite as good as pie in the morning, but it comes close.
I know that it’s a personal preference, but I’ve always liked the texture of pie much better than cake. Where cake is spongy and soft, pie is slightly crisp with a gooey and delicious filling. If you time your party right, you can even have warm pie to complement your cold ice cream, which is much more difficult with cake.
If you absolutely can’t make up your mind, I suggest splitting the difference and making a cheesecake. Even though it includes the word “cake” it can still have that pie shape. Not only that, but you can make it as “healthy” as you want by choosing a topping from the multitude of delicious fruits or the decadent option of chocolate sauce.
If you don’t like cheesecake (are you crazy?) then you’ll be left with the unpleasant choice of having both cake and pie at your party.
Actually, that doesn’t sound so unpleasant at all. I need to get to a bakery.
Birthday Facts
There are more birthdays in August than in any other month, with July and September coming in close behind.
More people are born on Oct. 5 than on any other day, which is not surprising when you consider that their conception would have happened on New Year’s Eve. The least common birthday is May 22.
The two billion birthday cards mailed out every year make up 58 percent of the cards sent in the United States.
The biggest birthday cake ever made was created in 1989 for the 100th birthday of the city of Fort Payne, Alabama. It weighed 128,238 pounds and used 16,209 pounds of frosting.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Cold
When you live in the northern half of the United States freezing temperatures are simply a fact of life.
A week ago a friend of mine summed up living in Wisconsin–“It ain’t upper Canada, but it’s not Maui either.”
Which is true, Wisconsin is neither Canada nor Maui and could never be mistaken for either. Well, maybe Canada, but once a person tried to go to a hospital I think they’d figure it out.
I grew up in Northeast Iowa, and lived in Minnesota for a while, so cold midwest winters aren’t really anything new, but they are to some people.
A few weeks ago for example Floridians were scrambling and preparing for temperatures that were *gasp* in the 30’s. From what I can see of folks around here, the 30’s are when it’s time to break out the spring wardrobe and start wearing cutoffs.
I’ve been wondering for a while what exactly causes this phenomenon. Are those of the southern climates smarter, dumber or just less tough than those of southern inclination. Actually, I really don’t think it’s any of those.
For years now I’ve harbored the idea that cold is really just a state of mind. Over the last two months I’ve decided that that state is Wisconsin.
It seems like not a day goes by when someone doesn’t ask me the rhetorical, “Cold enough for yah?”
If there was an answer I’d probably say yes. But lately I’ve been wondering what “cold enough” really means.
If it means that I can set fruit juice outside for two hours to make popsicles then yes.
Then again, it might mean it’s cold enough to keep my beer cold, which it isn’t. Leave beer outside in the Wisconsin winter too long and it will explode on you.
Which is really a shame since Wisconsin is also known for its beer consumption prowess. By gallon we consume more beer than any other state. Per capita we’re being beaten by New Hampshire, but that is a measurement of alcohol consumption, not specifically beer.
If Wisconsin were just a bit warmer just think of what taverns could save in refrigeration. If this were any other state they might have to worry about someone taking the beer they left outside.
Of course, the better angels of human nature tend to retreat when facing the demons of free booze; it’s a conundrum.
Speaking of angels, that’s another thing I like about Wisconsin, the churches.
While I’ve admitted before that I’m not really a church-going kind of guy, that doesn’t stop me from feeling reassured when travelling the less paved roads when I see a country church every 10 miles or so.
Also, there are bars about every 10 miles. It’s like God is really watching out for everyone, no matter what they thirst for.
What else is there to Wisconsin? Well I shouldn’t have to tell anyone about the state they live in, but there is some pretty good fishing too.
To me fishing is kind of like being in church and a bar at the same time. You get a lot of time to reflect on your life in a beautiful environment, but no one minds if you’re drinking a beer while you’re at it.
Growing up, one of my mother’s friends, a Badger State native, used to refer to Wisconsin as “God’s country” and now that I live here I’m sort of inclined to agree with her.
Of course, some days I think “Favre country” would be more accurate. I’m fairly sure that if I told people that the Packer’s number four was the second coming of Christ at least half of them would believe me.
I wonder if there’s any money in preaching? It’s a shame he’s got more of a bullet pass than a hail mary arm, that would make it easier.
It’s not the worst idea I’ve had this week. I think I’m going to call it the “First Church of Favre.” Then again maybe the “Number 4 Church of Favre” would be more appropriate.
A week ago a friend of mine summed up living in Wisconsin–“It ain’t upper Canada, but it’s not Maui either.”
Which is true, Wisconsin is neither Canada nor Maui and could never be mistaken for either. Well, maybe Canada, but once a person tried to go to a hospital I think they’d figure it out.
I grew up in Northeast Iowa, and lived in Minnesota for a while, so cold midwest winters aren’t really anything new, but they are to some people.
