Soccer --> Football

I enjoy soccer.  Though my attention to MLS soccer (and my hometown’s Timbers) has increased along with the level of competition, I really only feel true awe and appreciation for the beautiful game every four years, when the World Cup rolls around.  I know, I know, there’s plenty of world-class soccer being played in the interim.  But the only thing keeping me from paying attention to the European leagues was the time difference; waking up at the crack of dawn on a weekend to catch a match required a dedication I didn’t have.  However, as soccer gets more popular in the States, it’s getting easier to follow what’s happening out of the States (springing for a comprehensive cable-television package certainly helps too).  Accordingly, as a soccer, er football fan, I feel it’s high time I choose an EPL team to support.  So after much research, blog-reading, wikipedia-scouring and quiz-taking, I’ve selected a club. 

I focused my search on middling teams, not consistently dominant big-money organizations, not perennial losers too often facing relegation, but teams with which I could grow, suffering through the lows and glowing with the highs.  I considered teams with proud traditions and hallowed grounds, symbolic imagery and mythical home-stadiums.  I compared colors and crests, locales and lore, and past and present squads.  Along the way, my list narrowed.

Many of my friends root for Arsenal and, for reasons unknown to me (maybe I’m a contrarian?), I didn’t want to jump on their bandwagon.  Everton, Newcastle and Fulham appealed to me, mostly due to their rich histories and passionate fanbases.  Still, the same can basically be said for any of the EPL clubs -- they’ve all been around forever and their supporters live and die for them. 

So I compared cultures and crowds, the people that certain clubs attract and the cities they represent.  Everton, the club, led me to Liverpool, the city, and by default, the club.  Everton and Liverpool are crosstown rivals and when the Blues play the Reds, every Liverpudlian takes sides (incidentally, they meet tomorrow on Everton’s home-turf for a match the English call the Merseyside derby).  To say nothing of Liverpool’s history of success (the club has won more European trophies than any other English team though it has never won a single Premier League title), the town also boasts a storied musical history.  Not only did a certain Fab Four get their start there, so did Gerry and the Pacemakers (ferry cross the Mersey, anyone?).  And that fact is what tipped the scales.

I’d always loved Gerry and the Pacemakers’ take on the Rodgers-and-Hammerstein tune “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”  So when playing it one evening around friends, one of whom I soon learned was a Liverpool supporter, I was informed that the song was the anthem for Liverpool FC.  They sing it at every match.  It’s their song.  Like “Sweet Caroline” is associated with the Boston Red Sox, so too is “YNWA” with Liverpool.  And as a music fan, someone who feels and respects the emotional and unifying power of an arrangement of notes paired with a nuanced vocal performance, I was sold. 

It’s an awesome, moving song, easy to draw strength from, easy to rally around.  It’s inspiring and emboldening, leaving a sea of red-clad fans with chins up and chests out.  And, if ever I get to sing it at Anfield with a stadium full of Kopites, it will likely leave me with tears in me eyes.

Liiiiiiiiverpooooool, Liiiiiiverpoooool!

"Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you'll never walk alone.  You'll never walk alone."

Once upon a time...

…I was in this band.  We called ourselves The Dregs.  I’ll spare you the semi-long story of how the group formed, mutated and evolved into this.  But yeah, man -- it was cool.  For the most part, we rocked.  We rolled some.  And for the other part, we partied.  I have a lot of fond memories of those times, some fuzzier than others: damaging our ears, disputing noise-levels with neighbors, sweating, shouting, crushing cans, lugging gear, breaking then repairing gear and, best of all, locking into a groove.  I remember once playing at a bar here in Portland, on Alberta.  I don’t think we were invited back.  But as I recall, it was one of our finer shows. 

At the time, we were practicing and playing out pretty regularly.  We had worked out what I thought was a pretty solid set: several originals and a couple covers, sequenced in what I considered a pretty compelling order.  We were lean, mean, and keen to cause scenes.  We were also wildly inconsistent; some shows were train wrecks while others were mere fender benders.  Rare was the show where everything went right, where nobody broke a string, where everybody hit their cues, where the vocals were clear and the breakdown on “In The Winter” came together.  Though perfection was never the goal, we nonetheless wanted to incite and inspire audiences while getting our own ya-yas out.  It was with this attitude that we set up a show with my girlfriend’s coworker’s boyfriend’s band.* 

The Stones get theirs out in 1969.

