Fear & Loathing at Beer Fest 2009

It's not hard to see why an idea like Beer Fest would be so popular. Take 8,000 drunks, seclude them in a riverside park, isolate them on all sides, and turn them loose with thousands of kegs of beer.

If that's not an American ideal, I don't know what is.

Thanks to the Michigan Brewers Guild, Beer Fest takes place every summer in Ypsilanti, sandwiched between Independence Day and the end of summer, a vortex of barley and oats and vomit and shouting. There are few who can handle the mad rush of brew-crazy revelers who have been out in the sun and now, for the love of God, just need a beer.

You only live twice, and so Jessie and I headed down into the Huron River Valley to see what the fuss was about.



The weather was a strange mix of on-again, off-again sprinkles and this year's modest July sun beating down on the party-goers. We saw Meagan early on, her face and arms red despite the SPF 50, and she gave us an early tip that would turn the tide of this whole ordeal.

"Don't offer your wooden nickle immediately," she said. "Wait until the breweries ask for it."

This was sage wisdom given by someone who had obviously ridden this rodeo before. By holding back, we could earn more booze. It was a genius plan.

The trouble was the timing. We arrived at Riverside Park at 4:30, and the event was only scheduled until 6:00. There was a time crunch, so we had little opportunity to learn the lay of the land, or even pick out our favorite breweries in the crowd. We needed a strategy.

(As a side note, the entire event's timing boggled my mind. On Friday night it only last until 9 p.m., and on Saturday it ran from 1-6 p.m. These are not drinker's hours. Ask anyone who imbibes a 12-pack a day when they drink, and the answer is usually the same: at night.)



From what we did learn, Beer Fest is organized in four or five different tents, each one featuring a gathering of local breweries who would, for a wooden nickel, give you a taste of their wares. For the price of admission, you get 12 nickles and a plastic cup, along with a listing of the breweries. Our small 8 oz. cup would be filled about three-quarters of the way, we were told, just for "a sample," at each stop.

This was true in the beginning. Maybe it was our bad luck, but the first few breweries took our nickles and gave us a "sample" of their beer. Simple enough. But soon we realized that by simply handing over our cup and asking for our chosen brew, the brewmaster would be happy to give back a full glass for no cost.

For Jessie, it was as simple as a smile. Pretty girls have that affect on half-drunk brewmasters world wide. For me, negotiations were far more complicated.



We wondered how on Earth the breweries made any money from this shindig, and the best we could figure is that they got a certain amount of money for each nickle collected. Since we were getting so many free samples, and had plenty of wooden nickles to share, we eventually started to donate our nickles to the breweries. Why not? Someone has to take something worthwhile from this whole mess.

There were plenty of people taking, no doubt. Some of the people stumbling around, their blank eyes searching for a point of focus in the bedlam, had obviously been here since opening - if not the night before, sleeping next to the river or in the bushes leading up the embankment. Their cups were crusted over with gallons and gallons of gulped-down beer, and it was only a matter of time before the event organizers turned them loose on Depot Town in Ypsi.

The kicker is that the event sells more wooden nickles. If you run out, you can buy more, and the brew will keep flowing. The brain recoils in horror at the thought of an all-day drunkfest that sits so close to civilized society.



Perhaps it's all in the philosophy of the thing. Beer Fest offers an escape from the ordinary. For the office worker who is one nervous twitch away from punching his boss, for the petite hippie who has taken one too many bites of the apple, for the burly, bearded brew snob searching for love in fantasy baseball forums - for all of them, Beer Fest exists. It serves some grand purpose that we dare not question, let alone think about.

Ah, but the quality of the beer made it all worth the effort. Arbor Brewing, Olde Peninsula, Old Hat, Dragonmead, Mt. Pleasant Brewery - these great places where I've tasted Michigan's finest brews were all there. Some had souvinirs, some had giant Elvis taps, the beer flowing from his extended right arm, and some were simple affairs that let the drinks explain themselves. I dig that.

Just as important as the beer was the experience, and chalk Beer Fest up there with one of the best. Seeing thousands of drinkers milling around and organizing shouting contests in the tent, all the while consuming enough calories to skip a meal, was outstanding.



Near the end, however, things got ugly. The event security shut the taps of promptly at 6 p.m., but for one poor bastard it wasn't soon enough. Jessie and I both noticed a sickly gray-looking man, middle-aged and seated, being attended to by EMS responders. He swayed in his chair, zombie-like, until a John Deere Gator and, much later, a gurney arrived to take him away. Then he was up on his feet like nothing had happened, the deathly palor not yet gone from his cheeks. He stumbled like a pro.

