What happens to a dream deferred? Langston Hughes posed this question many years ago and it has stuck with me my entire adult life. You see, there comes a time in every man’s life when he comes to a crossroads and has to make a decision. Left, right, forward…or turn back and go home. When it comes to mountain climbing, sometimes the decision isn’t the man’s to make alone. Sometimes the mountain gives the man more than one reason to tuck tail and retreat to the warmth of his living room, bar stool, or wherever the plan was hatched to tackle such a massive heap of ice and rock.
For me, this massive heap was Mt Rainier. My two previous attempts at summiting this enormous volcano were thwarted by equipment failure and the elements, respectively. This mountain was my white whale and I was Ahab. However, they say the third time is a charm, and for my friend Erik and I, frozen and dehydrated from the sub-zero winds, it was just that. There is nothing sexy about hiking to the top of a 14,411 mountain. I liken it to the sport of wrestling…all guts and very grueling. It’s 70% mental and 30% physical. With all the motivation in the world tucked under my yellow climbing helmet, I reached the top in 7 hours. Once you achieve a goal of this magnitude though, you feel invincible. Bulletproof. That is I.
At 8:30 a.m. on September 5th, 2010, I was at the second highest point in the lower 48 United States, looking down onto a fluffy sea of clouds, wondering how many people out there were still asleep and dreaming, while I was wide awake and living out mine. A changed man? Most definitely. My dream deferred did not shrivel like a raisin in the sun. Instead, it basked in the UV-rich glow of high altitude rays, fulfilled and beaming.
She went home one day How the people always do No more looks the other way to what has been
She left home one day Kept her sweaters tucked away And a newer life is what I think she wants I think that's what she wants Yeah, that is what she wants
I tell her that Autumn makes me sad She's got a memory for things like that As the rain falls Down upon my orange hat
Shall we Talk about each other? Simple questions "what's your favorite color?" As I show her pictures of my little brother
Why couldn't you've come to me much earlier than this? A crisis from the past has left me prejudiced The pain of four years bears a bruising burden The angel wear no halo or white curtain
She tells me Facts about her friends Seem to mimic mine with certain things Who has left us And who now wears rings
We stay Awake 'til four or five Glances Shared between the thoughts of life I can't remember ever having such a good time
Something deep Is what she don't want now She might just change her mind tomorrow anyhow
Why couldn't you've come to me much earlier than this? A crisis from the past has left me prejudiced The pain of four years bears a bruising burden The angel wear no halo or white curtain
You see, every autumn, I fall into what I like to call, "The Football Coma." Oh, no...you won't see me in the gym or out on the local running paths. No, no no. I eschew fitness during the "Coma." Where you will find me is either parked in front of my 50" plasma, over at a friend's house or at a local sports bar. If it's a college game, you might also find me tailgating at the stadium. All of these scenarios have one thing in common: they include a fair amount of imbibing frothy beverages that we call "Beer."
Enter my dilemma.
It is a scientific fact that beer is a depressant. I know it. You know it. Mel Gibson knows it. And because football games occur pretty much every day of the week in the fall (except Tuesdays and Wednesdays) and on many different channels (we have FiOS), I find myself faced with a plethora of opportunities to watch some gridiron goodness. Lucky me, right? You be the judge.
Have you ever seen the Adam Sandler movie, Click? You know, the one where Christopher Walken gives him the magical remote control at the Bed, Bath & Beyond that allows him to skip through the stodgy periods of his future? Well, in the movie, when he skips over those periods he kinda just coasts through in a zombie-like state, never remembering what took place during said timeframe. It's much akin to what my 9th grade math teacher, Mr Rolph, accused our whole algebra class of being..."a buncha drones!" It's also much akin to my whole autumn-from September through to February. I sit there and zone-out.
Part of me thinks that Mr Rolph was right. In his Big Gulp-fueled diatribe, he ranted about how we couldn't pay attention in class because we ate "a bunch of crappy food, like Scooter pies," for lunch. This coming from a guy who had to leave at the semester to have surgery to repair a stomach ulcer!
I digress.