I can’t remember the name of the band but, I remember the night of the show.  It was a Friday, and the venue was packed.  In addition to the bar’s regulars, there were also a lot of people who came out to see the show, specifically the boyfriend’s band.  Not only that, the firm where my girlfriend (and her coworker) worked had flown out its delegation from Washington, D.C. for a conference, so there was a handful of corporate-type-dudes in attendance as well, one of whom was well known for impassioned karaoke performances of Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open” (more on him later).

Though we arrived early to load in our gear, I don’t remember meeting or seeing the other band before the show.  Still, we must have met them because it was somehow decided that they’d go on first and we’d go on last.  In those days, we often angled to go on last because it gave us more time to ‘loosen up’ at the bar and get a sense of what we were up against.  While it’s true that the local music-scene was generally friendly,** it also generated some friendly competition, battle-of-the-bands-style.  We (or at least I) wanted to win, as it were, by rocking harder, playing cooler songs, and turning in better performances.  And what we saw and heard before we went on that night made me (and probably us) want to go ape and kick some serious rock-and-roll ass.

The other band (whose name still escapes me (you can bet it was something corny)) played a set heavy on covers from the nineties, a decade that produced arguably the worst music ever.  Keep in mind that this was like 2007.  Or maybe 2008.  Point is, we were far enough removed from the nineties to have basically forgotten its crappy music and moved on, but close enough to still have fresh-ish wounds that made us wince when reminded.  I remember listening from the bar, exchanging confounded (but amused) looks with my bandmates as Vertical Horizon’s “Everything You Want” was performed in all seriousness, with genuine purpose and dedication.  We were taken aback, at once shocked and resigned, chuckling and shaking our heads as the band wholeheartedly tore through a set of what we regarded as decidedly uncool tunes.  Without a trace of irony and with nary a misstep, these guys churned out hits from the likes of Eve 6, Barenaked Ladies, Sublime and, if memory serves me right, Alice in Chains and Bush.***

Vertical Horizon

A couple things: I should note that these guys played well, with skill, and that I just happen to have a distaste for the musical stylings of what I call frat-rock.****  So to be fair, the band sounded good despite their sucky music.  And to give credit where credit is due, the singer, in his tight tee, neatly distressed boot-cut jeans and pointy shoes, handled rapping- as well as singing-duties with no apparent self-consciousness.  Another thing: the sizable crowd that came to see them (not us) play was disproportionately made up of pretty girls.  So they had that going for them too.  Still, they brought out the pompous prick in me.  Maybe I was jealous.  I’m not proud of it now, and I don’t think I was overt about it then, but I (and we, probably) judged them pretty harshly. 

Either way, their lame set list motivated us.  With each consecutive song, we got more antsy.  We were getting itchy and excited and anxious.  The crowd’s fervent response to them during and after their set only intensified the feeling.  We had the fever!  And the only prescription was pure, unadulterated rock and roll!

And so it was.  With a bellyful of beer and a hearty desire to outdo and outcool the other band, in a room full of people who were not interested in hearing us play, we prepared to take the stage.  It was me on drums, Tom on one guitar, Dick on vocals and another guitar, and Harry on bass.  As the other band broke down its gear, respectfully making way for us, we politely commended them on a good show.  They seemed gracious.  While Tom monkeyed with the input on his amp and Dick extended the mic-stand (Dick’s a tall dude), I busied myself with my drum set.

The Dregs: Tom, Dick, me and Harry.

Let me tell you a bit about my drum set.  When we hatched the idea to start a band, I didn’t own a drum set.  I had never had one, let alone played one with any degree of regularity.  Nevertheless, I fancied myself a drummer.  So when the band took form, everyone agreed to pitch in and help buy some drums.  After a bit of searching on Craigslist, I settled on a generic five-piece.  It was black, in good shape and, to a novice like me, pretty sweet.  But over time, the drum set got its fair share of abuse.  Marathon practice sessions fueled by Red Bull and vodka along with less than delicate handling to and from shows left it the worse for wear.†  It was misshapen, unbalanced and sticky, with unreliable jury-rigged hardware and a host of quirks.  The cracked cymbals barely held their shape, the floor tom teetered sadly, and the taut pockmarked skin of the snare was beaten so thin that it was one good strike away from busting.  It wasn’t the prettiest drum set, and it didn’t sound the best, but it was ours.  And as I got ready to piece it together on stage that night, the other band’s drummer looked on with a mix of pity and confusion.