It was a testament to the constitution of the professional drinker, and in our hearts we both applauded and feared the man. Why waste this moment, I thought, with those fool medical professionals?

There was still drinking to be had. After all, we're finishing up the first recession our generation remembers, and nothing eases the pain and suffering of lost jobs, wages, and dignity like throwing back a few pale ales.

Recognizing that, Beer Fest served its purpose.

On 'Into the Wild'

Americans can be placed in two diametrically-opposed camps: those whoe view Henry David Thoreau's experiment next to Walden Pond as a great idea, worthy of copying, and everyone else.

I've long placed myself in the former category. The idea of spending two years alone in the woods, with a self-built shelter and a bean garden, sounds pretty darned gnarley. Thoreau allowed himself walks into town for shopping and visits with friends, and that would be fine, too. But the romantic ideal behind Walden is enough conjure visions of daily journal entries, long walks in the isolated woods, and lots and lots of book reading.

For that other group of Americans, Thoreau's experiment sounds like a trip into madness. Living alone in the woods? Finding yourself in solitude with just your thoughts? Cue the spine shivers and dry heaving. For some, an idea like that is not in the cards - now or ever.

I've always done well alone. As a child, I could entertain myself for hours. And now, as an adult, I've taken several long excursions all by my lonesome, and no suffering ensued.

"I don't think I could do that all by myself," people tell me. So it is.

But even the idea of Chris McCandless - the 24-year-old vagabond who starved to death in the Alaskan wilderness and subject of Jon Krakauer's magnificent Into the Wild - heading out alone and unprepared seems like madness to me.

McCandless, if you're not familiar with the story, was a well-to-do college graduate who gave away all his money and hit the road. He preferred an uncertain life in the American wilderness to a comfortable, normal middle class existence.

I can respect that. I admire someone who takes the ideals of Thoreau and Tolstoy (or Jesus, for that matter) and other ecstetics and lives them out loud. Living close to the bone is, arguably, the only way to live. For some, giving up all their possessions and lending their life to chance makes our mortal existence more worthy. I dig it.

What I don't dig is a life led foolishly. If you're going to take a chance, then you'd better be able to accept the consequences. In McCandless's case, he paid the ultimate price for his ascetic lifestyle. It didn't have to be that way.

Krakauer paints McCandless's tale as a mixture of preperation and cares-to-the-wind gambling, mostly stemming from the kid's stubborn moralism. McCandless came to idolize Thoreau, Tolstoy, and the stories of Jack London so much that common sense seemed an afterthought. Like taking a canoe down the Colorado River, hoping to reach Baja California and the Pacific Ocean - even though there was no direct route. Or sleeping in his car in a salt flat, only to have a flash flood was everything he owned away.

Breathing the neon of life is a fine way to live, but man - there are always consequences. If I take a cross-country driving trip, sure, I take my chances on exact details. But you can bet I've got the general outline planned out, and that I've done my research. Life can be exciting and well-thought-out. They're not mutually exclusive.

All I know is, heading into the Alaskan wilderness with nothing but a 10-pound bag of rice and a rifle is far from proper foresight. It's suicide. What's sad is that McCandless probably knew his chance of survival was nil, but the experience? Well, that was everything.

I feel the same pull that McCandless felt, if only to a lesser degree. Tramping off to climb a mountain or hike through the woods in solitude restores some reptilian center in my brain to full health. Thing is, I want to take more trips and experience more adventures sometime in the future. To do that, I need to keep living. I have neither the constitution nor the wherewithal to survive like some Neolithic hunter-gatherer, and I have the humility to recognize that.

It's a shame that a bright, resourceful, strong-minded young man could've had plenty of more adventures if only he hadn't been so foolish. Hubris is a helluva thing in the face of an uncaring, unsympathetic Nature. Odds are, you're going to lose.

But all that is obvious. Any idiot can see how foolish McCandless was. What struck me was that McCandless was such a rigid moralist that it cost him his life. In the face of overwhelming odds, the kid had no sense of pragmatism. Even Thoreau, alone in the woods, built a woodshed for the winter. His character was not lessened by his prep work. But like most absolutists, McCandless picked and chose Thoreau's lessons to fit his worldview. People often pick Bible passages to prop up their evil. McCandless took only those maxims that justified his rash existence.

So he died. Maybe, in his final agonizing moments, he felt justified. The suffering was the living, and starvation brought him closer to the live wires that light the world.