Twenty years later, I get the gist of why he blew up that day. He wanted our undivided attention and just couldn't get it thanks to the likes of Hostess, Coca Cola and Frito Lay (well, that and he was kind of a douche). He had a point, but we didn't listen. Instead, we laid limp in a lazy languor of Hot Pockets, Fudgesicles and Donettes. We were a big part of the problem.
Now extrapolate this condition to include a mind altering, feeling numbing elixir (a "downer") coupled with an adrenalized game consisting of peaks and valleys (an "upper"). Throw a cheese pizza or some sort of buffalo chicken product into the equation and you have a man replete with intense stupification. The mix of stimuli cancel each other out, leaving overworked motor neurons on both sides of the fence to produce a buzzed and fuzzed state. Now I'm no physician (probably because my math grades were glaringly inferior...go figure), but I am quite certain that there is a scientific term for this state. I just call it "The Football Coma."
So you see, I've been under a spell people. My will to resist is futile. Like victory chances given to any of Chuck Norris' foes. Futilitus maximus. Like a roundhouse kick to the face from the great bearded bad-ass of the black belt. I'm a goner from the minute that first college pigskin is booted until the last piece of confetti falls at the Super Bowl!
Good thing I'm not a big baseball fan. I'd be screwed!
I've been busy. Real frickin' busy! The wife and I started a new business this summer, PopMyTop, LLC. We are distributors of the Bottle Popper, a really unique and revolutionary bottle cap remover. It's a product that you can live without, but you shouldn't! I was taking a break from pursuing some leads and stumbled across this:
Now, I don't know about you, but I am fascinated by competitive eating. Not obsessed, but fascinated. There is a league for this "sport." Can you believe it? But hey, this is America. God bless us everyone. We are all entitled to chase our dreams. If those dreams include shoving six friggin' pounds of meat into our bodies, washed down by a little plastic cup of wetness, well, so be it!
I say it's the other way around. Besides, who are "they" anyway? Art is a reflection of life, put forth by an artist who expresses their feelings through their craft. Whether it be Kurt Cobain singing about a heart shaped box, or a child drawing finger paintings on a piece of construction paper; what is portrayed is a piece of life being shared with the rest of the world.
One of my favorite quotes in life is from Picasso. He said, "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." I'll admit that the first time I ever read this quote, I took it way too literally. When most people think of Picasso, they think of painting, perhaps abstract painting or one of the many types of categorical "isms" that painters fall into (modernism, cubism, existentialism, etc). However after reading deeper into this, (and not to get all philosophical on my readers), I have come to realize that art imitating life makes everyone's time spent on this earth not just a canvas, per se, but also a song, a sculpture, or whatever you make it.
For some, theft is their art. For others, it could be the ability to sell ice to an eskimo. My point is that everyone has a gift and not everyone has the self esteem to nurture that gift. Sure, the thief might get caught someday and thrown in jail, or the salesman might happen to catch someone on a bad day who just doesn't feel like buying a new set of Cutco knives. It happens to the best of us. We all want to throw in the towel at some point when we are at our lowest. That is when you take inventory and realize that some if us paint with a different brush. Some of us use broader strokes than others. We are all different artists. I am a different artist. I accept that and move on with my life, painting beautiful masterpieces along the way!
Can someone please explain to me why my Vegas timeshare won't sell?
I got a call today from one of the agencies that I "hired" to sell my timeshare. The offer that they made to me was insulting! It was basically less than half of what we paid for our timeshare. It was also the first offer that we have received for our property since signing up with this company back in April. They've got until October 6 to sell it or I get my money back. I hope they sell it for both of our sakes!
Being a person who likes to travel under my own terms, I'm not quite sure why I bought into the idea of having a company control where and when I vacation. That mentality kinda goes against everything I stand for. But when you sign your life on that dotted line, they have got you!
So my advice people; don't buy a timeshare. Keep your money in a savings account or something and spend it on vacation when and where you want to. If, God forbid, you ever wanted to sell your property, you have a whole host of ravenous, blood-sucking agencies out there that would love to take your money and give you absolutely nothing in return. Trust me.
Our forefathers had the right idea of freeing us from the tyrannical grip of their homeland regime. They all met up and took turns signing an oversized piece of parchment declaring that the collective 13 colonies originally included were forming a united front. That's what our history books tell us.