He was toweling off, eyeing me and my set, and taking stock of the custom travel cases for his own drums.  His kit was cute.  It was small and sparkly, the kind a gentle, soft-touching jazzman might do some tippy-tapping on; it had sounded clean and solid, however wussy and weak, accented by a series of shiny little cymbals that splish-splashed sweetly.  He had played it tenderly and, before he started dismantling it, amid the hustle and bustle of trading places with our band, he turned to address me. 

“You wanna borrow my kit?” he asked, looking down his nose.  “Yours is kinda sad.  It looks trashed.”  I frowned at the affront.  He raised his eyebrows, expecting an answer, his crispy spiked hair glistening under the stage lights.  I think I furrowed my brow some, not doing a great job of masking my annoyance, before curtly replying, “nah -- no thanks, man.”  He shrugged and got back to gathering his stuff.  I don’t know if he was really being elitist; maybe he was being helpful, or just trying to avoid packing up his gear, but I was definitely insulted.  Here was a guy who just finished a set of dopey songs on a sissy little kit that he played with no shortage of arena-rock theatrics, who took one look at me and my drums and (maybe) went ‘pssh,’ who (maybe) thought he was above me before even hearing me play.  Regardless of his intent, I felt a fire growing inside me as I assembled my piecemeal kit.  ‘Screw you and your tiny toy drum set,’ I thought.  ‘Whaddya think you’re better than me or something?  You jerk!  I’ll show you what for,’ I fumed.

At that moment, strengthened by anger, I felt confident, powerful and eager.  I was ready to rock.  I nodded to my bandmates.  “C’mon, dudes,” I said, “let’s blast these dorks.”  We plugged in, turned on and turned up as Dick announced to the room, “thanks for coming out tonight -- we’re the Dregs.”  It was on.

We jumped out of the gate with volume, vigor and pent-up energy.  Our opening number was a bit of a New-York-Dolls rip-off; Tom channeled his inner Johnny Thunders as Dick stepped back from the mic to riff mightily.  Harry and I latched onto the groove.  We rocked as if our lives depended on it, though all we had to play for was pride.  With eyes closed and heads down, we plowed through another couple songs, only breaking for breathers long enough to utter a quick but sincere ‘thank-you.’  As our set progressed, we all hit our stride.  Dick barked lyrics and soloed madly while Tom held down the rhythm and banged his head.  I can’t speak for my bandmates but I was entering another dimension.  The spirit of Keith Moon possessed me.  I began chewing on the neck of my T-shirt, like a wild stallion chomping at the bit.  I flailed manically, flogging my beat-up drums for all they were worth.  Song after song, we were in the zone.  There’s something mysterious and magical about being on the same page as your fellow rock-and-roll soldiers, marching forward to the beat of your own drum, united in purpose, bound by rhythm and noise.  That night, nothing else mattered.


Tom, me, Dick with John Thunders and Keith Moon (above, left and right).

Every so often, I glanced up and out into the crowd.  To be sure, we garnered some awestruck stares along with some eye-rolls.  A few folks were shaking, shouting and shimmying. I remember seeing one of the guys from D.C., the one who liked singing Creed songs.  His ironed shirt was tucked into pleated pants, his hair was gelled and his face was shaved.  Appearance and his affinity for Creed aside, he wasn’t that uptight (I’d gotten to know him on other occasions).  Anyway, he was probably on his fourth or fifth Bud Light and he was really rocking (he’d later congratulate us on a ‘job well done,’ give us all firm handshakes and frank backslaps, and in the future ask me enthusiastically ‘how’s the band, man?’).  He was into it.  And that made me happy.  Still, many of the aforementioned pretty girls, along with most of the other band’s fans, had trickled out.  The few that remained watched with either dazed curiosity or abject horror -- it was hard to tell.  Though a few strangers left their posts at the bar to come in and see us, the other band (including the drummer) was nowhere in sight. 


