Slice of Life

Made In America

From B's 30th

For more shots of the chundery adventure in NYC last weekend, feel free to view the entire album.  View discretion is advised.

Close Calls

A nice story discussing what some passengers said and did during what they thought were their final moments aboard USAirways Flight 1549.

Wedding Crasher

Just as I'm recovering from my outbreak of poison ivy that sent me to the ER, catching up on some much-needed sleep and getting back into my usual workout routine, wedding #1 of 5 in the next 8 months is upon me this weekend, and I'll soon be off to St. Louis to celebrate the nuptials of a fraternity brother and former teammate from back in the day.  Despite the poor timing, I'm actually very excited about the trip as it will give me an opportunity to catch up and reconnect with some guys I haven't seen in almost 10 years.  There will be the one or two scragglers I'll surely attempt to avoid just as I did in my undergraduate days, and I know of at least one person who is going to talk exclusively about how much money he makes these days, doing whatever it is he does that he considers to be important in this world, over-inflated sense of self-worth intact as ever.  Ah yes, how I love to hear people talk about themselves, especially this one particular douche.  I can already see the look on his face when he hears about my decision to change careers and remove myself from the field of law altogether but as long as I get a free drink or two out of the deal I'll be just fine.

In the spirit of the upcoming weekend, enjoy the favorite scene from one of my all time favorite movies:

Nerveaux et Gazeux

The aforementioned phrase is French for "nervous and gassy," as that is exactly what I am less than 12 hours away from a flight to Montreal to partake in the age-old tradition of the bachelor party for one of my closest friends.  My first trips to Montreal were to celebrate New Years when I was 18, 19, and 20 years old.  It was perfect.  I was home from college for winter break with absolutley nothing to do, so some friends that I attended a summer program with before my senior year in high school came up with this grand idea to head up to Montreal to ring in the new year.  It helped that one of him had a good friend who attended McGill in Montreal, where we all crashed and made complete fools out of ourselves.  I remember drinking a lot of Molson XXX since it had such a high alcohol content and being extremely proud of "smuggling" and empty bottle back across the border to add to my beer bottle collection.  Great times.

I'd like to think I've chilled out a bit as the years have passed and won't be singing the Star Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs walking down the middle of St. Catherine Street at 4:00 a.m., but who knows with this crew.  I hear there is a casino and the Montreal Canadiens have a game this weekend, and this is going to be the last documentation whatsoever of the pending debauchery.  But for about 60 photos I'll be sure to post next week.

Adios.  I'm off to a date with my Valentine.

Where to Begin: Game Day

When I first got word that I scored two tickets to the national championship game, the initial thought was that the Wife and I would somehow make the trek to New Orleans.  Flights were pretty expensive and a 12+ hour trip to the Big Easy wasn't as appetizing to my better half as it was to me (and given how absolutely horrible I felt on the plane ride back on Tuesday morning, flying was a good call).  "Ask your dad if he wants to go," she encouraged me, "he'd love that."

Before asking my dad I had to make a half dozen or so phone calls to some friends who I know would have jumped all over the opportunity to head down to the game with me upon hearing that I had tickets.  I had to stress that I only had two tickets and that I was going to head to the game with my father and that while I would have had a blow out time with that particular individual, it was just one of those things I wanted to do with my dad.  Everyone was more than understanding and seemed genuinely happy for me.  Plus, it's not like we won't have more opportunities to watch Ohio State play for the national title in our lifetimes.  Suffice to say, I've made some hefty future promises to a handful of people that I know will cash in, big time.

It was a little weird walking to the Superdome before the game in that I couldn't help but think of what the scene was like in the hours after Hurrican Katrina hit the city.  I remember the lines and piles of garbage up and down the street, disgusting.  Waiting in line wasn't the best experience, either, largely in part to the mass of people that was at a complete standstill for the better part of 15 minutes but because people were dying where I stood a little more than two years ago.  Inside, there was fresh paint in just about every single hallway and the bathrooms were clearly refurbished.  I watched the news stories and read the articles and looked at the photos, and couldn't help but think of what it was actually like then.

