You Stole My Fish Sandwich, Last Chapter

I have started, stopped, deleted, re-started, re-stopped and undeleted this story way too many times. And since we were fishing buddies, it is time to cut bait:

Now I may be making some assumptions of this audience, but I am guessing that a good amount of you ended up at one of the following places after bar time:

·         Ma Fisher’s

·         George Webb’s

·         The Parthenon

·         Denny’s

·         Taco Bell

·         (insert alternate location)

No matter your inclination and/or location, the purpose was simple: to seek out sustenance to make the morning after minutely more tolerable. But for your humble orator, there was nothing better to come home to remnants of an unconquered mid-day meal after a full evening of lounge lizard-ness.

Now to set the stage for the crime: We were roommates. Share and share alike, but there were something that was not community property. You can drink my beer, but one rule was simple: Do. Not. Touch. My. Food. But apparently a Kopp’s Fish Sandwich, loaded with fried onions, tartar sauce, pickles and cheese will turn a man into a criminal.

Now, because I have the personality of a piece of granite and an extensive library of the worst pickup lines ever known to man, that sandwich was the only thing was going to give me a heighten state of ecstasy that evening. So after that evening's bender was brought to an end, I slithered back to the base camp for some oral satisfaction for the best food that Lucifer ever invented. But as I opened that ice box, the only thing I heard was those famous Colonel Kurtz words: ‘The horror…the horror….’

Next morning:
Me: “‘Did you eat my fish sandwich?”
You: “Yes”
Me: “That was MY fish sandwich!!!”
You: “I know. But it kept talking to me saying ‘Eat Me’…’Eat Me’.”
Me: “YOU STOLE MY FISH SANDWICH!!!!”
You: “I will buy you a new one.”

Eventually, a state of normality returned at the base camp, but you never made good on your end of the agreement. And as that living arrangement closed for good and we went our separate ways, still nothing.

As the years passed, I never let you forget that I was still expecting to be made contractually whole. Usually, the topic surfaced every fishing trip after yours truly had too many intoxicants. You just sat there with that same stupid grin, not saying a word. It was your way of showing me the concept of ‘survival of the fittest’ and your silence was your way of telling me that I had lost.

Why am I telling this story? Because you were the best man at my wedding, you were there when that two-faced Catholic exited and you bought me endless supply of $20 lappers to make me forget…you fixed my roof…you gave me your trolling motor battery…you visited my parents, even when I was not at home…you and the professor traveled 80+ miles to visit me on my birthday…you plowed my driveway when I was away on business, and I didn’t even ask… you loaned me your car for a date…This is what I remember of my friend. Your loss is immense beyond comprehension because of the life that you touched.

So for the time being, I will have to wait a while until we meet again. And the first thing I will do is remind you that you owe me $3.75…

…because you stole my fish sandwich.

You Stole My Fish Sandwich, Part 4

Wrong Answer

I was never religious..could never be Catholic. But I made an attempt into that 'death-do-us-part' routine. Part of that pre-routine was a questionnaire:

Q:'Who is your best friend?"
A: 'Scott'
Catholic: (Dirty Look)
My Inner Dialog: (Oh, sh*t)
Catholic: 'Try again.'
Me: 'You.'

That is why you were my best man...

...that may be one of the reasons why I am now single.

You Stole My Fish Sandwich, Part 3

The Trego Turn

When we made 'The Trego Turn’, the party started. We called them ‘fishing’ trips.

These trips provided an opportunity to blow off some steam as our personal and professional lives were starting, but continued to diverge. As for your humble orator, these trips were more about how many cheap beers yours truly could consume, while trying to solve the mystery of how many one dollar bills were missing from my wallet each morning. But as they became a regularly scheduled event, their meaning meant more to me as my process of unloading some unwanted baggage evolved and how these excursions became the medicine that exercised that horrible disease from my soul.

With all things in life, we were getting older…albeit represented only by a number. A location change was in order and mid-way through our odyssey, we lost that turn. But with all great friendships, something started to evolve and our trips matured into unbelievable fishing, memorable meals, great homemade beer and great conversation about how it was, how it is, and how it could be.