The Dregs, minus Harry, at their very first gig, long ago.

When we finished, sweaty and spent with amps buzzing, we regained our composure.  Snapping out of the spell of rock and roll was always a strange feeling.  For me, it was like coming back to the surface after extended deep-sea diving, or what I imagine it’s like to step foot back on earth after space travel.‡  Either way, it was a kind of comedown, a feeling I think we all felt that night, grinning and basically returning to reality.  Blinking, we looked at each other and silently acknowledged that what had just transpired was special, though I don’t remember hearing anyone clapping.  Tom, Dick and Harry put down their instruments, I got out from behind the drums.  Then we just did what we usually did: grabbed some cold beers and did some high-fiving, going over the highlights of our set. 

That night, despite our track record of so-so shows, an unreceptive audience, and a junky drum set, the Dregs killed it.  Yes, the other band played well and the crowd ate it up, but I still felt triumphant.  We rocked harder, played cooler songs, and put on a fine show.  We won.  What’s more, with the dirt of industrious, passionate music-dudes under our fingernails, we were authentic.  And to me (and us, I’m sure), that was always more important than winning.

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* My girlfriend at the time (wife now) was working at a communications firm.  Her coworker happened to be a college-acquaintance of mine.  She approached me, explaining that her guy was in a band still slumming around the college-town, and that he was interested in getting something booked in the big city.  She told me they played ‘rock-y’ music and had a decent following (which, admittedly, was more than we could say).  Seeing as how we’d play anywhere, anytime, with anybody, it seemed only logical to share a bill with a band we didn’t know and hadn’t heard.

** Bands are interested in supporting other bands because it builds and strengthens the scene; when one band succeeds, other bands benefit.

*** For those that might be questioning my memory, know this: I don’t remember names or places or circumstances or events so much as I remember sights and sounds and even smells.  I have an easier time recalling things that appealed to my senses, like bands and songs and appearances.

**** Frat-rock (see also nu metal) is unremarkable.  It’s artless music for philistines.  Though it’s characterized by unambiguous chauvinism, forced aggression, and lowbrow tone and content, it also features tremendously cheesy moments of emotional sensitivity.

† The kick drum was squished, as if someone sat on it.  It was more oval than circle, so the head and hoops didn’t fit quite right.  And, on a few occasions, the kick pedal fell apart mid-song; the beater came off the shaft and the shaft punctured the drumhead.  Each time it happened, I accessed a fresh patch of skin by simply rotating the head, leaving a series of holes around its perimeter.  We tried to give the snare similar treatment after sticks, broken in the heat of a jam, split the skin.  But, even with duct tape, that never worked out.  The cymbals, I think, were the worst.  They were already kind of chintzy, and I just beat ‘em up.  They cracked, totally affecting the sound, and since I was too cheap/poor to replace them, they ended up breaking into pieces.  I think we pronounced the set officially dead when the last of the cymbals was done for.

‡ Or, better yet, touching terra firma after bouncing on a trampoline for a while.

in the yellow no. 5

Brown Bear, Ursus arctos

 

Check out past posts in this series.  Albatross, African Elephant, Giant Pacific Octopus, Great White Shark.

Clean up after your pet.

CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR PET.  No one likes stepping in shit.  Not me.  Not even you, Mr. I’m-too-cool-to-handle-doo.  So why would you leave a pile of it for someone else to step in?  The way I see it, cleaning up after your pet is a required duty.  It comes with the pet-owning territory.  If you’re too selfish and inconsiderate to be a responsible dog-owner, you got another thing coming.  Another yucky, stinky thing.  Karma’s a bitch -- and sometimes you step in it.

My pet-friend, Tomato, when she was but a lil poopsy-pup. Source: http://dopeglow.tumblr.com/

Them's the Rules: On College Football's New Targeting Rule.

Disclaimer: The University of Oregon is my alma mater, the Ducks are my team.