For me, though, I'll take my adventure with a bit of planning. The sights I've seen and the places I've been have brought me closer to some Ultimate Experience. A glimpse over the top was all I needed.

To guys like McCandless, they're not happy unless they're dangling from the edge, rope frayed from rubbing against their own moral scaffolding.

Lots of luck out there.

Now for something completely different.

Next week, I face the first week-long vacation of my adult life where I have no plans.

I've never taken time off from work and done nothing.

By "nothing" I mean no cross-country trip, of course. My first dose of vacation time took to me my first solo trip, a long weekend in Chicago, and from then on it's been 1,000 miles or more. It's the only way I know how to operate.

But it's not like I have "nothing" to do. I've got an entire list of projects, errands, and favors I can attend to. In fact, I plan to use some of my time off to plan my next giant interstate (or inter-province) trip.

Through May, I'm using the last of my remaining vacation time. There's an entire week off next week, and then there's a five-day weekend for Memorial Day later this month. For that, I've had a few ideas. I've wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail, so I thought about heading down to the Tennessee/North Carolina border and roughing it. Yosemite National Park is also on my to-see list. Part of my big end-of-July trip involves me actually having money, however, and each of those trips seemed costly. What's a budget-minded person to do?

Here's the beauty of Facebook: I planned a long weekend in Los Angeles with Andrew thanks to a few wall postings. How's that for planning? All it will cost me is the plane ticket and money for food. And perhaps a Dodgers game.

All that's in the future. Next week, though, I plan on tying up any loose ends in my life. That includes thinking seriously and deeply about what I want to do with the next five years. Where do I want to work? Where do I want to live? What else do I want to do?

My mom's death left me introspective. It's not that I didn't see it coming, but I realized that I've been stuck in a rut. Mom dying woke me out of it. So from here on out, I'm not going to be so nervous about trying on new things, tasting new experiences, and quit living life day to day as I have been.

We get comfortable. You've probably felt it yourself.

Then we wake up 20 years down the road and have a lot of unchecked items off our big To-Do List. I don't want that to happen.

So that's what I'll do next week: work on the next big project. I'll have plenty of free time to think, do, and plan.

Finding old America in New England.

It's the middle of May, which means it's also time for adventure.

I leave first thing tomorrow morning for the big New England trip - a 10-day quest to discover the roots of our country at its birthplace. The trip starts in Philadelphia, the philosophical center of America, and continues to New Jersey, New York, Boston, and circles into Maine, New Hampshire, and then Vermont. I'll be exploring Revolutionary War sites, famous monuments to our country's birth, and the cities and towns where an entire generation of men found the courage to strike out on their own. I'll also be drinking lots and lots of beer.

Feel free to keep in touch during the trip. I'll have my trusty iBook with me, now with wifi, and will post pictures and progress to my trip blog:

Puritan's Progress

Why "Puritan's Progress?" If you remember, John Bunyan wrote "Pilgrim's Progress" - one of the most famous pieces of English literature - that was subtitled "From this world, to that which is to come." My trip isn't so grand (or so well-written), and instead focuses on "that which already came." This is a history trip, and because our country was founded by religious zealots who got kicked out of their home country, it only makes sense to apply the Puritan work ethic to my travels. And, like Bunyan's character Christian, I'm heading out of the "City of Destruction" (Jackson, MI) to the "Celestial City" (Boston? Bar Harbor? Time will tell...) in search of heavenly light. There's probably no more "heavenly light" left in New York City, or in the entire state of New Jersey, but I do seek the founding philosophy that made America such a fun place to live, work, and watch TV.

I'll have my phone on me, but I prefer e-mail, or comments on the blog. Should I happen to plunge off Mt. Washington, however, and explode in a glorious fireball-induced death, please feel free to take my stuff. Except the Wii. That gets buried with my mangled corpse.

Off I go, friends, on my annual quest. I'll return either Saturday, May 24 or Sunday, May 25 (depending on weather and gumption), with Memorial Day reserved as a return-to-Midwestern-living day.

Ben Franklin set off from Boston to Philadelphia with little more than pocket change and a heart of fire. My car will have tons more stuff, but the fire stuff is the same.

Too-da-loo

$600 rebate check rich.

Michael Bloomberg, the plucky mayor of New York, recently compared the tax rebate checks to giving an alcoholic a drink: "This country has a balance sheet that’s starting to look more and more like a Third World country," Bloomberg said.