Now, I am sadden beyond belief that they will not be able to continue, but I am more than happy we had that first trip. The other 15 (or so) were a bonus and those memories are what will keep me going now and in years to come.

So, my next trip will be alone as I return to the solitude of the Brule and Namekagon with my trusty fly rod. And because after 29 years I still have not learned my lesson (see Part 1), another step in my therapy will involve an illegal act with a malted beverage….

…as I make that Trego Turn.

You Stole My Fish Sandwich, Part 2

I had a dream last night that brought back memories of a conversation held close to 30 years ago:

Think Pink

Me: Do we have everything?
You: Yes.
Me: Both cans?
You: No, we have only one.
Me: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?
You: Chill out. Nobody is going to find it.
Me: I SAID TO LEAVE NOTHING BEHIND!!!!
You: Nobody is going to find it. Chill out.
Me: IF THEY FIND THAT CAN, I AM THE ONE GOING TO JAIL!!!!
You: Chill out.

Well, they found that can and I spent the next few days staring out the front window waiting for Johnny Law, but he never came.

So, I think I am going to spend today looking out my front window....

You Stole My Fish Sandwich, Part 1

My therapy sessions are coming in the form of the written word. And right now, I need a lot visits to that couch…

My blogging will be rambling of non-chronological and sometimes nonsensical topics, ending by describing a heinous act of 'tortious interference', with no attempt by the ‘torfeasor’, the subjects of these posts, to ever provide any equitable damages. So...

Journey, Alpine Valley, June 17^th 1983: Good bye high school and come August, we are all going in our separate ways. But for now, the only task at hand was a good-old-fashioned road trip with the Ziggy Family Grand Safari stocked with the ‘consumables’ (use your imagination) and a grill in Fryman’s Nova.

Now mind you, back in our day, some of the things that we did were NOT exactly smart. Nor it is my intention to expose stupidity, dangerous and/or illegal activities, but I had rules about drinking in a moving car (I have no intention of telling you want they were). Unfortunately, someone decided that they needed to violate that rule at the most inopportune moment possible, causing the WalwortCounty Sheriff to take an keen interest in my moving vehicle.

As far as I was concerned, the person that put us in the clutches of the law should have been hauled off and never heard from again so we could continue our road trip. But as your humble orator was about to escape the long arm of the law, a fully packed 72 quart red Igloo cooler full of provisions apparently caught their eye. And according to the Wisconsin State Statues in 1983, it is against the law to have one of my chauffeured acquaintances decide that they need a quick drink from a new bottle of vodka as it was being packed. Great…I just saw my graduation money disappear.

Now through all of this foolishness of being hassled by ‘The Man’, we lost contact with the fire source.  Remember this is well before any technology that has the potential of finding the Fryman anywhere on this earth and  apparently yelling from the rooftop of your car in the parking lot of a very large outdoor concert venue gets you a lot of strange looks. But this is a great opportunity for budding engineer and this where his ingenuity reins well, because apparently you can cook food on the exhaust system of a the 'ZiggyMobile' (well, not really…but it was a great idea).

Not being discouraged  by an inpending empty wallet and a date that was colder than zero degrees on the Kelvin scale, our 4^th row, dead center seats provided a memorable event for all. Although today as a middle-aged adult, I will never verbally broadcast that I actually attended a Journey concert.

Why I am telling you this story? I had 15 days to make my donation to the General Account of Walworth County and I am $60 dollars short. This is where our future torfeasor steps forward to help yours truly. There was never a question for when it would be returned, but merely a gesture of a true friend, to a friend in need.

This was the first gesture on many that I will never, cannot ever, will not ever, forget of my dear friend.

There is alot more to follow......

Plumtree's Absolute Duke

I miss my Buff. I would have given my own life just to make sure that cancer was eradicated from this earth...from all living beings.

Those months without a canine roaming the homestead were very empty. I searched and I searched for your replacement, but the feeling was non-existent and could not be revived. I made a decision that I needed to separate myself 46+ years of Labradors, the pain of losing you was just something that I could not shake (Seriously...getting rid of a wife was a lot easier). But then again, Dean could never hit a curve ball...