The only other sporting event of similar magnatude that I attended was the NCAA Men's Final Four in 1997 in Indianapolis.  I was a junior in college and went with my father and my brother.  My brother couldn't drink (or should I more accurately write "was not legally authorized to consume alcoholic beverages) so our nightlife was decidedly different than what it surely would be today, but like the BCS Championship game, the game itself was almost an afterthought of what the entire weekend was about.  My plane into New Orleans to kick off the weekend was packed with Ohio State fans.  Sure enough, one poor lonesome soul wearing a purple LSU sweatshirt was the very last person to walk onto the plane and was booed like you would not believe.  He was a great sport about it, and doled out a number of high-fives and pats on the back to the folks he walked by on his way to the back of the plane.  And to me, that is ultimately what any sporting event is about, whether big or small, and that is a celebration of people and life.  The talents of those particular athletes participating in any given sport that are on display for the entire world is indeed worthy of celebration, too.  But everyone coming together, irrespective of affiliation to a particular school, to eat, drink and be merry to an extensive degree in each category is fun to be a part of and even more fun to watch.  That is probably why my father and I made a beeline to the same table at the same bar on Bourbon Street day after day, because it had a central location and was probably the best people watching I've ever been a part of.  There was always a band, too, blaring away and getting people out of their seats within minutes.  For three days there were no worries other than hailing a cab that was headed in the right direction and trying to score a set of beads that matched my game day attire, if you can even call those "worries."  This is the single most beautiful and capturing element of sports, that one can lose him or herself in whatever that day's particular event may be.  Being able to share that experience with my father, yet again, was the greatest feeling in the world.

Even though the game itself kind of sucked ass.

Where to Begin: Pre-Game

The bus tour my father and I took in New Orleans lasted just over 3 hours, so suffice to say we saw quite a bit of the city.  Driving through the Katrina areas was very sad, as many of these neighborhoods are still empty but for the lines of shells that once served as homes, gutted completely and abandoned.  I took this pic from inside of the bus because of where the markings from the search crew were located on the home's exterior, probably 12 feet off the ground as a result of the water level being that high.  There were a handful of dumpsters stationed on various side streets, overflowing with discarded household items and furniture, moldy sheetrock and rotten fascia boards.  The tour guide told us that the work that the Army Corps of Engineers has been doing to repair and secure the levees will protect against an additional 5-6 feet of swell from the next 100-year storm.  The work will be completed after the hurricane season in 2010.

Driving through the upscale parts of the city just minutes after touring the areas ravaged by Katrina underscored the sharp contrast between the proverbial haves and have-nots of New Orleans.  I wasn't all that jazzed about seeing the multi-million dollar home of Archie Manning where Peyton and Eli Manning grew up after driving past a hundred homes that had water line stains on the second floor and were completely boarded up.  The good news, I suppose, is that the city does appear to be getting back on its feet.  There were a number of new homes in the devastated neighborhoods that I saw, with the newer houses built on 6-10 foot concrete stilts or large concret slabs significantly elevating the homes.  There is much more to be done.

As the tour bus dropped people off at different hotels and other points of interest, my dad leaned over to me and said, "Let's get out here, I'm thirsty."  We knew we were somewhere close to the French Quarter which meant somewhere close to grabbing a beer and beginning the evening's festivities in anticipation of the big game.  Sure enough, in less than block we were in the middle of block party for Ohio State fans, equipped with a live band and enough beer vendors to keep everyones' thirst adequately quenched.  There I ran into this famous guy, the Woody Hayes look-a-like who gets camera time for just about every nationally televised Ohio State football game.  The majority of Ohio State fans had arrived and spirits were high.  Thoughts of a national championship was the common thread bringing many happy fans together for what was a sporting event like no other in which I have participated.  Not the NCAA Men's Final Four, not the MLB playoff game I attended this past October, not even a Yankees/Red Sox game at either Yankee Stadium or Fenway Park or an NFL Monday night season opener.  Nothing.  Not even close.

We were hungry and decided to duck into this little nondescript spot at the beginning of Bourbon Street as we turned off of Canal Street.  Cheesesteaks were their specialty, and the head man working the grill boasted to my father that he and his co-workers were "all from Philly."  "Oh yeah?" my dad asked.  "I was born in Philly."  And for the next 5 minutes or so I just sat at the counter, listening to my dad talk to this guy about the different areas around Philadelphia and Pennsylvania high school football, among other things.  It was arguably the best cheesesteak I've ever had in my life.