In which case, we’ll all be tested. Binge, or resist temptation? Splurge, or save?

Nevermind the moral questions regarding this tax rebate deal (here are the details, from the IRS) - others have done more thinking on this than me.

All I know is, I’m probably getting $600. And most of you are, too.

But what to do with all that cheddar?

Because I’m like most Americans (and especially like most people our age), I have what’s called a "negative self worth," meaning I owe more money (car loan, student loans) than I have in the credit union. So I’ll tip the balance at least a few hundred dollars in the "savings" column. A nice deposit of $300 into my emergency fund would do well for my security gland (that one in your head that beeps and swells every time you write a check you don’t know if you can cash). That’s smart thing number one. There are many others.

Smart thing number two would be to donate some of it to my favorite charity or cause. Right now our local organizations are hurting because Michigan’s economy (and, good lord, Jackson’s) sucks right now. So a few dollars here and there would do a lot of good.

Then the fun part comes in (we’ll call it "not-so-smart-thing number one"). I’m leaving for my New England trip sometime this spring, and a few hundred dollars would be welcome in my gas and food budget. This depends on when I get the check, of course, but most signs point to sometime in May.

If it doesn’t come in time, I’ll just consider it a New England trip rebate, and the rest of money can pad my checking account for rent or an emergency.

An iPhone? Not with this money. I’ve already set aside the funds for the Jesus Phone, thankyouverymuch, so it’s already a given.

How about you? What will you do with YOUR tax rebate check?

Adventures in the Keystone State.

Got back from Pennsylvania late Sunday night a better American, I think, and a little bit wiser to the east coast's ways.

But first, a tour.



My first thought on entering Pennsylvania late Friday night was, "Jesus, who put all these hills here?" But really, I forgot my last trip through the Keystone State: a frightening midnight run through two-lane Appalachian roads.

Where my sister lives? Beautiful. Rolling hills, changing colors, and enough boarded-up businesses to remind me of my own Rust Belt hometown.




"Don't drink the water," my dad told me before we left. And now I know why: this was the well at my sister's apartment complex, a temporary home for students of WyoTech - like her boyfriend, Trey.




If you know me, you know I love to drive the scenic route. So it was with great pleasure that I took a spin down State Route 981, a beautiful, roller-coaster-like highway carved into the Pennsylvania countryside.




Along the route, I started to feel like I was seeing what I imagined I'd see on my upcoming New England tour. True bucolic Americana - an Emerson-and-Thoreau-inspired trip through U.S. history.




The feeling was strongest in tiny Saltsburg, a river-side town in Indiana County about 10 minutes North from my sister's place.




Saltsburg made its fame (and its name) from deep salt beds buried next to the Conemaugh River that the populace mined for wealth and fortune. What they do now I have no idea.




Take a trail along the river, behind an old folks' home, and you'll find a little path that leads to the former aquaduct.




There I sat on the rocks, and enjoyed the experience: perfect fall day, sunshine, warm, and a shallow river running next to a small American town. Truman would've been proud.




Back in this century, I enjoyed a fine lunch - Texas Hold 'Em included - and a super dinner, as well as a trip to a local tavern, the Roadhouse, for some Yuengling and some Ohio State whipping MSU.

On Sunday we had a giant breakfast, and took my sister's dog Dayton for a romp outside.




We also watched as my dad amazingly fixed the stuck door on my sister's old Toyota. Living in a complex full of auto mechanics helps, however, as long as you have cigarettes for them.




We said our goodbyes and hit the road. I finally got to see Three Rivers Stadium (or whatever it's called now), where my AFC team plays in Pittsburgh, and dad and I shared in the pretty part of Ohio (it does exist, right next to a sliver of West Virginia) as we took winding state highways back home, case of Yuengling riding shotgun.




It was a beautiful trip, and a beautiful state. I plan to engage my assault on New England from Philadelphia next year, so I'll be able to see more of it.

A few things I learned: Pennsylvania is like Ontario, because they only sell beer in beer stores; Italians are legion, judging from the number of pizza joints; they DO have an accent; they love Penn State and the Steelers (sitting in the Buffalo Wild Wings, hearing the lunch crowd cheer for the Nittany Lions, was a neat experience); and the construction is just as bad there as it is here.

Thanks for having me, Pennsylvania.

Fun with iMovie.

It's amazing that, in the almost two years I've had my iBook, I've never messed around with iMovie.

That's part of what makes Apple so successful these days: programs like GarageBand and iPhoto and iMovie can make digital media n00bs like you and I into semi-decent craftspeople.