I was reluctant, but a suggestion drove me to Illinois. No real desire to drive there, but 'something' steered me there...but again like the last few months, three pups with no interest as me as a companion. 5 minutes...nothing. 10 minutes...nothing. 15....ok...time to go home. Then something happens....

Then, out of nowhere, something comes from behind and sits down between my legs.. and will not move. The breeder, 20 yards away turns to my sister and says...'they found each other'. April 2, 2011.

Yes... there have been challenges with a dog that has had no training (potty, crate and obedience), but that lasted about 1 month. But I realized that something was different on day number 2, when you did a double retrieve. Wait a minute...you were bred for Westminster? Fuck that.

Besides...his father is a 'King', his brother was a 'Tsar'...

'Duke'...well...he just might be royalty.

So long my friend....

"No heaven will not ever Heaven be. Unless my dogs are there to welcome me."-Anonymous

Buff lost his battle with bone cancer today. It has been a tough 8 weeks since his diagnosis, but the Labrador Retriever breed is as tough as they come. 

You were from a litter of eight, four boys and four girls. When she let the four boys out of the pen, three of them went their separate ways. But you came straight to me, put your front legs on mine and licked my face...the choice was made. But as I left the breeder's home, I put you in your travel cage. You started screaming. Not barking...screaming. I then put you in the front seat where you promptly fell asleep. Buff 1, Dean 0.

When we finally arrived to your new home, you prompt bolted into the house...and did a dookie in the living room. Buff 2, Dean 0.

When it was time for me to leave you at home for the first time, you promptly pooped in your cage (possibly many times) and proceeded to project this poop in many directions, also turning you into a chocolate Lab. Buff 3, Dean 0.

When I went to a Packer game in 2003, you proceeded to eat (not chew) my dining room table, kitchen dry wall and my patio door. Buff 6, Dean 0.

You cheated skin cancer in 2004. You cheated death in 2005, cutting your tongue while running with a large stick, narrowly missing a major artery. Buff 8, Dean 0.

Over the course of the Winter of 2008, you proceeded to pee away my central air unit into oblivion. Buff 9, Dean 0.

And over the course of almost eight years, you killed every shrub around the patio.

Buff 10,11,12,13, Dean.........fuck it, you win.

You were the real alpha dog, AKC Candlewood's Absolutely Buff. You were fiercely independent, but you always looked back to make sure I was always in sight, no matter how far you ranged in front of me.

So goodbye my friend. I will miss you more that you can imagine, but I take solace in the fact that you are somewhere playing with your brother, AKC Candlewood's Absolute Tsar.

I hope to see you again someday.

The End.

Well, not really THE end. Just the end of another chapter.

Chequamegon did not materialize the way I intended. Heavy rains in the days preceding may have signaled a slower pace, but I did not see that as a problem. I was going to lead out more aggressively than 2009 and was going to let the chips fall where they lay.

It was a strangely smooth start, accident-free. By the time we hit the dirt, I hit the gas and it was game on. The 1x9 gearing was dead-on and I was flying, but the Garmin was telling me a different story. At Cty OO, the story was over...I was a minute slower than 2009. Demoralized, it became a matter of survival and upon the exit from the muddy Martell, game over.

The next 18 miles were pain. Real pain. Even more pain crossing the line 15 minutes slower than last year. And I killed alot of that pain with alot of beer. Not the best fluid replenishment, but at that point I did not care if I ever got on a bike again.

Was it really that bad? Not really. My time may have sucked, but I only finished 2 places worst than 2009 with half the training. Conclusion: I should have never raced the 40--the shorter race is more suited to my age and my training opportunities.

But now, it is all over. No more racing a bike and I am not going to miss it.

Besides, I just bought a new pair of trail running shoes.....

Riding with the Big Boys

I am just too lazy to edit previous posts. Besides, I am carbo loading and tapering, so I have an excuse.

My ineptness to send a simple email has put me into a position that I must go the full 40. No matter...This is the end of my fat tire journey. Not even a walk on the Beech. It will be nice to finish at the party where the epic all started.