Bourbon Street was loud, very loud.  The LSU fans had their chants of "TI-GERBAIT! TI-GERBAIT!" that were generally drowned about by the oh-so-creative "O! H!" and "I! O!" give and take that even the most grammatically challenged Buckeye fan can participate in.  I scored a handful of beads as we meandered down Bourbon Street, not because of any naked breast shots I doled out to the crowd but more of being at the right (or wrong) place at the right time.  I was happy to score a set of red beads, as I knew it would be a perfect compliment to my gameday attire.  Everyone was just so happy.

My dad and I checked out the bar we had hung out for most of the previous afternoon, and, as we suspected, was packed to the hilt and our window seats taken.  We continued along Bourbon Street for a little while longer and until we came to this one bar that had a huge balcony, which was completely empty.  A guy from inside the bar, probably a DJ setting up for later that night, yells over a microphone, "Hey Ohio State fans, we need some people up here in this balcony!"  In advance of the rush of co-eds that surely would have trampled us, I look to my father and tell him that we should head up for a while; the chance to have a few drinks overlooking Bourbon Street on a night that could arguably surpass Mardi Gras was one in a million.  About a half dozen or so students - any my goodness they look so young - darted through the doors ahead of us with my father and I trailing closely behind.  In their rush to get to the balcony they scurried right past the stairwell that I was sure took us to the area we needed to go, so my dad and I made a sudden left turn and were now leading the brigade of scarlet and grey to the promised land.  Sure enough, an upstairs bar and dance floor was adjacent to the one doorway where I could see the lights of other bars across the street.  We got out onto the balcony before anyone else, walked down to the corner so as to minimize the chances of some drunko spilling something on us, leaned forward on the railing and took it all in.  As I snapped picture after picture of our view, giddy at the thought of being with my dad and 30 other Ohio State fans, many of which were half his age, I told my dad to turn so I could get a picture of him with Bourbon Street in the background.  Because it was dark the flash in my camera went off and it triggers in a manner such that there is about a 3 second delay from when the initial flash goes off to when the picture is taken.  My dad turned his head before I could take the picture I wanted and I told him that I was going to have to take it again.  As I scrolled through the recent shots I had taken to see if the one I just took was salvageable, I realized that I had taken what is my absolute favorite photograph of all time, this shot.  It captures how we were both feeling at that very moment, our shared excitement over the 3 days we were in New Orleans, and how proud I am of my father and to have been there with him for that experience more than anyone else in the world.  "Perfect," I told him after reviewing the picture, "just perfect."

Where to Begin: The Pics

Pictures of my trip to New Orleans can now be found here or in one of my various google Picasa albums, here.  Let this serve as an official endorsement for Picasa, incredible.  As are the pics.

Where to Begin: The Beginning

Never before have I burned through an entire roll of toilet paper than I did during my first 24 hours in New Orleans.  And the crazy thing is, it wasn't like I was pounding aligator burgers and chasing them with bowls of jumbalaya.  Enjoyed a breakfast buffet with my dad at a nearby diner when we landed on Saturday morning, headed to Bourbon Street and got the liver warmed up for the long weekend's festivities before hitting the buffet at Harrah's casino.  I suppose I went a bit overboard with my plate of Chinese food followed by a plate of prime rib followed by a plate of crab legs and topped off with a vanilla creme brulee, but I was on vacation.  And what a memorable vacation it was.

Not much to say about our hotel accommodations, which were located on the corner of Dark and Shady in Metairie, just west of New Orleans.  I scored our tickets to the title game kind of late, and everything near the Superdome was generally booked and going for $500-600 per night.  My dad and I figured we better not jerk around to search for the best rate or something close to the Dome or the French Quarter, so we booked a room and resorted to taking a $20 cab in and out of the city.  As our cabbie was pulling onto our hotel's street on the first night he pointed to a hole-in-the wall bar on a side street with what looked to be 3 prostitutes or crank addicts behind its dumpster and said matter of factly, "That's a good bar right there."  Um, yeah.  I gave my Dad a look as if to ask, "How high is this guy?" and thought, if that's a good bar, then this is a clean cab.

I managed to wake up at a decent hour on Sunday morning and go for a run that took almost an hour.  Amazing what a nice pace I can maintain when the lone criteria for the sidewalks and streets on which I chose was "maximum number of potential witnesses if I get shot."  It really wasn't that bad, but it sure as hell wasn't that good, either.  The 3 caged pitbulls in front of a salvage yard and their vicious barks declaring sheer death and destruction served as my halfway point, with a Krispy Kreme shop providing a pleasant scent of security.