A few weeks ago for example Floridians were scrambling and preparing for temperatures that were *gasp* in the 30’s. From what I can see of folks around here, the 30’s are when it’s time to break out the spring wardrobe and start wearing cutoffs.
I’ve been wondering for a while what exactly causes this phenomenon. Are those of the southern climates smarter, dumber or just less tough than those of southern inclination. Actually, I really don’t think it’s any of those.
For years now I’ve harbored the idea that cold is really just a state of mind. Over the last two months I’ve decided that that state is Wisconsin.
It seems like not a day goes by when someone doesn’t ask me the rhetorical, “Cold enough for yah?”
If there was an answer I’d probably say yes. But lately I’ve been wondering what “cold enough” really means.
If it means that I can set fruit juice outside for two hours to make popsicles then yes.
Then again, it might mean it’s cold enough to keep my beer cold, which it isn’t. Leave beer outside in the Wisconsin winter too long and it will explode on you.
Which is really a shame since Wisconsin is also known for its beer consumption prowess. By gallon we consume more beer than any other state. Per capita we’re being beaten by New Hampshire, but that is a measurement of alcohol consumption, not specifically beer.
If Wisconsin were just a bit warmer just think of what taverns could save in refrigeration. If this were any other state they might have to worry about someone taking the beer they left outside.
Of course, the better angels of human nature tend to retreat when facing the demons of free booze; it’s a conundrum.
Speaking of angels, that’s another thing I like about Wisconsin, the churches.
While I’ve admitted before that I’m not really a church-going kind of guy, that doesn’t stop me from feeling reassured when travelling the less paved roads when I see a country church every 10 miles or so.
Also, there are bars about every 10 miles. It’s like God is really watching out for everyone, no matter what they thirst for.
What else is there to Wisconsin? Well I shouldn’t have to tell anyone about the state they live in, but there is some pretty good fishing too.
To me fishing is kind of like being in church and a bar at the same time. You get a lot of time to reflect on your life in a beautiful environment, but no one minds if you’re drinking a beer while you’re at it.
Growing up, one of my mother’s friends, a Badger State native, used to refer to Wisconsin as “God’s country” and now that I live here I’m sort of inclined to agree with her.
Of course, some days I think “Favre country” would be more accurate. I’m fairly sure that if I told people that the Packer’s number four was the second coming of Christ at least half of them would believe me.
I wonder if there’s any money in preaching? It’s a shame he’s got more of a bullet pass than a hail mary arm, that would make it easier.
It’s not the worst idea I’ve had this week. I think I’m going to call it the “First Church of Favre.” Then again maybe the “Number 4 Church of Favre” would be more appropriate.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Using the Internet to complain about the Internet. Ironic?
There are alot of reasons why I'm getting tired of the internet. One of them is probably the fact that I'm surfing the web at work too often.
This constant surfing has caused me to notice some things about internet users which are obvious to everyone. We all know that internet anonimity makes it easy for every pizza faced teenager swigging red bull and listening to Modest Moust to suddenly become a keyboard cowboy who posts irate commentary and horrible flames for sadly imagined slights.
It's a simple fact that there are too many people on the web who need a real life ass whooping to show them the consequences for not keeping a civil tongue inside your head.
But, enough of what everyone knows and on to what I've recently noticed.
The internet (among other things) has caused a false reality to rise among it's users as to the attractiveness of women. This has nothing to do with that old hot/not website, that's old hat.
No, what I'm talking about is the rampant disregard many internet users show toward relatively attractive women. They say insanely asinine things, my biggest pet peeve being the phrase "sharp knees."
Those of you who know me well know that I am a devotee of the news aggregation website Fark.com. It's users are especially vicious to women who's pictures show up with the story. The discussion forums are full of people letting everyone know if they'd "hit that" or not.
Putting aside the obvious question of "Who the hell cares what you'd hit and what you wouldn't?" I've found that internet users have unusually high expectations for female appearances.
I've been trying to understand why that is, and I can only think that a lack of real world interaction has led to a misconception about what real women look like.
I'm convinced that these hordes of unwashed young men are spending their time downloading pornography in their parents basement with a full supply of jergens and kleenex close by. They're convinced that the October playmate (or maybe the girl getting fucked by a horse) is going to walk through the door at any moment and have sex with them.
I'm not sure if the other side of the internet porn generation's insecurity is more or less sad though. In preperation for writing this column I did some chat room lurking (until today I wasn't sure that chat rooms still existed).
As disgusting as my journalistic efforts were, I found a very common trend among males (or people who claimed to be male). Pretty much everyone claimed to have a penis over 10 inches in length. The biggest claim (lie) was 20 inches.
Not that a 20 inch schlong isn't possible, but I'm pretty sure the guy who possesses such a monster has better things to do than brag about it in a chat room (star in porn videos for instance).