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Last Saturday, the Oregon Ducks kicked off their 2013 college football season with a win over Nicholls State.  It wasn’t a surprising outcome, nor was it a particularly intense contest (the final score was 66-3).  Aside from a couple notable statistics (three Oregon players finished with over 100 yards rushing, for example), the game deserves discussion re the implementation of a new rule. 

The rule, which took effect this season, states that a player who ‘targets’ and contacts a defenseless opponent above the shoulders will be ejected from the game.  Before this season, targeting resulted in yards and an automatic first down for the targeted player’s team.  Now, with an understanding of the clear and present danger that concussions present, the NCAA is making player safety a bigger priority than it already was by imposing a stricter penalty.

Case in point: late in the first quarter of Saturday’s game, Oregon DB Terrance Mitchell lunged at scrambling Nicholls-State QB Beaux Hebert just as he began to slide.  The players’ helmets collided with a sickening crunch, leaving Hebert down (and out) for the count.  Mitchell was flagged for targeting and, following the now-required review through video replay, summarily sent off.

Yes, football is a rough, violent game.  Players get hurt, sometimes grievously so.  And this was a vicious hit, no doubt.  Still, I’m not so sure the punishment fits the crime.  In a game where the greatest price a player can pay is disqualification from play, automatic ejection is far too severe a penalty for what can be considered a subjective call. 

To be clear, I’m not disputing this specific call so much as noting that it, and future targeting calls, could be disputed.  Indeed, we’ve already seen players get penalized for inadvertent ‘targeting’ in past seasons.  Things happen so quickly; a defender will be in the air, flying at a ball-carrier’s mid-section, when the ball-carrier instinctively lowers his shoulder (and head) to break the tackle.  Their cabezas crash together and the defender gets whistled and penalized for a helmet-to-helmet hit.  At the risk of dramatizing the issue, this is a miscarriage of justice.  Reserving the harshest of punishments for the harshest of infractions is a good thing, especially when we’re talking about keeping players safe (to say nothing on the subject of young men playing a dangerous game for no pay).  Even so, hinging ejection on one subjective call is too radical.

Was Mitchell going in for a legit tackle, attempting to drive his shoulder into Hebert’s body?  Perhaps.  Did Mitchell only contact Hebert’s head because Hebert was suddenly low and sliding?  Possibly.  Did Mitchell have enough time to change direction once Hebert began sliding?  Maybe.  It’s hard to tell.  Though I respectfully defer to the officials in cases like this, I still think targeting calls will always carry with them a degree of subjectivity -- they have the potential to be questionable (and extremely consequential) calls.  As such, they don’t warrant automatic ejection.  They can’t.  A one-strike-you’re-out policy is too harsh, even with player safety at stake. 

A rule-change should be considered.  I think taking a page from the rulebook of the other football would not only send a message to players about safety but, perhaps more importantly, it would also remove the possibility of an altogether innocent player from being ejected.  When a soccer player makes a dangerous play, he is warned with a yellow card.  If he makes another dangerous play in the same game, he’s given a red card and ejected.  Since targeting, a dangerous play, can (a) be legitimately questioned and (b) result in ejection, it should also merit one warning before disqualification.  This way, a player who gets flagged for targeting, whether or not he actually targeted his opponent's head, can stay in the game.  Maybe he could sit out a series to think about it.  Should he target or appear to target again in the same game, he’ll be dismissed.  Just like that.  Also, the official should have the power to make a de facto ruling on the severity of a dangerous play by skipping the warning and directly ejecting a player, in football as it is in soccer.  As always, the power to keep the game safe and fair is in the hands of the official, whose rulings ought to be respected.

In sum, college football's new targeting rule, while passed and approved with the best of intentions, simply goes too far.  Critics and commentators are already acknowledging that the rule will undoubtedly result in questionable rulings that could alter the outcomes of games.  And that’s not a good thing for college football.  When and if that actually happens, and depending on the size of the stage, the NCAA will be forced to readdress the targeting rule.  In doing so, the interest of protecting defenseless players from getting hurt will have to be weighed against the interest of protecting defenders from getting booted for an accident, something the NCAA surely did when adopting the new rule.  So even though we know the NCAA's position, I still think a major game-changing incident could spur a serious reconsideration.  As it stands, them’s the rules.  Players will play, coaches will coach, officials will officiate, and all will have to do so according to the rules.  Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be surprised if the targeting rule was amended after this season.