However, if you read the text very closely, you'll see that the declaration is basically a bitch-fest, pointing out all the "abuses and usurpations" that the despotic king of Britain inflicted upon said forefathers. These guys were pissed and they weren't taking anyone's shit any longer! They declared a separation from Britain and started their own united "States of America," as they called it. You know the rest.
Or do you?
You see, we as present day Americans take what we want from the declaration. We remember the following line:
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
Sure, these brave patriots started a revolution and opened the doors of possibility. I benefit from their bravery every day as a purveyor of novelty bottle openers. So, like Lenny Kravitz, what I really want to know is:Did these 56 men have any idea that "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" would eventually pave the way for Joey Chestnut(left), and Takeru Kobayashi to shove a combined 132 hot dogs and buns into their faces 233 years later?
Fourth of July shouldn't be considered a novelty or be taken lightly by any means. Sure, my Scottish friend Billy rants about how it's "just another day" to him, but let me get on the phone to the I.N.S. and see how quickly he changes his tune. My point is that it's a fabulous time for us all to be proud of being Americans. Yes, we should celebrate and BBQ with the family, even though some of them may get on our nerves (that's why we drink alcohol, right?). Yes, we should definitely check out an extravagant fireworks show, or better yet, cross state lines or visit the nearest Indian reservation to obtain our own. After all, emergency room doctors need action too. But what of the unconventional or unorthodox traditions? What of Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest that they hold every year at Coney Island? Tradition...or just flat out gluttony? We all have opinions and to quote Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof, I say Tradition! In my book, The MLE (Major League Eating) takes precedence over MLB, NFL, PGA, Wimbledon, and whatever else is on the tube on my country's birthday.
I figured out long time ago, that to find the proper answers, you sometimes have to figure them out on your own using common sense. Why does one of my all-time heroes, Tom Brady, have three Super Bowl rings, a league MVP, and countless other records, yet Joey Harrington, an equally successful college quarterback, never could catch on at the NFL level? It's called skill. Brady has tools that Harrington doesn't. Maybe it boils down to a hunger for winning that the former possesses and the latter doesn't? I doubt it. I think they are both physically different people. But hey, speaking of hunger...
The NFL has been around a long time, but has only held 43 Super Bowls. The Nathan's Famous International Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Championship has been held each year on July 4 since 1916, according to archives. You tell me what sounds more American! Besides, isn't the Super Bowl just an excuse for us all to join a more "domestic" faction of the MLE? Super Bowl Sunday is kind of like a "mini July 4th" except it takes place five months earlier. We stuff our faces with chips & dip, wings, burgers, brownies, etc. Some of us even try to emulate the MLE champions of the world, only to find that we are just as unfit to participate in professional eating as we are professional football. Sad, but true.
That is why I love this particular eating contest. Here are some facts:
Kobayashi won six straight Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contests from 2001-2006. I'm sorry, I'm not doing him justice by saying that he won: he demolished the competition and shattered world records. There...that's better.
The previous high mark before Kobayashi won his first "Mustard Yellow Belt" was 25 1/8. Kobayashi ate 50!
Joey Chestnut came onto the competitive eating scene in 2005 and has won the last three Nathan's contests.
Last year, it was close...he beat Kobayashi in a "dog-off," after both had consumed 59 dogs at the end of regulation. Not too shabby!
This year, he beat him by four dogs. Most of us can't even eat four dogs in one sitting!
As you can see, these two, ahem, gents have taken competitive eating to a whole new level. Their rivalry is one for the books. Like Federer/Nadal, Capulet/Montague, or Tom/Jerry. These guys are freaks of nature, but also train their bodies just like athletes do before big games or meets. It is a fascinating spectacle and one that I argue to be part side show, part adrenaline, and a whole lot of desire. After all, it takes "guts" to do what these guys do!
So when I see a melange of people from all over the world congregate at Coney Island to shove frankfurters down their throats on a day in which I raise not only a flag, but a beer as well, I have to reserve part of my day in their honor. After all, had John Hancock and the boys remained complacent about getting pushed around by some London Sillynanny, odds are we might never have gained the privilege of seeing such an awesome 10 minutes of television.
I'll leave you with the last 3:30...If you can "stomach" it!