Meanwhile studies continue to indicate that the average male is between 5 and 7 inches when fully engorged. I feel like the only guy who's willing to admit to being average. I'm pretty sure it's somewhere really close to 6 and a half inches, but have never really felt the need to get out a ruler.
I guess my point is that it's sad. Sad that there are so many young men with views so grossly distorted. Sad that people feel the need to lie to impress strangers who they'll likely never meet in person. Sad that so many attactive women are being overlooked because of the fake titties of a legalized prostitute on a tiny screen.
Oh, a quick note: If you get paid to have sex, even on camera, even if the guy/girl/animal giving it to you isn't the one paying, even if someone yells cut every five seconds to bring in a fluffer, you're a prostitute (or sex-worker). Is there anything necessarily wrong with that? No, but don't be putting on airs like you're a movie star just because 50,000 people have seen your O-face while a Ving Rhames wannabee puts his thing where the sun don't shine.
This constant surfing has caused me to notice some things about internet users which are obvious to everyone. We all know that internet anonimity makes it easy for every pizza faced teenager swigging red bull and listening to Modest Moust to suddenly become a keyboard cowboy who posts irate commentary and horrible flames for sadly imagined slights.
It's a simple fact that there are too many people on the web who need a real life ass whooping to show them the consequences for not keeping a civil tongue inside your head.
But, enough of what everyone knows and on to what I've recently noticed.
The internet (among other things) has caused a false reality to rise among it's users as to the attractiveness of women. This has nothing to do with that old hot/not website, that's old hat.
No, what I'm talking about is the rampant disregard many internet users show toward relatively attractive women. They say insanely asinine things, my biggest pet peeve being the phrase "sharp knees."
Those of you who know me well know that I am a devotee of the news aggregation website Fark.com. It's users are especially vicious to women who's pictures show up with the story. The discussion forums are full of people letting everyone know if they'd "hit that" or not.
Putting aside the obvious question of "Who the hell cares what you'd hit and what you wouldn't?" I've found that internet users have unusually high expectations for female appearances.
I've been trying to understand why that is, and I can only think that a lack of real world interaction has led to a misconception about what real women look like.
I'm convinced that these hordes of unwashed young men are spending their time downloading pornography in their parents basement with a full supply of jergens and kleenex close by. They're convinced that the October playmate (or maybe the girl getting fucked by a horse) is going to walk through the door at any moment and have sex with them.
I'm not sure if the other side of the internet porn generation's insecurity is more or less sad though. In preperation for writing this column I did some chat room lurking (until today I wasn't sure that chat rooms still existed).
As disgusting as my journalistic efforts were, I found a very common trend among males (or people who claimed to be male). Pretty much everyone claimed to have a penis over 10 inches in length. The biggest claim (lie) was 20 inches.
Not that a 20 inch schlong isn't possible, but I'm pretty sure the guy who possesses such a monster has better things to do than brag about it in a chat room (star in porn videos for instance).
Meanwhile studies continue to indicate that the average male is between 5 and 7 inches when fully engorged. I feel like the only guy who's willing to admit to being average. I'm pretty sure it's somewhere really close to 6 and a half inches, but have never really felt the need to get out a ruler.
I guess my point is that it's sad. Sad that there are so many young men with views so grossly distorted. Sad that people feel the need to lie to impress strangers who they'll likely never meet in person. Sad that so many attactive women are being overlooked because of the fake titties of a legalized prostitute on a tiny screen.
Oh, a quick note: If you get paid to have sex, even on camera, even if the guy/girl/animal giving it to you isn't the one paying, even if someone yells cut every five seconds to bring in a fluffer, you're a prostitute (or sex-worker). Is there anything necessarily wrong with that? No, but don't be putting on airs like you're a movie star just because 50,000 people have seen your O-face while a Ving Rhames wannabee puts his thing where the sun don't shine.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Couldn't you just put a fat guy in front of the net?
It’s a question that goes through my mind every time someone scores a goal on the Minnesota Wild and if you watch hockey you’ve thought of it at least once. Why don’t they just get a really husky guy out there who could sit in front of the goal and block every single shot?
Don’t write this off as a stupid question, similar stunts are not without major league precedent.
There are some moments in sports where spirit of the game is violated regularly to great and acceptable affect. If you’re down by two points in the final moments of a basketball game then you intentionally foul to force the shot and turnover and give yourself a chance. If that blitzer is going to knock down the quarterback for a loss of 15 yards and possibly a knee injury then you hold him and take the penalty. These are acceptable violations of written rules.
Except we aren’t talking about written rules, we’re talking about acceptable standards of play, but again, it’s not like this kind of violation never happens in major league sports.
Though I wasn’t alive in 1951 to see it, the story of Eddie Gaedel’s major league debut is one of the great baseball legends.