So, after dinking around last night with some river footage I took on the trip, here's a little something I made.

NOTE: There are parts where I couldn't get the audio to work. So when I'm talking at the camera, just imagine a lot of profanity and ranting.

Take me to the river.

Ah, Labor Day weekend. Goodbye summer, hello cool nights.

Went up to Scotsville, just east of Ludington, for a canoe trip with dad and the family.

Check out the Flickr photos for the full scoop.

Happy Labor Day!

Rocky Mountain High

Back from Colorado, tired but refreshed.

My love of the West grows with each trip: Route 66, Yellowstone, and now the San Luis Valley and Wolf Creek Pass, in the south-central section of the Rocky Mountain State.

Katie's family - her dad, her three brothers, her sister - were all so warm and welcoming. We didn't pay a thing for room, and spent pennies on food and gas.

There were sections of highway 12 where you could smell the state - what Colorado says to the senses, in its beauty and isolation and deep valleys. Last year I only drove through, stopping briefly to sleep in Grand Junction. But along the eastern front of the mountains, there's a mix of New Mexico, Montana, and outlaw country that I've never experienced before.

I took plenty of pictures, but they hardly do the tug of gravity any kind of sensible justice. Scaling death-inducing cliffs, or tasting a down-from-the-mountain stream, or scrambling up the tallest sand dunes in North America - it's a true sense of the American frontier spirit that I took home (with some beer stained clothes, granite, a newly designed web site, and a sunburn).

See you next time, Colorado.

Off the road again

[This was something I put down the night before heading into Seattle, the night of June 1, on the big trip a few weeks ago. I looked at my Route 66 journal entries from last year for the first time since I wrote them, and it brought a lot of things I had forgotten back.

There are many reasons I took that trip, and only one I took the Seattle trip - which helps its "stickiness" in the brain. Seattle ended up being a blast, of course.]



Sitting in the Motel 6 a year after the trip, it's weird to go back and read the entries - the ones I haven't even read since I wrote them on the Route trek one year ago this week.

This time I'm on another big trip: the Yellowstone/Seattle one, once again carrying me across the country on a grand adventure. Although not as grand as last year's. Preparing for this trip was nothing like getting ready for the Mother Road, and it still doesn't hold the fascination that Route 66 did.

Don't get me wrong: Yellowstone was fantastic. Mount Rainier was the most gorgeous site I've probably ever laid eyes on.

But there was something about that trip last year, wasn't there? Something magical. Something special.

There's not a week, and hardly a day, that goes by when I don't think about the Route. Perhaps that's why it's so popular; how it holds the imagination, how it calls you back to it.

Oh yeah. I've thought about doing it again. Are you kidding?

Except if I went again I would have to bring someone along - to be their guide, show them the ropes, right?

This year has been straight Interstate driving, with a few spurs - route 212 into Yellowstone, route 410 into Rainier National Park - that reminded me of the ol' two-lane highway. Since last year I've found that taking the slow way brings the most enjoyment, and this trip is only affirming that suspicion. Even back home I take M-50 instead of the freeway to get to Toledo. Why not? I'm in no rush, and the little towns along the way are always a treat.

Tomorrow is the first time I'll lay eyes on Seattle, which - thankfully - is no Los Angeles, but will still be a great tour. I've gone from extreme wilderness to a posh urban setting in a few days. Remind you of anything? And like last year, when Santa Monica called like a jewel, Seattle is the cap-off of a long week of driving and restaurant food and sleeping in the car.

That thought never leaves though. The Road Trip as the ultimate experience, especially in this beautiful, giant, weird country of ours. Only in America can you go from Eastern Washington, which reminded me of arid New Mexico, to West Washington - the ultimate in alpine, plush mountain greenery. All within a few hours.

I've already entertained ideas about a New England driving tour, to see all the old Revolution battle sites and historical homes (of Emerson and Thoreau, say), not to mention to see the scenery and the few remaining states I haven't visited. After that, I'll have the four corners of this country covered. I've already thought I could comfortably make a home in any section I've seen so far (maybe not Florida or Georgia, or Texas, or Oklahoma, or North Dakota). The Midwest still calls to my heart, however, and so any immediate moving plans are just an idea.

I'm munching on popcorn and drinking various Big Sky beers, and after visiting Missoula, Spokane, and Tacoma within the span of a day, I'm pretty beat. I guess it's like anything: stuff as much experience and wonder into one day and then attempt to put it down in some coherent form before the pillow helps you forget the sights.