Like my father, I am a creature of habit.  So rooming with him for 3+ days was actually a breeze.  Our routine in the morning was to walk over to the local diner, a Shoney's, grab a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast each, wheat.  It was a great time to just shoot the shit about what was going on in our lives from his pending retirement, his back problems, and my advice on the best way to prepare for filing a claim for long-term disability benefits based on my legal days and the half dozen or so people I helped out who nearly got screwed by the big bad corporate insurance carriers.  Times I will surely look back on fondly.  I had to pick up a copy of the local Times-Picayune, which had cover-to-cover articles and photos about the upcoming game (I read about 4 murders in the 3 days we were down there, crazy).  I'm a huge fan of getting all the print media I can for major events, particularly major sporting events where I am in attendance, and saving them in an old-fashioned trunk my mother got me at a yard sale years ago.  Of course I was thinking how sweet it would be to get the Tuesday paper, declaring my Buckeye's Number One for the '08 season.  Not so much.

I could probably blog about Bourbon Street for the rest of my life.  I took me at least an hour before I could collect myself and carry on a conversation with my dad, who had previously been to New Orleans on 3 or 4 occasions to attend the NCAA basketball Final Four.  He remembered the general layout of the French Quarter and some good restaurants to try, but I was floored by the sheer public display if not encouragement of the highest level of debauchery.  Essentially, New Orleans is Amsterdam without the weed.  And I gotta say, the open containers idea is brilliant.  People are just so much happier if they are walking around with a beverage of their choice in hand.  I lost count of the naked breasts I saw at 5, and am happy to report that I scored my first set of beads by flashing my own ronis.

We set up camp at this one bar that had a few open doorways along the sidewalk and managed to get a table right in the center doorway.  Another thing I'm all about:  window seats along sidewalks at restaurants and bars.  And this particular afternoon, the people watching capital of America, my pops and I were front and center.  Pretty low key afternoon and evening our first day down there, as most people were surely en route via plane or automobile, although I enjoyed the contrast of cheers and looks we would get from different groups of fans as they passed us.  And while I realize how obnoxious Ohio State fans are and can be, LSU fans are no prize either.  The chant I heard more than any other during the weekend was "TI-GERBAIT, TI-GERBAIT, TI-GERBAIT!!!" and I just found it to be lame.  A group of 3 or 4 LSU students who I walked past in our bar (my dad and I went to the same seat in the same bar each day we were down there) chanted this as I walked by.  "You realize tigers don't really need bait, don't you?" I turned around and asked them before ordering my next drink.  Their collective response was nothing more than garbled nonsense mixed in with saliva and booze, and it actually lead to a conversation about politics I had with the stocky male fan and what may possibly be the dumbest blonde I have ever encountered in my entire life.  More on that later.

Sunday was certainly our most well-rounded and best day in New Orleans.  We wanted to get out and see the sights and ended up taking a bus tour through and around the city.  The tour last a little over 3 hours and I was amazed at how much ground we covered, from the French Quarter to a number of areas damaged by Hurricane Katrina, photos of which will be posted here soon.  Not being much of a history buff, I never realized what a rich history the city has.  Never knew the founder of New Orleans, Robert de Bienville, was only 19 when he touched down there.  I think he'd be pretty psyched to see how things turned for his fair city.  Saw the place where the Louisiana Purchase was signed.  Went through an amazing, 1,300-acre park with the biggest oak trees I have ever seen, estimated to be more than 300 years old.  The architecture was incredible and our stop at the halfway point was a tour through New Orleans #3 Cemetary.  I suppose its kind of cool sharing a resting place with your immediate family, but a little weird at the same time.  The Katrina areas were sad, nothing more I can say about it, really.  The visible water lines on many houses that were still standing blew me away, as were the spray painted markings of search crews, many of which were 10-15 high on the sides of the houses.  While I was glad to see a '0' painted in each section of the large 'X' where the number of bodies was accounted for, I did see a "BD" marked on the right side of one such X.  "BD, that's for Barking Dog," our tour guide told us.

Noliquidslotionsgelsoraerosols

Score one for the terrorists.  Having flown twice in the days since the most recently thwarted terrorist attack involving the plot to blow up a dozen or so commercial airplanes using explosive materials stored in water bottles and other non-suspicious containers, I've been reminded of what a complete and total pain in the ass it is to check luggage at the airport.  The checking part of it really isn't that much of a hassle as it is heading down to baggage claim, waiting around for 30 minutes before the carousel even begins to move then hoping that my bag is a winner in the luggage removal lottery administered by the folks who treat these items with oh so much TLC.