Gaedel was a American dwarf–they weren’t as concerned with political correctness in 1951. On Aug. 17 of that year, Gaedel donned a St. Louis Browns uniform and stepped up to the plate, filling a small corner of the batting box with his unimposing 3’7” 65 lb. frame.
It was a bit of a joke, his number was 1/8 and he had popped out of a cake between games of a double-header, but he had a valid contract.
It’s already hard for major league pitchers to hit a standard strike zone, and Gaedel’s zone was only a few inches.
Needless to say he was walked and got a pinch runner upon reaching first base. The Browns went on to lose the game 6-2.
That’s a great story, but let’s get back to the matter at hand. Why doesn’t some hockey team hire an obese man to just sit in the goal?
I suppose it starts with the simple fact that hockey is a good deal more violent than baseball has ever been. While baseball sees the occasional bench clearing brawl or struck batter charging the pitcher it just doesn't have the raw ferocity like body checking and hockey fights.
Even great baseball moments like Robin Ventura charging the pitching legend Nolan Ryan–Ryan, 46, headlocked Ventura, 26, and hammered him with his right arm which was capable of fastballs exceeding 100 mph– have almost nothing on par with the standard of violence in a Minnesota Wild game moments after Derek Boogaard gets put in.
What would rogue players do to an opposing team who they felt was violating the spirit of the game.
Equipment constraints could also be a problem. Where would a team find pads to cover a goalie of such proportions that he could adequately cover a 4x6 net?
It is also the policy of the NHL to screen for health problems with a standard physical. Could someone with that kind of girth ever be described as physically fit to play a sport? I would put that in the realm of improbable and unlikely but not necessarily impossible.
Considering that Walter Hudson, at 1197 lbs.. might just barely have filled the net with his world record 9’11” waist, it’s going to take a lot of dieting–in the reverse of the conventional sense–to reach anywhere near that size. Since Hudson died in 1991 he’s not about to walk out on the ice even if he could get onto the ice through a doorway.
So let’s go through the particulars: vengeful opposing players, lacking appropriate padding, hardly able to move.
What we’re essentially talking about here is strapping–he would probably have to be tied to the crossbar in order to stand–an inordinately husky masochist in the goal and letting angry players slap hard rubber pucks toward him at speeds close to 100 mph.
I’m guessing he’d be in one of two places after the game. the emergency room or the county morgue. Either way he’s not going to be attending a press conference to tell us all how it went.
It’s not that the question is stupid–like my girlfriend told me–it’s just that most people don’t think through the consequences.
Don’t write this off as a stupid question, similar stunts are not without major league precedent.
There are some moments in sports where spirit of the game is violated regularly to great and acceptable affect. If you’re down by two points in the final moments of a basketball game then you intentionally foul to force the shot and turnover and give yourself a chance. If that blitzer is going to knock down the quarterback for a loss of 15 yards and possibly a knee injury then you hold him and take the penalty. These are acceptable violations of written rules.
Except we aren’t talking about written rules, we’re talking about acceptable standards of play, but again, it’s not like this kind of violation never happens in major league sports.
Though I wasn’t alive in 1951 to see it, the story of Eddie Gaedel’s major league debut is one of the great baseball legends.
Gaedel was a American dwarf–they weren’t as concerned with political correctness in 1951. On Aug. 17 of that year, Gaedel donned a St. Louis Browns uniform and stepped up to the plate, filling a small corner of the batting box with his unimposing 3’7” 65 lb. frame.
It was a bit of a joke, his number was 1/8 and he had popped out of a cake between games of a double-header, but he had a valid contract.
It’s already hard for major league pitchers to hit a standard strike zone, and Gaedel’s zone was only a few inches.
Needless to say he was walked and got a pinch runner upon reaching first base. The Browns went on to lose the game 6-2.
That’s a great story, but let’s get back to the matter at hand. Why doesn’t some hockey team hire an obese man to just sit in the goal?
I suppose it starts with the simple fact that hockey is a good deal more violent than baseball has ever been. While baseball sees the occasional bench clearing brawl or struck batter charging the pitcher it just doesn't have the raw ferocity like body checking and hockey fights.
Even great baseball moments like Robin Ventura charging the pitching legend Nolan Ryan–Ryan, 46, headlocked Ventura, 26, and hammered him with his right arm which was capable of fastballs exceeding 100 mph– have almost nothing on par with the standard of violence in a Minnesota Wild game moments after Derek Boogaard gets put in.
What would rogue players do to an opposing team who they felt was violating the spirit of the game.
Equipment constraints could also be a problem. Where would a team find pads to cover a goalie of such proportions that he could adequately cover a 4x6 net?
It is also the policy of the NHL to screen for health problems with a standard physical. Could someone with that kind of girth ever be described as physically fit to play a sport? I would put that in the realm of improbable and unlikely but not necessarily impossible.
