On a Given Night

Pissed her off again
because I enjoyed too many
blasted delicious
alcoholic beverages
on a Friday evening

I knew I should have
instead settled with
a cup of hot herbal tea
or a glass of filtered tap water
or anything but
five or six bottles of
cold, familiar beer

I’m all ears
But I probably won’t listen to
anyone who can tell me
how to enjoy
a sensible ten ounces
of wine on
a given night

and for that reason
I’ll be sleeping on the
cold, familiar couch.

Brooke Trout

My good friend Brooke had been trying for months to take us to dinner at the Lake Mansfield Trout Club in Stowe, and his efforts were finally paid off last Saturday. He’s been a member of the club since his kids were little. Although he’s never particularly been an avid fisherman, he pays the dues so that he can just go there and take advantage of the beauty, peace, and charm that the place exudes. Now he was going to share that magic with us.

I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been to a trout club. But I figured it would be similar to a country club, only with people carrying rods instead of clubs, rowing boats instead of driving carts, yelling “Twitch it!” instead of “Fore!” and instead of making birds, everyone would be catching fish. As it turned out the place has about as much in common with a country club as a bowling alley.

Dinner was promptly served at 6:30 and was prime rib. If you wanted roast duck at 8:00 you were out of luck. Alcohol was not allowed in the dining area, so we had a few drinks in the adjoining room beforehand. Brooke made up some vodka tonics. I had a glass of juice. For the month of September, alcohol and I are doing a trial separation. It’s going well and we’re making progress. As part of the separation, alcohol is allowed to see other people and I am free to see other beverages. So far I’ve become quite fond of tea and seltzer.

We shared a large table with a bunch of people we had never met before. I’m usually not a big fan of this sort of arrangement, but it turned out to be quite nice. People who fish are very friendly, and getting to know friendly people you’ll never see again is an interesting social activity, like chatting with a fellow passenger on an airplane. One of the fellows I spoke with was a cabinet maker. Another was an investment banker. You can guess which one I had an easier time talking to.

After dinner we sat in rocking chairs on a large porch overlooking the lake. It was a great way to wind down the very pleasant evening that we all shared together. Brooke is adamant about taking us there again, when the lake isn’t drained as it was on this particular occasion. The fact that we were unable to row around the lake after dinner had no effect on our good time, but to Brooke that didn’t matter. He was disappointed that we weren’t given the full experience, and so we’re going to try again. Maybe this time we’ll sit at a table with a bike mechanic.

Zombie Dream

Last night I had my first zombie dream, complete with typical zombie gore and zombie shenanigans. It was terrifying. I spent the entire dream trying to escape the zombies, who were all in a very bad way, and at one point, while driving, I managed to bunny hop my car to avoid hitting a few who were crawling across the road. In retrospect, I’m not sure how this maneuver was possible--if my car ever left the ground, upon touching down, it would break in two, but in this dream it kept on going, like the General Lee--but I am even more puzzled as to why I didn’t just run them down. Zombies are bad, and even if they were good zombies, you’d still want to eliminate them and put them out of their misery. My compassion will have to remain a mystery, as the dream ended before I was able to figure it out. Fortunately however, I was not caught and zombiefied, which was a relief.

Gone Dog Days

D-Rex, our seasonal suspension guru, is always the first to say it, and he said once again this year. We were all slogging our way through an especially long and hot day at the shop, watching the clock move backwards as we looked forward to a bike ride after work, and he blurted it out. I had just finished fitting a two year old with her first helmet, a challenging and exhausting task analogous to giving a cat a bath, only with more screeching. The summer had entered the Dog Days, and as the rest of us were clinging to each precious summer day like leaf shaped memories on a brain tree in the autumn of our minds, he said, “I can’t wait for snow.”

I feel that winter comes fast enough, and once it is here, it has the tendency to over stay its welcome. I’m a big fan of snow, and snowboarding and snow skiing and heck, even snowshoeing, and during the locking season when the earth is barren brown and the days are getting shorter and shorter, and the only snow around is a feeble strip of manmade ice at the Resort, I definitely long for the white stuff. In the middle of July in Vermont, however, I long for a dry summer day that coincides with a day off.

This summer in particular has zoomed by faster than the all new, 2009 Batmobile modified with a custom EPO turbo charger kit, and I’m starting to realize that many of those ambitious plans I made in the spring are going to remain as such. At this point, I’ve got a summer activity checklist going, and instead of doing each activity multiple times, I’m just focusing on doing them at least once. Mountain biking the Kingdom Trails, riding a century, and sailing on Lake Champlain are on there, but have yet to be checked off. However, hanging around all day, doing stupid guy things with fellow stupid guys, is now in the books.

Thanks to a wedding, which was beautiful and touching, a bunch of us ended up crashing at Land Beaver’s house. He and his nice lady, Super Tolerant Woman, live within stumbling distance of the wedding site and were more than willing to put us up for the night. They were even so accommodating as to place a sign in their yard that read “Post Wedding Drunken Hostel Here” to assure that we wouldn’t knock on the wrong door at two in the morning.

Following a delicious brunch, served up by our gracious hosts, we began a series of stupid activities pulled directly out of the “Stupid Activities for Stupid Guys” handbook. We started our grand day by hoisting the mast and rigging the sail of the seventies-era catamaran that Land Beaver recently purchased, at a great deal mind you, and then went for an imaginary sail in the driveway. It took a Dremel tool and two hours of standing around, scratching our heads, trying to figure out which piece of rigging went where, but we remained steadfast and resolute, and as a result or our unwavering determination, the sail went up. Watching that sail, which consisted of more patches than original fabric, fill with air, was a triumphant and touching moment that brought a tear to each of our eyes.

The fun didn’t stop there. Realizing that we probably weren’t going to embark on something cool like bike riding, and in an attempt to get some kind of exercise, we invented, organized, and played six full innings of Empty Ball, a thrilling game involving an empty beer can and a stick. Although this electrifying game of ours had provided a tremendous amount of fun that lasted at least four of the sixty minutes it took to finish, it provided very little exercise, so we went back to the planning books.

After a round of discussions, we decided that it would be a good idea to cut a 55-gallon plastic barrel in half and see how far we could navigate the section of rapids that flows behind their house before capsizing. Extra points, of course, would be rewarded for not spilling any beer. I was skeptical that the things would float, but as Land Beaver said, “It worked when we were twelve. I don’t see any reason why it won’t work now.” When the barrel halves sunk almost immediately, we were beside ourselves, and could only speculate that perhaps the viscosity of water has changed in the past twenty years. At that point, all I could say was, “Empty Ball anyone?” and all I could think was, maybe I’ll ride that century next week.