The Route, however, will never lose its potency. The spirit will always be there, on any trip I ever try, along any highway I check out for the first time. Every place has some Route 66 in it - it's only a matter of degrees and miles and weather conditions. It's always there, no matter the gas price.

It follows me, as I followed it for one long week one year ago.

News from the front - May 3, 2007

Had a nice weekend in Chicago, thanks for asking, and it was kind of the unofficial kick-off to the May that Will Never End.

I took Friday off, left from Jackson at 1:30 p.m. with the Anderson Printing crew, and enjoyed a heckuva weekend - great weather, great food, lots of walking, and good company.



Friday we ate stuffed pizza at Giordano's, and went to Second City and saw "Between Barack and a Hard Place," a great comedy show. Saturday we strolled around town to the Art Institute, Michigan Ave. and the Apple store (where my actual profile pic came from, thanks to iSight cameras and free internet), Millenium Park, Dick's Last Resort for dinner, and the Excalibur Club for some booty shaking with some aging Gen Xers.



Sunday we ate at the best breakfast place in the Midwest, Lou Mitchell's, and I took a quick nap in the park - which just goes to show not even the third largest city in America can stop me from sleeping.

Home and Trader Joe's and wine and drinking on the train - it all made for a good weekend. Thanks to Suzanne and Carolyn for including me in the fun.


* * * * *



Don and I have a new roommate.




[wait for it]



Meet Mario, our new goldfish!



Katie's been encouraging me to get a pet fish, especially since the only other living thing in our apartment is the plant. And Mario has bonded quite nice with the plant; he tends to stick on that side of the bowl.

Mario had a brother, Luigi, but sadly he didn't make it past the second or third day.

But the whole deal was a bargain. Got the fish bowl out garage saleing for $0.50, and the fish certainly didn't cost more than an ice cube - why not?

Mario's not very affectionate - must be that stint in 'Nam with the Agent Orange - but he's good company.



* * * * *



Yesterday morning was like diabetic Christmas.

I had my quartely check up at the Diabetes Center. I've lost five pounds, my blood sugar is a little higher than it should be, and I walked out of there with tons of free goodies.

Goodies like a new blood check monitor (the stylish OneTouch Ultra 2 - the Sequel!) and a whole $30+ bottle of new insulin to try out.

I've heard on the news where drug companies woo doctors to push their medication, and I was kind of against it. But now? Hell, bring on the cronyism!



* * * * *



This weekend is a trip to the west coast - a Rotary conference in Kalamazoo and then on to Lake Michigan and some beach-town fun. Then bachelor parties, weddings, going-away parties for dearly-loved little brothers, and a giant trip across this great nation.

See you in June.



* * * * *



God bless Jon Stewart.

I'm not a regular viewer of the "Daily Show," but when I do catch it I'm always struck at how much I end up respecting the man. He's out there doing what a lot of journalist SHOULD be doing, which is point out the absurdity of modern life in America.

But after the Virginia Tech mess, he had a representative from Iraq on for an interview, and he asks the guy, "We just had a terrible tragedy happen in this country. How do you deal with this kind of horror on a daily basis?"

Bam. There it was.

Imagine, friends, dealing with something on the scale of the Virginia Tech shootings on a goddamn daily basis.

I wouldn't be surprised if you can't, because I can't either. That's not the kind of world you and I, and the rest of this country, live in.

Stewart was on with a brilliant man, Bill Moyers, a superb journalist and all around decent human being, on his new PBS show "Bill Moyers Journal" (I've been listening to the podcasts). I encourage you to grab it, because it's the smartest interview I've probably ever heard. Stewart has this country. He sees, with a glimmer in his eye, what bullshit is going on, and he stabs at it with humor and intelligence that is sadly lacking from TV journalism - and he's not even a journalist.

Stewart recently beat the snot out of the once-respectable John McCain, and it was beautiful. Check it out.

Maybe I'll make more time to see "The Daily Show" now that I truly understand what it does and what its purpose is: to show Americans just how fucked up everything is right now.

Sweet home Chicago

Off the grid, and on to Chicago tomorrow afternoon.

As far as I'm concerned, California can keep Los Angeles and New York can stay put. I'll take Chicago over either of those still-bigger cities.

Heading there with the Anderson crew by train tomorrow at 1:30, then on to pizza, comedy, the Art Institute, and lord knows what else. I'm kind of a tag-along for the trip, because I sure don't work at the print shop, but I do appreciate Suzanne and Carolyn for the invite.