Considering that Walter Hudson, at 1197 lbs.. might just barely have filled the net with his world record 9’11” waist, it’s going to take a lot of dieting–in the reverse of the conventional sense–to reach anywhere near that size. Since Hudson died in 1991 he’s not about to walk out on the ice even if he could get onto the ice through a doorway.
So let’s go through the particulars: vengeful opposing players, lacking appropriate padding, hardly able to move.
What we’re essentially talking about here is strapping–he would probably have to be tied to the crossbar in order to stand–an inordinately husky masochist in the goal and letting angry players slap hard rubber pucks toward him at speeds close to 100 mph.
I’m guessing he’d be in one of two places after the game. the emergency room or the county morgue. Either way he’s not going to be attending a press conference to tell us all how it went.
It’s not that the question is stupid–like my girlfriend told me–it’s just that most people don’t think through the consequences.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Wherein I prove that the worst day hunting is still better than the best day working
I’ve heard it said that the worst day hunting is better than the best day working and I think I proved the true over the first December weekend.
I took a day off so that I could trek down to Iowa and spend two days deer hunting with my dad and my brother.
When we were planning the trip we hoped for good weather. In the week before the trip we watched the forecast and sprayed water proofing on all of our clothes and boots. The day before we left I said a fervent prayer to the higher powers that control meteorological patterns and asked them to push the storm just a little bit north.
It is not an exaggeration at all to say that none of that did any good.
We woke up at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday, the opening day of Iowa’s shotgun deer season, in hopes of getting out into the field to see the sun rise, only to see gray skies and a quarter inch accumulation of ice on everything outside our windows.
We went out for breakfast, and then sat around for three hours. As my hunting party could tell you, I was less than happy that I had driven seven hours to sit in a hotel lobby and comment on the weather.
It was around noon that the rain weakened and we decided to try our luck. We went to the best land we had permission to hunt on. In years past, this three mile strip has yielded hundreds of trophy bucks and heavy does. That day our party of 17 people shot a single six-point buck.
I knew things were going to go poorly as we got to our starting positions for the drive. Five minutes after we arrived at our positions, the rain came back as if it wanted to make up for lost time.
Not only was it a lousy push, but the lack of sun meant that the walkers didn’t have a reference point to judge their position. Along with the rolling hills and dense brush, this set us up for disaster as practically everyone going through the timber got incredibly lost.
I myself ended up in a position that was about an eighth of a mile away from where I should have been when I made it to the end of the push. Other members of the party (my dad being one) got so turned around that they made circuits around the property’s two ponds.
Luckily, the lack of visible deer helped keep us from tragic accident, even with so many wayward hunters.
The walk, which usually takes an hour and a half, began at 1:15 and ended at 3:30 p.m. It took us an hour after that to round up our lost companions.
We were all soaked to the skin and the closest to miserable that I’ve ever seen a party of hunters who haven’t seen the injury of a fellow hunter.
Meeting back at the machine shed where we hang our deer before processing, it was generally agreed that one outing was enough for the day. It was time to go get dry and spend some time at our favorite bar.
Usually the tavern time is a chance for us to exchange stories about the massive amounts of deer that we saw but didn’t shoot. This time, however, it was a chance to complain about the weather and exchange anecdotes about how lost we had become during the push.
And wouldn’t you know it, the atmosphere was just as cheerful as it would have been if we had shot 100 deer.
What makes hunting worth the effort isn’t the actual hunt or the meat in the freezer afterward, it’s the camaraderie of
the shared experience.
In the tavern, we did one of the things we do every year–ordered shots of peppermint schnapps and toasted to my grandpa who passed away a number of years ago.
He was one of the original members of the group that I join to hunt the hills and woods of Southern Iowa, and the few who are still around from his time remember him fondly. Hunting with those guys gives me a feeling of connection to the past, a tie to a legacy that is greater than myself. Well, that and a freezer full of three months’ worth of delicious venison steaks every year.
Luckily for us, Sunday was a better day. The weather was warm enough to hunt but cold enough that I didn’t get overheated walking through the woods and over hills. The party had collected 10 total deer by the time my dad, brother and I had to leave at noon.
Driving back it seemed that all was right with the world. We were tired, two of us smelled like deer guts, but we were generally happy with the weekend and the time we had spent together.
I took a day off so that I could trek down to Iowa and spend two days deer hunting with my dad and my brother.
When we were planning the trip we hoped for good weather. In the week before the trip we watched the forecast and sprayed water proofing on all of our clothes and boots. The day before we left I said a fervent prayer to the higher powers that control meteorological patterns and asked them to push the storm just a little bit north.
It is not an exaggeration at all to say that none of that did any good.
We woke up at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday, the opening day of Iowa’s shotgun deer season, in hopes of getting out into the field to see the sun rise, only to see gray skies and a quarter inch accumulation of ice on everything outside our windows.
