Here's one from February of this year, explaining the "little brother" theory I have about Wisconsin that I mentioned in the previous blog.
Remember Can-i-bus and his fight with LL? What the hell happened to him? I think Can-i-bus and LL Cool J are both fantastic.
Anyway, I hate this cold. This stupid, pointless, steals-the-breath-from-your-lungs cold. It's annoying, it makes things I need not work, and it doesn't bring snow; the only part of winter I really like. I know, I know, I choose to live here. I'm fine with winter, just like I'm fine with summer. I like most of it, but there's about 2 weeks out of the season that I really wanna be a hermit. Ol' Ben Kenobi-style, just wandering around in a robe scaring children. Maybe I should just do that anyway…
Inevitably it makes the first 2-3 minutes of every car ride a tense situation, with forced conversation, shivering, and the white-knuckling of fists inside their gloves (or mit-tens in the case of Em or Tina). But once it warms up, it almost turns any amount of time into a campfire experience, with deeply personal stories and sing-a-longs around every turn. I don't know if it's our subconscious recognizing that we all may not make it back from this journey, or just the valley and peak of temperatures so quickly allows our brain a boozy artificial high and a looseness of the tongue. Either way, it's always entertaining.
I was recently on a car ride to Wisconsin with a 19 year old kid in the back seat. He is very naïve, very earnest, and very hard working. He's a fighter that's never won a fight (literally), and has in fact lost so many fights that his own family won't come see him fight until he actually wins one. He apparently also got framed for a felony arson case, but he totally didn't do it nor was he there. I had learned all of this within about 5 minutes. He had that Fivel from "An American Tail" quality about him, that "I'm-a gonna make it no matter what" Pollyanna outlook. I wanted to build him up…tell him funny stories about how we all have to fight to get what we want, and if it was easy it wouldn't feel as good, all that big-brother-he-never-had stuff to keep his confidence up.
But all that goodwill went out the frozen window when this happened, word-for-word:
As System Of A Down was blaring on the stereo, this conversation actually occurred between me in the front seat and him in the back,
"Can we listen to some GOOD rock? You got any Staind?"
This is good rock. And no.
"Oh. Well, I gotta get pumped up. Nickelback?"
Fuck no.
"Um, man I really need some serious rock-n-roll. How 'bout Limp Bizkit or fuckin' Skynyrd?"
No, and no. Dammit no. Oh, God, you're actually from Anoka aren't you?
"Yeah, why? You guys really don't have any Bizkit of Skynyrd??"
I'm in a music argument with a 19 year-old fighter that can't fight from Anoka while driving to Wisconsin, and we still have a half hour to drive. I'm getting dizzy from the smell of poetic justice in the car. I try to make peace by offering Fall Out Boy or the Dropkick Murphys, but he had no idea who either of them were. Sigh.
I decided to keep him quiet for a while by telling grownup stories with my buddy G, and talking about the football season's conclusion. NFL, hurry back to me. I need you…and a quarterback. Come back with my All Day Peterson, my Williams twins, and…I beg you…please give us a quarterback.
So we get to the bar in Wisconsin, and I'm greeted by that smell of bars past, the plumes of cigarette smoke and whiskey gently rolling out of the patrons' mouths like the breath from the players in a December game at Lambeau Field. Except it's warm and humid in this bar, and there's not an athlete in sight. I smile that my beer/chilled shot of Jack combo is only $5.50, I take in the ambiance of Packers/NASCAR décor, and I revel in the joyous sounds of Kid Rock's "Only God Knows Why" followed by Slipknot's "Wait and Bleed," knowing that it was the same guy who picked these songs back to back.