UPDATE: Here, Mitchell addresses his ejection from the Ducks' opener.  The article and ensuing commentary support my position.

Brunch Box

Newsflash: I’m way into junk food.  Certainly I appreciate fresh fruits and veggies or a lean and lo-cal lunch but, if given the choice, I’d rather eat pizza or something.  In this regard, I’m not exceptional; the prevalence of obesity in America says as much.  But, perhaps exceptionally, I have no dietary restrictions and, thankfully, I also happen to be in a position to basically eat whatever I want whenever I want. 

That’s right -- as a relatively young man with a relatively active lifestyle and a relatively efficient metabolism, I can eat junk food with relatively little consequence.  Still, I believe in balance.  Good or bad, all foodstuffs have nutritional value.  So though I succeed in eating a bit of everything (good and bad), I’m no worse for wear.  But I don’t want to talk about that.  I want to talk about hamburgers, specifically the ones served at Brunch Box.

 

Brunch Box got its start a few years ago as a food cart on 5th and Stark in downtown Portland.  In April of this year (on 4/20 -- coincidence?), the owners expanded to a cozy hole in the wall on 9th and Alder.  Throwing caution to the wind by unabashedly dangling artery-clogging items in front of a notably health-conscious city, the menu features greasy burgers along with greasy breakfast sandwiches.  Patrons can fill out a card and build their own, selecting biscuits or buns or pepper-jack or pickles, or choose from the list of in-house creations.  

Among these creations might be the key to the cart’s success.  When Brunch Box opened, it quickly gained notoriety for serving something called the YouCanHasCheesburger (the name is a play on some internet thing).  This burger, like all their other burgers, is hand-patted black angus beef.  It’s accompanied by cheese, grilled onions, lettuce and tomato and, here’s the thing, it comes between two texas-toast grilled-cheese sandwiches.  It was a novel concept then and people still show up just to try it now.  I had it once before, just to say that I’d eaten it.  It was gooooood.  It came fresh off the griddle, hot to the touch, wrapped in butcher-paper growing progressively translucent.  It went down easy, leaving a congealed coating on the roof of my mouth and in the back of my throat.  Indeed, I think it safe to say that the YouCanHasCheesburger effectively lubricated my entire digestive tract.  Nonetheless, it didn’t blow my mind.  Or hurt my stomach.  So there’s that.

 

 

Over time, Brunch Box achieved local renown.  Soon enough though, they had to top the YouCanHasCheesburger.  Enter the Redonkadonk.  And the Monstrosity.  For a limited time, they even offered this beast.  The Redonkadonk is re-diculous; a burger with bacon, ham, spam, a fried egg and veggies all sandwiched between two grilled-cheeses.  The Monstrosity goes one better (or worse, depending on how you look at it) by doubling the meat and cheese and omitting the veggies.  Both burgers are tall, gut-busting stacks, though I’ve never eaten one.  I once overheard someone detailing how he ate one of them.  He said it was so greasy that it practically melted in his mouth and slid down his gullet.  I’ll let you decide how appetizing that sounds.

Anyway, the whole point of all this is that, until recently, I didn’t eat at Brunch Box regularly.  Despite being a junk-food aficionado and a veritable burger-hound, I probably ate less than ten burgers there over the course of four years (compare that to the roughly 100-some I eat every year).  Sure, I knew the burgers were awesome.  And it was clear that others agreed; lines formed every day for lunch and, it seemed to me, Brunch Box was among the more successful food carts in the city.  At an average of $7.25 ($8 to build your own), the burgers all but guaranteed profitability and surely helped facilitate the brick-and-mortar opening. But therein lies the kicker -- at that price, the burgers didn’t appeal to me. 

Call me cheap, but don’t call me unreasonable.  Cart meals (at least the ones I typically eat) range from six to eight bucks.  But that’s for actual meals -- meat AND potatoes -- not a lone, albeit big sandwich.  And a burger begs for buddies.  Really, what’s a burger without fries?  Who wants an 8-dollar sidewalk-sandwich with no chips, no drink?*  Not me, that’s who.  So I didn’t partake. 