I haven't been back since the big trip last year, and even then it was only a few hours to grab dinner and pictures. Two summers before that it was Wizard World with Gugin, and then my first trip that spring for my birthday.

There's a big Apple store I have to visit. And I'd like to do breakfast at that little restaurant by Union Station where I got hit on by the salon owner. Not because of him, thanks, but because it was great food. Good memories.

I could see myself living there someday, but I don't think it would ever happen. It'll probably always be the big Midwest city, just west of Lake Michigan, that draws my heart.

It's the Place to Go, so I'm going. For the weekend. It's kind of a warm up for trips to come later this month.

Sweet home, Chicago.

Back in blue

On the way back to my room last night, my skin glowing red, I dig into my swim shorts pocket for my room key and find a sea shell probably from the last time I was here.

Us midwesterners can't comprehend non-stop sunshine. We can dream about it, and we can visit it, and we can even imagine it coming to our own state. But to live here? Unthinkable. Too much pastel color. Too many smiles and sweet drinks with fruit.





I told someone yesterday that bankers go to cold places, like North Dakota, for meetings to justify a suit and tie. Credit union folks dress down, drink often, and are far more laid-back then your typical financial professional. It could be the deeper relationship we have with our members. After all, statistics and surveys consistently show a credit union/member relationship is one of the most loyal in all of capitalism. When you have people giving their money with such reverence and love, why dress fancy? We've got nothing to prove. The trust is already there.





And it's with great trust that American 1 sent me down here to collect the award. I like to tell people I've learned more in the four years I've been here than I ever did in all the years at school, and it's true. I do use the stuff I learned at Adrian, but this "real world" everyone keeps talking about isn't so bad - not when you really are rewarded for hard work.





Work has always supported and rewarded my efforts, and I appreciate that more than I can say. Kristi, my boss, has to make it a point to embarrass me by saying I can't ever go anywhere, and that we make such a great team. I've been well treated by the credit union: concert and Tigers tickets, training seminars and classes, a car loan, decent pay, my Rotary membership, and now this, my trip to sunny Orlando to learn about credit cards and collect my award.

I really appreciate all of it.





Friday at Epcot Judi, Chris and I took a trip Around the World. I guess it's a process, pretty well known, where you stop at each of the country stations at the park and sample the booze. Mexico, China, Norway, sub-Saharan Africa, France, Germany, Japan, Morocco, America - they're all there, and each has a nice restaurant with plenty of drinks to choose from. We barely made it to Canada, the last stop (see above), before the park closed at 9 p.m.

The cool part about each station was that the workers were actually from the representative country. The Norwegians were blue-eyed and blonde-haired (except for one brunette beauty, who still had the dazzling blue eyes), and I talked with a Canadian law student who helped me sing a verse from the Hip's "New Orleans is Sinking." She also gave me the only Labatt available in Florida.

Having sampled the world's drinks, and passing out on the bus ride home, Friday was an early night for me.




Judi and Chris? They kept going until 2 a.m. They're pros - experts at this credit union conference game, and they showed me a thing or two about partying with co-op comrades.





The gala awards dinner last night was a hit. I worried about the dress code, but my Hawaiian shirt fit right in. The dueling pianos couldn't compete with the great conversation and the sparkles of light dancing off my award. It was a work of art, as was the production of the night: open bar, concert-style lights and sound, and great food.

Our country really is an amazing place, because people can be so different and we're actually curious about the differences. Mormon or Michigander, we won't cut your head off because of diversity. I like visiting with people from other states because, as a traveler, I like to get a feel for what the place is like. And part of that is getting to know the people. Steve, the guy from east Alabama, spoke eloquently (drawl included) of the SEC's superiority over any other college conference. Rich, the manufacturer salesman from Chicago, showed off his accent and love of '60s and '70s pop songs. A lot of ladies from Pennsylvania were worried about going home for fear of the Nor'easter moving in.

My own trip home was smooth sailing, and the first class seat sure helped. Flying first class is one of those things on the "Must do before you die" list, like seeing the Grand Canyon or traveling to Europe. Spacious seats, free food, and quick on-and-off service. And no screaming kids.

As I type this I'm flying somewhere over Georgia or Tennessee, and there's nothing but clouds. I've never been able to see this part of the country from the air, unfortunately, and it's giving me a sign of things to come when I get home. The weather says 50 degrees, and I'm already missing the warm Florida sun that put me to sleep when I was pool-side yesterday afternoon. I won't be thinking of pools in Michigan until at least late May or June, and even then a pina colada probably won't taste the same. Not without UB40 or the Beach Boys playing in the background.