As I do in any small town, I scan the bar for "the hot chick" to see what she's wearing, thereby indicating the kind of clientele I'll be surrounded by for the evening. Sounds a bit catty, but trust me, it works. You spend as long as I did in bars in Stearns Country, you learn a few tricks of the trade. Scanning, scanning, and then I see her. Like a beacon of light, she's sashaying through a pack of good ol' boys in sweatshirts and Wranglers (of course endorsed by Mr. Favre himself) to her pack of Kool lights at her table. And how could she not be confident with that cotton and lace top pulled ever-so-tightly over her black bra, "Muffin-top" handles just barely peeking out. And you need that buffer of squishy skin to really make that hot pink corduroy camouflage skirt pop like that! Girl, if there's a war in Strawberry Shortcake Land, your ass is hidden like Houdini (also from Wisconsin)! Far be it for you to wanna blend in, Mandi (or Kristi, or Kayla, or what ever name you have that either starts with K or ends with an I), you need to finish this outfit, nay, fashion statement off with a BANG! And you got it honey, those leopard print heels bring it home. Too-short white top with black bra, pink camo skirt, leopard heels. Wisconsin, you never disappoint me.
I MC'd the event, watching the people cheering all night. Hip hop hats with black metal or NASCAR T-shirts was the dominant male uniform, and most girls had the imbalance of not enough fabric vs. too much skin…but none could hold a candle to my dear Brittni (or Ashli or Kimmi). The thing I realized that night, however, is that it's actually kind of endearing. There's no pretense, no acting like there's classier shit going on here. This is Wisconsin; like it, love it, or go the fuck home.
What I really figured out is that Wisconsin is like your annoying kid brother. You can't be around him all the time, but every now and then he's kinda fun to party with. Yes, he'll get too drunk and start a fight or say something revolting and hurtful to someone, but sometimes we're all in the mood for a little bit of that. Sure it kinda smells in his house, but he'll let you smoke anywhere! Yeah, it's not really pretty, but you can get beer whenever you want 7 days a week! It's like going back to your favorite bar from college. You're not necessarily proud the next morning, but you sure had some good laughs, made some friends you'll never see again, and have myriad stories to tell your friends when you get home.
So here's to you Wisconsin, my underappreciated lil' bro, we can totally hang a couple times a year. But for me, please (PLEASE!) stop telling your community college friends Anoka, Blaine, and Coon Rapids to come see me downtown. Tell 'em I'll meet them at your house soon, and we'll have a beer, a brat, and a smile. I call you later, bro…
Q
Anyway, I hate this cold. This stupid, pointless, steals-the-breath-from-your-lungs cold. It's annoying, it makes things I need not work, and it doesn't bring snow; the only part of winter I really like. I know, I know, I choose to live here. I'm fine with winter, just like I'm fine with summer. I like most of it, but there's about 2 weeks out of the season that I really wanna be a hermit. Ol' Ben Kenobi-style, just wandering around in a robe scaring children. Maybe I should just do that anyway…
Inevitably it makes the first 2-3 minutes of every car ride a tense situation, with forced conversation, shivering, and the white-knuckling of fists inside their gloves (or mit-tens in the case of Em or Tina). But once it warms up, it almost turns any amount of time into a campfire experience, with deeply personal stories and sing-a-longs around every turn. I don't know if it's our subconscious recognizing that we all may not make it back from this journey, or just the valley and peak of temperatures so quickly allows our brain a boozy artificial high and a looseness of the tongue. Either way, it's always entertaining.
I was recently on a car ride to Wisconsin with a 19 year old kid in the back seat. He is very naïve, very earnest, and very hard working. He's a fighter that's never won a fight (literally), and has in fact lost so many fights that his own family won't come see him fight until he actually wins one. He apparently also got framed for a felony arson case, but he totally didn't do it nor was he there. I had learned all of this within about 5 minutes. He had that Fivel from "An American Tail" quality about him, that "I'm-a gonna make it no matter what" Pollyanna outlook. I wanted to build him up…tell him funny stories about how we all have to fight to get what we want, and if it was easy it wouldn't feel as good, all that big-brother-he-never-had stuff to keep his confidence up.
But all that goodwill went out the frozen window when this happened, word-for-word:
As System Of A Down was blaring on the stereo, this conversation actually occurred between me in the front seat and him in the back,
"Can we listen to some GOOD rock? You got any Staind?"
This is good rock. And no.