Lately though, in the new space on 9th, I can’t get enough.  I’m there at least once a week.  The reason?  The model changed.  At the new location, you can get fries, onion rings, a fountain drink or a milkshake, and you can sit down.  I can get a full, satisfying meal now for like nine bucks.  Consequently, I’m now fully addicted to Brunch-Box burgers.

 

I like the Big Kahuna best, I think.  It’s got ham, grilled pineapple, an onion ring, barbecue sauce and veggies.  The ingredients are fresh -- ripe red tomato, crispy green lettuce.  The onions, something that make or break a burger for me (I can’t/won’t stand raw, crunchy onions), are grilled and softened for maximum sweetness.  And the beef?  It’s fatty enough to be flavorful but lean enough to sate.  The whole thing is expertly prepared and arranged; it sticks together.  Even with all that juicy stuff, my bun is never soggy.  How is that possible?  The fries, too, are simply sublime.  They always come hot as shit, crispy but not oily, and liberally littered with large crystals of salt.  The devil is in the details, and the dudes at Brunch Box do it right.

We all love junk food.  It’s yummy.  It’s savory, it’s sweet.  It satisfies one of our deepest needs in a very pleasing way.  But junk food is junk -- it’s bad for us.  Even though the junk food at Brunch Box is fresh and natural (aside from the American cheese**), it’s still not too good for me.  And, one of these days, all this junk food will catch up with me.  Yeah, my diet is pretty well-balanced and I come from good stock, but my wife often reminds me, “you won’t be able to eat like this forever.”  She’s right.  Eventually, my metabolism will slow.  My lifestyle will go from active to less active.  Plaque will accrue in my arteries, adipocytes will converge on my waist, and I will no longer be able to eat as much junk food with relatively little consequence.  C’est la vie.  GTWYC, I guess.

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*Note: you can get chips (the little bag) and a can of soda at the cart for $2, which strikes me as unnecessarily expensive.

**Topic for another time: why is the most processed (manufactured from ingredients and not legally allowed to be sold as ‘cheese’) of cheeses called ‘American’ cheese?

Wasn't me.

Hearing the news, reading true-crime books and watching random true-crime shows, I find my faith in the American justice system eroding.  I understand that these things are sensationalized, tailored to an audience in order to maximize sales/ratings/etc.  It’s info-tainment.  But that doesn't mean juries aren't full of people too easily swayed by emotional appeals and scare tactics.  I think what worries me most is how readily people look past a lack of conclusive evidence and still convict.  And I've done jury duty.  'Beyond a reasonable doubt' means little to a lot of folks.  Here's hoping I never get accused of a crime I didn't commit.

O me of little faith.

I’m not a religious person.  Though I was raised in a Christian family, we weren’t at all religious, if that makes sense.  So my feelings on religion are complex, and maybe not very well-informed.  Still, I respect it and the strength it gives some, I think many of the lessons in the Bible are valuable, and I think it serves a purpose in contemporary society as it did in ancient days.  But it nonetheless makes me uncomfortable; I’m uncomfortable with the reliance on God, the Christian notion that everything is in God’s hands.  To be sure, faith can be a healthy, confirming thing.  However, relinquishing control and relying on an unseen higher power just seems convenient, idealistic and even naive.  I understand that individuals have different ideas and levels of faith (and that’s cool) but I just happen to be a nonbeliever, O me of little faith.  But I digress.  This isn’t about how I feel about God.

I volunteer at a hospital, a “Catholic health care ministry” as stated on its website.  Once a week, I assist a team of doctors and nurses in the care of sick and hurt people in a unit that’s one step removed from the ICU.  We mostly help older patients with acute respiratory and cardiac conditions.  The unit has 40 beds and someone dies there maybe once a week.  It’s a peculiar environment, one of hope and joy, pain and grief.  Some people get better and go home.  Some people don’t.