We went out for breakfast, and then sat around for three hours. As my hunting party could tell you, I was less than happy that I had driven seven hours to sit in a hotel lobby and comment on the weather.
It was around noon that the rain weakened and we decided to try our luck. We went to the best land we had permission to hunt on. In years past, this three mile strip has yielded hundreds of trophy bucks and heavy does. That day our party of 17 people shot a single six-point buck.
I knew things were going to go poorly as we got to our starting positions for the drive. Five minutes after we arrived at our positions, the rain came back as if it wanted to make up for lost time.
Not only was it a lousy push, but the lack of sun meant that the walkers didn’t have a reference point to judge their position. Along with the rolling hills and dense brush, this set us up for disaster as practically everyone going through the timber got incredibly lost.
I myself ended up in a position that was about an eighth of a mile away from where I should have been when I made it to the end of the push. Other members of the party (my dad being one) got so turned around that they made circuits around the property’s two ponds.
Luckily, the lack of visible deer helped keep us from tragic accident, even with so many wayward hunters.
The walk, which usually takes an hour and a half, began at 1:15 and ended at 3:30 p.m. It took us an hour after that to round up our lost companions.
We were all soaked to the skin and the closest to miserable that I’ve ever seen a party of hunters who haven’t seen the injury of a fellow hunter.
Meeting back at the machine shed where we hang our deer before processing, it was generally agreed that one outing was enough for the day. It was time to go get dry and spend some time at our favorite bar.
Usually the tavern time is a chance for us to exchange stories about the massive amounts of deer that we saw but didn’t shoot. This time, however, it was a chance to complain about the weather and exchange anecdotes about how lost we had become during the push.
And wouldn’t you know it, the atmosphere was just as cheerful as it would have been if we had shot 100 deer.
What makes hunting worth the effort isn’t the actual hunt or the meat in the freezer afterward, it’s the camaraderie of
the shared experience.
In the tavern, we did one of the things we do every year–ordered shots of peppermint schnapps and toasted to my grandpa who passed away a number of years ago.
He was one of the original members of the group that I join to hunt the hills and woods of Southern Iowa, and the few who are still around from his time remember him fondly. Hunting with those guys gives me a feeling of connection to the past, a tie to a legacy that is greater than myself. Well, that and a freezer full of three months’ worth of delicious venison steaks every year.
Luckily for us, Sunday was a better day. The weather was warm enough to hunt but cold enough that I didn’t get overheated walking through the woods and over hills. The party had collected 10 total deer by the time my dad, brother and I had to leave at noon.
Driving back it seemed that all was right with the world. We were tired, two of us smelled like deer guts, but we were generally happy with the weekend and the time we had spent together.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Don't overspend this holiday season, it could cost you.
I did it last year and I’m afraid I’ll do it again this year. No, I’m not talking about getting too drunk at the office Christmas party.
Actually, the place where I work doesn’t have a Christmas party and I’ve never really been a heavy drinker. There was that one time, but that’s a different column that might not even be fit to print.
My holiday worry is over-spending, and who would blame me? There are great people in my life who deserve extravagent gifts. Except I don’t have the money for extravagent, so they ususally have to settle for nice gifts.
Last year I have to admit that I overdid things just a little bit. I’m not going to go into specifics of what I got for who and why, but lets just say it was more than my old job, which barely paid enough for peanuts and beer, could let me afford. This meant that Visa gave me the holiday gift of a hefty credit card debt which didn’t get paid off until August.
I actually forgot one gift until the last minute and ended up getting my girlfriend long underwear–definately not the type of undergarment a guy under 30 buys for a woman–because my financial situation could easily have been described as flat broke.
She accepted it graciously along with the story that it would “keep her warm when I wasn’t around.”
Since she’s probably going to read this the day after it comes out I’m expecting a rather frosty Christmas unless her gift this year involves gold and diamonds. That’s another joke, I’m well aware she prefers silver jewelry.
Luckily I have a plan this year. To begin with I’ve set myself a realistic spending cap. This is the absolute maximum I’m allowing myself to spend on combined gifts for friends and family.
I’ve also budgeted that alotted cash based on how much I like someone. Not really, it’s really based on how many times they’ll hit me in the head for being a cheapskate if I don’t get them a good gift.
As an added measure, all of my credit cards–all two of them–are safely locked away. Some of you may be asking how I did that and the answer is that I put them away last year after I went wild during Christmas and have forgotten where they are.
There is absolutely zero hours of window shopping planned in my timetable of gift giving. I’ve gone overboard before by walking past the ‘perfect’ gift for someone and buying it only to find a ‘more perfect’ gift minutes later.
Since this year’s plan was not formulated until after I was out from under the crushing weight of credit card debt it is still a bit rough. But next year I should have holiday spending down to a science since I plan to track how my spending plan works out this year and use it to create a new plan soon after Dec. 26.