"Oh. Well, I gotta get pumped up. Nickelback?"
Fuck no.
"Um, man I really need some serious rock-n-roll. How 'bout Limp Bizkit or fuckin' Skynyrd?"
No, and no. Dammit no. Oh, God, you're actually from Anoka aren't you?
"Yeah, why? You guys really don't have any Bizkit of Skynyrd??"
I'm in a music argument with a 19 year-old fighter that can't fight from Anoka while driving to Wisconsin, and we still have a half hour to drive. I'm getting dizzy from the smell of poetic justice in the car. I try to make peace by offering Fall Out Boy or the Dropkick Murphys, but he had no idea who either of them were. Sigh.
I decided to keep him quiet for a while by telling grownup stories with my buddy G, and talking about the football season's conclusion. NFL, hurry back to me. I need you…and a quarterback. Come back with my All Day Peterson, my Williams twins, and…I beg you…please give us a quarterback.
So we get to the bar in Wisconsin, and I'm greeted by that smell of bars past, the plumes of cigarette smoke and whiskey gently rolling out of the patrons' mouths like the breath from the players in a December game at Lambeau Field. Except it's warm and humid in this bar, and there's not an athlete in sight. I smile that my beer/chilled shot of Jack combo is only $5.50, I take in the ambiance of Packers/NASCAR décor, and I revel in the joyous sounds of Kid Rock's "Only God Knows Why" followed by Slipknot's "Wait and Bleed," knowing that it was the same guy who picked these songs back to back.
As I do in any small town, I scan the bar for "the hot chick" to see what she's wearing, thereby indicating the kind of clientele I'll be surrounded by for the evening. Sounds a bit catty, but trust me, it works. You spend as long as I did in bars in Stearns Country, you learn a few tricks of the trade. Scanning, scanning, and then I see her. Like a beacon of light, she's sashaying through a pack of good ol' boys in sweatshirts and Wranglers (of course endorsed by Mr. Favre himself) to her pack of Kool lights at her table. And how could she not be confident with that cotton and lace top pulled ever-so-tightly over her black bra, "Muffin-top" handles just barely peeking out. And you need that buffer of squishy skin to really make that hot pink corduroy camouflage skirt pop like that! Girl, if there's a war in Strawberry Shortcake Land, your ass is hidden like Houdini (also from Wisconsin)! Far be it for you to wanna blend in, Mandi (or Kristi, or Kayla, or what ever name you have that either starts with K or ends with an I), you need to finish this outfit, nay, fashion statement off with a BANG! And you got it honey, those leopard print heels bring it home. Too-short white top with black bra, pink camo skirt, leopard heels. Wisconsin, you never disappoint me.
I MC'd the event, watching the people cheering all night. Hip hop hats with black metal or NASCAR T-shirts was the dominant male uniform, and most girls had the imbalance of not enough fabric vs. too much skin…but none could hold a candle to my dear Brittni (or Ashli or Kimmi). The thing I realized that night, however, is that it's actually kind of endearing. There's no pretense, no acting like there's classier shit going on here. This is Wisconsin; like it, love it, or go the fuck home.
What I really figured out is that Wisconsin is like your annoying kid brother. You can't be around him all the time, but every now and then he's kinda fun to party with. Yes, he'll get too drunk and start a fight or say something revolting and hurtful to someone, but sometimes we're all in the mood for a little bit of that. Sure it kinda smells in his house, but he'll let you smoke anywhere! Yeah, it's not really pretty, but you can get beer whenever you want 7 days a week! It's like going back to your favorite bar from college. You're not necessarily proud the next morning, but you sure had some good laughs, made some friends you'll never see again, and have myriad stories to tell your friends when you get home.
So here's to you Wisconsin, my underappreciated lil' bro, we can totally hang a couple times a year. But for me, please (PLEASE!) stop telling your community college friends Anoka, Blaine, and Coon Rapids to come see me downtown. Tell 'em I'll meet them at your house soon, and we'll have a beer, a brat, and a smile. I call you later, bro…
Q
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