The other day in a waiting area, I saw a small group of adults, a family of siblings and spouses, I gathered.  I think they were either grieving or preparing to grieve, probably over an ill (or deceased) parent.  They had arranged some chairs in a circle and spoke softly, reassuring one another, putting hands on shoulders or knees.  They were well-dressed and appeared well-to-do.  What little speech I could make out was clear and measured; I judged them to be educated and mature.  I never really stopped to observe them but I passed them several times in the course of my shift, reading their body language and sensing their dismay.  On one such pass, as I was hustling a blood sample to the lab, I noticed that they’d been joined by a character who looked to be their complete opposite.

He carried with him a bulging black garbage bag.  He wore stained, cut-off jean shorts and a stretched-out Budweiser t-shirt.  His socks didn’t match and barely hung on to the skinny legs poking out of his beaten high-top sneakers, one of which was untied.  He was probably in his mid-forties but had the darkened, leathery skin of someone with a lengthy and heavy smoking habit.  Despite his messy dress, he was clean-shaven and had a neat, trim haircut.  On my way back from the lab, I saw that he had pulled up a chair and was leaning forward, speaking quickly and quietly, gesturing wildly and engaging the group with wide eyes. 

I have no way of knowing whether or not he knew these people or what, if any, connection he had to them or their situation.  Hell, I don’t even really know what brought them all to the hospital in the first place.  But I do know that things between them got pretty intense pretty fast.  As my shift wore on, I saw the man and the group just a handful more times.  And each time, the scene got progressively more compelling.   Eventually, I was able to imagine and piece together a possible narrative.  What follows is mostly supposition.* 

In surprisingly rapid fashion, the man who appeared to have no business with the group somehow got its full attention; the usual-looking people had made room in their circle for this unusual-looking man and now listened intently as he offered what seemed to be encouraging words.  In hushed, insistent tones, he spoke of God, Jesus and the Lord.  He spoke of faith, deliverance and salvation.  Growing increasingly agitated, he ministered manically to the group that had heretofore been upset, stricken and demoralized but had now perked up.  He rocked in his chair, busied his hands and restlessly shook a leg.  He seemed to take great pains to remain seated, like his chair was electrified.  Regardless, he came across as very focused, only breaking eye contact with individuals to tightly close his own eyes for periods.  The other people, for their part, were just as focused.   Entranced, as if under a spell, they nodded vigorously and voiced their approval with affirmations of “mm-hmm,” “uh-huh,” “that’s right,” and “amen.”  It was remarkable -- within 40 minutes, this wayfaring stranger had transformed a subdued, dejected group of people into an active, captivated congregation.  It appeared that he had not only gained their trust but that he had also gained their acceptance.  The cynic in me wondered, was he a fraud?  A travelling salesman peddling snake oil?  Or was he legitimately spiritual?  I’ll never know. 

The last I saw of them, they were all on their feet, still in a circle, holding hands and quaking as the man led them in earnest prayer.  They were a vocal, supportive flock and each person took a turn saying their own prayers.  Eyes closed, everyone swayed, listening with bowed heads, preaching with skyward faces.  No longer disconsolate, they clenched each other’s hands, strengthened by this man’s divine message and the sense of security it brought them.  I found the whole episode oddly momentous, awesome but bizarre.

Upon reflection, I think the man was a mere passerby who, seeing people he thought he could help, took it upon himself to spread the Word in their time of need.  Maybe he was an angel.  Like Clarence in It’s A Wonderful Life, he helped them see the light.  And really, it was a profound thing, at once creepy and beautiful, their sincere communion with God.  So even though I'm not religious, me of such little faith, I believe -- not in God but in the power of belief.  That a group of people could be so moved, so overcome with confidence and relief in the face of distress, is extraordinary to me.  I'm a skeptic after all, someone uncomfortable with the unquestioned devotion to an unseen God.  But as such, part of me was still comforted by the fact that something not only calmed these people and allayed their anxiety but also provided them the means to rise up and be brave.  So just because I don't share that same faith doesn’t make it any less significant.  Just because it seems convenient, idealistic and even naïve to me doesn’t make it so to them.  I think I knew that all along but this experience kind of crystallized it for me.  To each their own, I say.

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*I realize that it’s unfair to judge people and make assumptions.  But I would argue that it’s a natural human reaction to wonder what people are up to, to try to make sense of a curious situation.  I, like many others, am a people-watcher, not in a voyeuristic way but in an anthropological way.  People are strange, and I love that about them.