Do not get me wrong...I am going racing on the 18th. I just do not know for how long and/or how much blood I want to leave in the forest.

2011 is starting to develop. Other mountains to climb, just not on a bike.

No regrets, because it has been one hell of a ride.

Unapologetic and Narcissistic Rage-The Sequel

I get ugly this time of year.

Ride your Madone like a pussy in the Kettles and I squash you like a bug when we hit the hills. The look of horror on a man's face when he sees 29 X 2.1's ride by him like he is standing still should be a MasterCard commercial. The only reason you caught me on the down slope is because I spun out at 32 X 11. Hell, anyone can descend.

Today was Heaven (or Hell in my case). The music was cranking in the ears, but I do not remember a note. The focus was on the race and it was playing over and over in this simple mind. What does this mean?

It's back for 2010: Unapologetic and Narcissistic Rage.

And Now for Something Completely Different

A chapter comes to a close, a season to an end, the end of the book. The 2010 bike karma was over, even before it got started.

So, boys and girls, Chequamegon is my swan song.

2011 will be something different:

• Duathlons? Maybe..but yet another bike?
• Triathlons? Fuck water.
• Marathon? Possibly. Shoes are cheap, but surgery has many more costs.

Besides, I have a kick ass fishing boat that has not seen water in 2.5 years and I am long overdue to my friends for weekends of nothing but fish guts, fermented/distilled beverages and Phipps's memories that can last a lifetime.

Conclusion: Time for new life challenges. It has been a great fucking ride.

Gallus Gallus Domesticus Do Do, Part II

One and done.

Half way through my Saturday AM death ride, the decision was made. It's the kiddy race. Gary got the email 15 minutes after I dismounted my bike.

Other life endeavours require more of my time and properly training for a 40 mile Bataan Death March no longer works into the schedule. The big boy's race demand a minimum of 12 bike hours a week and I have other murders to commit priorities.

Chicken Shit

Indecision. It defines me. It is a fault. It is who I am. It is my life.

I pounded out the hills today, all 1745ft of them, but it is becoming painfully clear that I am not ready for the Marathon. It might be time to go back to the Kiddy race and wreck it like I did two years ago. I am driven by the fact that a week ago, I ran a foot race FASTER than I did 2 years ago. One of the many voices in my head keep telling me at race time, at age 46 (yes...46!), I am top 20. Not a bad way to spend your birthday...

But the other side tells me that I have unfinished business in the big boy's race. Only 30 days to pull the trigger.

Then 18 days to mind-fuck myself into a competitive rage. This is easy for me.

Do I Still Have 'It'?

I may be 45, but I can still run with the best of them. 69th overall.

But the last mile was the slowest...something that I am not happy with. In my ENTIRE racing career, this has NEVER happened. What's even worse, I missed 1st in my age by five seconds.

I need to find that competitive mindset that I know has been missing for a long time. And find it soon, before it is lost forever.

Holiday in Heaven, Future in Hell.

I had to get away. It was not planned (not to my standards). Pack up the dog, the 29r, the jamba, and plenty of libations to pollute the rest of the cerebral matter that I have left. No work or TV. Just me and the only living animal on this planet that does not suck the bone marrow out of me on a daily basis.


Like father, like son. When I was young, I could never understand why my Dad loved the serenity of blissful peace of the Northern woods. But now I realize what makes me happy…what makes me not give a shit. Thanks Don.

Do I have a point? Not really. It is just good to realize that when I decide to make that 30mph right turn in a Northern Pine, Cerberus--a dog, will waiting for me at the entrance.

Heaven: Day #3 Yummy

Heaven: Day #2 Telemark Trash

Why did the Garmin have to take a dump on an epic? Only to spite.

And Ojibwa hell. Sooooooo many downed trees...

Heaven: Day #1

Deep Thoughts for this week....

1. My dog likes to pee everywhere outdoors. Humans do the same...only they do it indoors, on each other.
2. If daytime television represents the intellect of this country, we are f*cked. OH, MAN, ARE WE FUCKED!

El Sucko