The trip out west a few weeks ago was a major pain in the ass in this regard in that there was no way I could get by without packing any liquidslotionsgelsoraerosols.  Water, saline, toothpaste, sunscreen, bug spray, aquaphor (more on the best invention in the history of the world in a later post, oh, and absolutely MONEY on the nips after running a marathon), shampoo, I think that's it.  So I had to check a big back for the Grand Canyon trip and hoped with all I had that they braintrust working the luggage department for Northwest didn't screw anything up or my trip would be over before it even began.  My last experience with Northwest involved a trip out to Ohio where the overhead bins filled up quickly and my bag had to be checked from the plane.  As soon as it left my hands I turned to my wife and said, "There's a good chance I'm not going to see that bag again."  And, for the next 48 hours, I was right.

I decided to redeploy my old strategy of flying for my Charlotte trip last week, namely arriving at the airport on the day of departure minutes before the boarding process begins and not having any bags to check.  At the end of the day, I realized that I don't need much in the way of the liquidslotionsgelsoraerosols department.  Toothpaste.  Something my hosts had plenty of.  Saline.  Check.  Shaving cream (another item my hosts had but because I'm me, I made a special trip to the drug store out there and purchased the same brand I use back home because I didn't want to 'jinx' my interview by shaving with a different brand of shaving cream on the day of the interview.  Weird, I know.)  In any event, I was back, baby.  Rolling through the airport just as the boarding process began, calmly taking one last piss before I signed zee papers and nestled in to my window seat and surfed through 2 or 3 college football games on the flight south.  Amen, JetBlue, amen.

This is all a long way of saying that you can easily do your part to fight back against the terrorists when it comes to air travel.  Ladies, no offense, but with all the shit you need for your hair, face, body, and whatever else you tend to in the name of hygeine, I'm not sure you'll ever be able to get around the liquidslotionsgelsoraerosols ban, but good luck to you nonetheless.  Fortunately, news broke today that the TSA is relaxing its liquidslotionsgelsoraerosols ban on commercial flights beginning tomorrow.

Here's one though:  what is deoderant?  Neither liquid nor true solid, does it fall within the aforementioned ban?  I packed my deoderant and it was a non-issue.  And I'm sorry, but my faith in the good folks working for the TSA is waning like you wouldn't believe.  Many simply just don't strike me as the most pleasant or competent people in the world, and the fact is I want someone in my face, staring me down, asking a question or two about who I am and what I'm doing.  Checking my photo ID to ensure it matches my boarding pass is all well and good, but they guy (or gal!) who is minutes away from bombing the shit out of an airplane isn't going to be that much concerned with how long the line at the local DMV is going to be the next morning to get a replacement license.  Just sayin' is all.

20 Questions in the Canyon

Probably one of my most favorite moments from my Grand Canyon trip was on the second night, just after sundown, when all of us were lying in our tents getting ready for bed.  My youngest cousin, Thomas, who is 15 asks, "Hey Dad, what time is it?"  To which my Uncle replied, "It's 7:45."  There is a pause, then Thomas exclaims, "Then why are we in bed?!?!"  Trust me, it was hysterical.  And when you've been hiking up a rock with a 60 pound pack in 115 degree weather, lying down for the night before 8 p.m. is the most pleasant treat in the world.

We did a few rounds of 20 Questions and here were the answers:

Nalgene bottle

A microphone

Sun tan lotion

Tecate beer

The Amish Guy (this was 100% my pick and would make a lot more sense if you were hiking down with our group on the first day, and was guessed after 5 questions, hilarious).

Naturally, right out of the gates first thing Wednesday morning when I return to work and haven't even logged onto my computer yet, the boss comes into my office and before any "Hey!  How was your trip?"  or "Good to have you back, how was it?" or any other type of pleasantry you would expect to receive after being out of the office for a week, he immediately starts jabbering about something I don't even know about.  He made about as much sense as when the teachers talk in the Charlie Brown cartoon shows.  "WOWOAMAANOANAOMAOUTWOWMANTOUTNANWOUNT."

And I never thought I'd be saying this, but an ice cold Tecate at the end of a long day hiking through the Canyon is the best thing I've ever tasted in my life.  Second place is the stack of blueberry pancakes I inhaled when I got back up to the top.  You sure do appreciate the little things after an experience like that.