Oh, one last tip for the concientious gift giver. Whatever that hot toy is this year, don’t start a fight over the last one. These days, you never know who’s packing heat.
Do you know how many people got shot over a Tickle Me Elmo doll? Actually I don’t know of any, but I have felt like shooting myself a few times rather than wait in line any longer.
Actually, the place where I work doesn’t have a Christmas party and I’ve never really been a heavy drinker. There was that one time, but that’s a different column that might not even be fit to print.
My holiday worry is over-spending, and who would blame me? There are great people in my life who deserve extravagent gifts. Except I don’t have the money for extravagent, so they ususally have to settle for nice gifts.
Last year I have to admit that I overdid things just a little bit. I’m not going to go into specifics of what I got for who and why, but lets just say it was more than my old job, which barely paid enough for peanuts and beer, could let me afford. This meant that Visa gave me the holiday gift of a hefty credit card debt which didn’t get paid off until August.
I actually forgot one gift until the last minute and ended up getting my girlfriend long underwear–definately not the type of undergarment a guy under 30 buys for a woman–because my financial situation could easily have been described as flat broke.
She accepted it graciously along with the story that it would “keep her warm when I wasn’t around.”
Since she’s probably going to read this the day after it comes out I’m expecting a rather frosty Christmas unless her gift this year involves gold and diamonds. That’s another joke, I’m well aware she prefers silver jewelry.
Luckily I have a plan this year. To begin with I’ve set myself a realistic spending cap. This is the absolute maximum I’m allowing myself to spend on combined gifts for friends and family.
I’ve also budgeted that alotted cash based on how much I like someone. Not really, it’s really based on how many times they’ll hit me in the head for being a cheapskate if I don’t get them a good gift.
As an added measure, all of my credit cards–all two of them–are safely locked away. Some of you may be asking how I did that and the answer is that I put them away last year after I went wild during Christmas and have forgotten where they are.
There is absolutely zero hours of window shopping planned in my timetable of gift giving. I’ve gone overboard before by walking past the ‘perfect’ gift for someone and buying it only to find a ‘more perfect’ gift minutes later.
Since this year’s plan was not formulated until after I was out from under the crushing weight of credit card debt it is still a bit rough. But next year I should have holiday spending down to a science since I plan to track how my spending plan works out this year and use it to create a new plan soon after Dec. 26.
Oh, one last tip for the concientious gift giver. Whatever that hot toy is this year, don’t start a fight over the last one. These days, you never know who’s packing heat.
Do you know how many people got shot over a Tickle Me Elmo doll? Actually I don’t know of any, but I have felt like shooting myself a few times rather than wait in line any longer.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Thanksgiving, the great American Myth.
There’s something incredibly wholesome about getting together with family and offering thanks for all the good things in life, even if the only thing you can come up with while you’re around the table is that you don’t have to have dinner with these people more than once or twice a year.
That having been said, I think everyone should know that Thanksgiving is a fake holiday. It’s not the most artificial holiday on the calendar, it’s more real than Valentine’s Day but less real than Veterans’ Day (which might be the most unfake holiday, tying for that honor with Martin Luther King Jr. Day).
I realize that most of you are probably angry with me at this point. I assure you that I have many reasons for feeling like I do, allow me to share them with you.
First off, Thanksgiving is supposed to be a commeration of the first colony to be founded in the new world. Putting the story simply, it was on this glorious day that the Pilgrims came together with their new native friends and celebrated the endurance of their new home.
This is a great story, but it’s important to realize it’s just that, a story, a myth, a pleasent fiction on which to base a cultural event.
If you were to read nearly any elementary history textbook, it is quite clear that the first lasting English colony on American soil was that of Jamestown (1607) in what would one day become the state of Virginia.
Prior to that the French and Spanish had already set up outposts in the new world, but these were mostly military and so mostly ignored. Jamestown on the other hand gets ignored because it was an economic venture.
The first Thanksgiving feast was held in 1621. It was a one time festival celebrating a successful harvest and lasted for three days. It wasn’t about family or religion for the Pilgrims, it was about being thankful to be alive. If it had been a celebration of family or religion then Native Americans wouldn’t have been on the guest list.
They probably didn’t eat turkey either. While corn and squash were probably on the menu there weren’t any cranberries. The only thing we know for certain was on the table was deer.
Of course, even though the pilgrims invited their native neighbors, they didn’t feed them. Oh they wanted to, that’s for sure, but they were ill-prepared for the number of guests that arrived. A Wampanoag chief named Massasoit was a gracious enough guest to send some men home for supplies. Boy, those Pilgrims must have been red in the face over that one.
Since the “first” thanksgiving was a one time affair, how is it that we still celebrate it today? You might say that it’s because of a president’s thankfulness that civil war hadn’t destroyed the nation.