Tomorrow life as we know it begins again, and I'll try to use the knowledge I've gained and the energy I've fostered to make a difference at work at apply all the cool stuff I learned.

Goodbye dream vacation. Hello Jackson.


[As always, check the Flickr account for more pics]

So many limes, so little time

The crickets chirp, the owls hoot, and I head to bed.

Madison. Kalamazoo. Minneapolis. These cities mean something, because I can say I got drunk at them and survived nicely, thankyouverymuch, all on someone else's dime.

I can now add Orlando, FL to that list.

Had an eventful day, full of fire and brimstone credit union speeches (by an amazing guy, Rex Johnson, who is mad as hell and won't take it anymore) that - with a bit of luck - won't be forgotten between now and the flight home Sunday.

Melissa and Jennifer. Liz and Lori and Maureen. John and Steve and Chris and Judi. These last four I just left at the hotel lobby after taking advantage of the open bar (my vote for the two greatest words in the English language) and the all-you-can-eat dinner. I'll never look at a bottle of Corona the same, and I'll never forget the relaxed, laid-back style of credit union professionals.

The dress code calls for "business casual," which to those in the CU biz means khakis and a logowear shirt, if that. We're supposedly known for our ability to drink and hang loose and actually engage each other in the gospel of membership and democracy and volunteer boards and "movements." We preach to the choir, except when the Aflac folks show up and we have to justify our existence to former bank presidents.

"Yeah, but ya'll are tax-exempt," Steve said.

Your goddamn right, pal, and for good reason.

In Rotary, I'm used to the fact that I'm the only single and young member when I go to these types of conferences. I tend to stand out, and even when I wish I didn't it makes for good conversation. What I'm finding is that CUs are a female-centric business, and this makes for its own conspicuousness.

No pool today, but plenty of food and conversation and "how's the weather?" (a talent perfected by us Midwesterners) and "What Disney park are you headed to tomorrow?"

Me? I'm all for Epcot, a grand adventure to the future, and probably the least family-focused of the parks. But then that's my style: go it alone, do your own thing, and hope nobody notices your by your damn self.

I wish it were different. I meet people, and they talk about kids and husbands and wives and grocery shopping and mortgages, and a part of me wishes that was happening. Especially when I see so many my age with rings on their fingers (I remember when I started looking for that).

But then I think, "Jesus, could any of this be possible with all that?" Which is better? What do I want more?

Right now I want sleep, and this terrible, booze-heavy feeling in my stomach to go away, because I know I have to get up early tomorrow and sit through some three-hour bore-fest before we storm the parks and raise Donald Duck as our pagan fowl god, drinking Goofy's still-warm blood and hoisting Mickey's head on a pike.

We're credit union folk, dammit, and we know how These Things Work.

Leavin' on a jet plane

Goodbye, cruel mock-spring.

Not that Orlando is looking all that sunny here lately, but hey - it's beats the snow we're supposed to get, right?

I'm taking off to collect my marketing award tomorrow at the CSCU Annual Meeting, right after work's quarterly meeting. Our HR rep got my flight, my room, and all the details taken care of. All I have to do is show up at the airport, luggage in hand, and enjoy a kind-of four day vacation.

One day includes a whole afternoon at the Disney park of my choice, which is kind of cool. The rest of the time I'll either be sitting in a conference room, eating, or lounging pool-side and sipping on some alcoholic beverage served to me by some Norwegian nympho who gladly takes Canadian coins for tips.

Ah, Florida.

So for a few days I'll be off the grid, in a way. I'm taking the trusty iBook G3, and my ethernet cable, just in case there's a plug-in in the room (I'm betting there is). In which case I can post photos and rants in my drunken haze.

Because, let me tell you, credit union folks know how to party. Don't call us "bankers." Call us "fun." Or perhaps "paid less than bankers."

And us graphic designers know a free lunch when we see one. I'll be doing my victory lap, sure, but the resort must know better than to trust credit union card service executives to the veritable mini-bar keys. I've heard stories.

With titles like "How to solidify member relationships with credit cards" and "Take the fear out of risk-based pricing" - the seminars are sure to be a hoot. I'll come back to those bastards at the Michigan Credit Union League, slap my learnin' on the barrelhead, and show them how to righteously Take Control of these annual meetings.

That, or just come back with a decent tan.

Wish me luck friends: Dave's leavin' for the big time.