It wasn’t until 1863 that President Abraham Lincoln appointed a day of thanksgiving as the last Thursday in November. Since his historic gesture, every president after him has issued a Thanksgiving Day proclamation. It wasn’t until 1939 that President Franklin D. Roosevelt set the official day as the Fourth Thursday in November–though it took Congress until 1941 to ratify it.
It seems like everything we “know” about the Pilgrims is wrong. They didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, they made landfall at Provincetown. The rock story is just a fable repeated over and over since it was first uttered by Thomas Faunce 100 years after the Pilgrim landing. Faunce was 95 years old at the time.
Not even our images of the pilgrims are right, the funny hats and and shoes with buckles are merely illustrator’s images designed to give quaint feeling to the colonists. Buckles didn’t come into fasion until late in the 17th century, long after the colonies were up and running. Pilgrims might have worn black, but probably only to church.
Not only are the Pilgrims painted wrongly, but the Native Americans are as well. In popular illustrations indians are shown wearing feather head dresses, which would be fine if it were the set of a John Wayne movie, but feathers were a tradition from plains indian tribes whom the Plymouth colonists could never have meet.
So, just to recap: No Turkey, No Rock, No Buckles, No Feathers, No first colony, No tradition lasting from 1621 until the present.
In the end, what is left? Only friends, family, a warm meal to share every year and lots of leftovers to snack on.
Speaking of leftovers, I’m starting to get hungry, time to reheat the mashed potatoes and stuffing.
That having been said, I think everyone should know that Thanksgiving is a fake holiday. It’s not the most artificial holiday on the calendar, it’s more real than Valentine’s Day but less real than Veterans’ Day (which might be the most unfake holiday, tying for that honor with Martin Luther King Jr. Day).
I realize that most of you are probably angry with me at this point. I assure you that I have many reasons for feeling like I do, allow me to share them with you.
First off, Thanksgiving is supposed to be a commeration of the first colony to be founded in the new world. Putting the story simply, it was on this glorious day that the Pilgrims came together with their new native friends and celebrated the endurance of their new home.
This is a great story, but it’s important to realize it’s just that, a story, a myth, a pleasent fiction on which to base a cultural event.
If you were to read nearly any elementary history textbook, it is quite clear that the first lasting English colony on American soil was that of Jamestown (1607) in what would one day become the state of Virginia.
Prior to that the French and Spanish had already set up outposts in the new world, but these were mostly military and so mostly ignored. Jamestown on the other hand gets ignored because it was an economic venture.
The first Thanksgiving feast was held in 1621. It was a one time festival celebrating a successful harvest and lasted for three days. It wasn’t about family or religion for the Pilgrims, it was about being thankful to be alive. If it had been a celebration of family or religion then Native Americans wouldn’t have been on the guest list.
They probably didn’t eat turkey either. While corn and squash were probably on the menu there weren’t any cranberries. The only thing we know for certain was on the table was deer.
Of course, even though the pilgrims invited their native neighbors, they didn’t feed them. Oh they wanted to, that’s for sure, but they were ill-prepared for the number of guests that arrived. A Wampanoag chief named Massasoit was a gracious enough guest to send some men home for supplies. Boy, those Pilgrims must have been red in the face over that one.
Since the “first” thanksgiving was a one time affair, how is it that we still celebrate it today? You might say that it’s because of a president’s thankfulness that civil war hadn’t destroyed the nation.
It wasn’t until 1863 that President Abraham Lincoln appointed a day of thanksgiving as the last Thursday in November. Since his historic gesture, every president after him has issued a Thanksgiving Day proclamation. It wasn’t until 1939 that President Franklin D. Roosevelt set the official day as the Fourth Thursday in November–though it took Congress until 1941 to ratify it.
It seems like everything we “know” about the Pilgrims is wrong. They didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, they made landfall at Provincetown. The rock story is just a fable repeated over and over since it was first uttered by Thomas Faunce 100 years after the Pilgrim landing. Faunce was 95 years old at the time.
Not even our images of the pilgrims are right, the funny hats and and shoes with buckles are merely illustrator’s images designed to give quaint feeling to the colonists. Buckles didn’t come into fasion until late in the 17th century, long after the colonies were up and running. Pilgrims might have worn black, but probably only to church.
Not only are the Pilgrims painted wrongly, but the Native Americans are as well. In popular illustrations indians are shown wearing feather head dresses, which would be fine if it were the set of a John Wayne movie, but feathers were a tradition from plains indian tribes whom the Plymouth colonists could never have meet.
So, just to recap: No Turkey, No Rock, No Buckles, No Feathers, No first colony, No tradition lasting from 1621 until the present.
In the end, what is left? Only friends, family, a warm meal to share every year and lots of leftovers to snack on.
Speaking of leftovers, I’m starting to get hungry, time to reheat the mashed potatoes and stuffing.
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