Wetberg's World: What's happenin? I'll tell you. Get off.
I've been back on the holy grounds of Northwestern College for about 3 weeks now. Why 3 weeks? Class has only been going for 2! Yes, this is true. However, I have a confession to make: I made an attempt to become a two sport athlete. I wanted to live the Eric Bender dream of being an Eagle in two separate sports. (This doesn't include CC and Track, because they are basically the same thing.)
Three weeks ago today, I was moving into my dorm room and reacquainting myself with the wild memories of Moyer Hall- a place I can call home.
So yes, I was a fall athlete at NWC for 5 glorious days. What inspired this? Can't I be content in my wetness on the basketball floor...I mean...on the team?
Let's move this story back about 6 weeks when I was nice and drugged up. I had surgery on my knee. Don't judge me like that! 6 weeks of no basketball was 5 too many for me. I needed a replacement. Now, everyone who's reading this from NWC is crossing their fingers to read about I had 6 weeks of immense spiritual growth and found something everlasting to lean on. I did that sort of, but I also spent a lot of my time hitting up the twilight golf rate at the local country club. Just when I thought i couldn't get any whiter, I threw on some khaki's and a polo and marched up and down the links for a few weeks. Well...I went from average, to slightly above average, but by no means good. This inspired me to try out for the Prestigious NWC Men's Golf team.
Why in the world would I do that? I played one year of JV golf in High School. Why not compete at the D3 level? It would allow me to move in to my dorm 5 days earlier, leave the God-forsaken town of River Falls (haha jk), and treat myself to 63 free holes of golf and numerous "free" meals at the cafeteria. In your face Northwestern!
Anyways, I played consistently inconsistent and brought out the best/worst in my power slice strategy. I sprayed the ball to every fairway on the course. I played the correct fairway rarely. The only club that couldn't handle me was my 8 degree devil stick, My driver.
After the first set of cuts, I dodged under Coaches lathe and lived to die another day. That day came and the phone rang after I posted an embarrassing 99. Coach had so much sympathy in his voice. He was really pulling for me, but all I could say was thank you. Thanks for $150 of free golf, $50 of free food, and a free five days in the holy grounds we call Moyer Hall.
I did exactly what I came to do. I came, I saw, but I failed to conquer. Many memories were made on those finely trimmed fairways, but more were made in the roughs, the bunkers, and the woods. No homo.
Now the knee is supposed to be back in working order for basketball, and my miles of walking and carrying cheap golf clubs has paid off. The minute I got cut, I shook my head and said, "Basketball season begins today".
I'm in the process of learning to find my wetness again. Lord Willing, it won't take long.
It's great to be back at Northwestern though. The quartet has been reunited and all under one roof. Bed before midnight has become a thing of the past, and studying is only an option if there's nothing better to do.
That being said, I should really get some work done.
Thank you to all my faithful readers. Props to Mark Titus on his latest blog, Kimberli Wende for her new blog, my boy Lib for his brief blog updates, and Walt for his romantic love letter that I may or may not have read...aloud. I plan to get back at it soon with some shout outs and hopefully some short, but direct letters to people who have really made me shake my head.
As always, Stay Wet
-Wetberg
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Cat Attack!
Hey Wetberg's World. This is kind of disappointing that I will only be throwing up 4 blogs this summer. Also, it's been far too long. I needed blogspot to send me an email reminder because I forgot my password. EWPS! Well this will be it for the summer, but you can say I've been inspired by a nice shout-out in "Bunking with Brian", and a crime of a shout-out in "The Way it is". Here's a shout-out to you lib: Get off my Junk. Now, let's all collect ourselves and please, for everyone's sake, I know this is the last one of the summer, but do not get too excited, propose to your girl, and end up lost in Las Vegas and wander around the desert all day. That's just getting a little overdone.
So like I mentioned before, life is just full of memorable events that need to be recorded for history's sake. Life can be WET for now, but some day it's going to dry up. Maybe you're drying up a little bit right now. If this is you, I'll encourage you to sit back, relax, and enjoy a laugh or two as I share a story of how bonding time with my mother went sour. Oh yeah, there's one more thing....GET WET.
I was out picking raspberries innocently at my grandma's house since she is no longer around to pick them. (RIP Grandma). Grandma lived in farm country in western Wisconsin. She has a very sketchy neighboor who was kicked out of the Navy and now hides out in a run-down house next to her. he's about 50 with wrinkly tattoed skin and 42 cats. Naturally, these cats are mangy and basically stray. As I picked berries with my mother, a crowd of 5 cats had assembled around us. I had nothing against cats. I had 4 cute kittens and 3 adult cats who just do their own thing. After about a half and hour of picking berries, one mangy cat got brave. I thought he wanted to be social. The joke was on me. He wanted to be fed. I told my mom, "this cat is giving me a weird look!" and laughed insecurely. The cat got too close for my liking, so i walked into the pushes. He followed. His eyes never broke from me. We had a connection like when you make eye contact with your crush and you look away. Then when you check back in a few seconds, they still haven't broken the stare. Then it quickly turns from cute to creepy. At this point, the cat stood about 5 feet away from me as I walked humbly back onto the grass. Just as I turned to pick a nice red berry, I saw this black, devil possessed cat take a few quick steps and pounces onto my right leg with extended claws! It made a harsh meow as I batted it away like a running back breaking a soft arm tackle. (A.K.A: the way Ryan Grant breaks my whole team's tackles when we play Madden '11) The stiff-arm was too late. The deed had been done. I felt a warm prickling on my right calf. Blood trickled from two gashes in my skin. The pain was not severe, but the result was was filled with gore. I feel for the cat. It didn't live in a good home. Still...he must pay.
So as my leg turned from pasty white to the right half of the American flag, I entered my grandma's empty house and selected my weapon of choice. My dear grandmother was an avid bird lover. She loved her bluebirds and orioles. However, there was one kind of bird that drove the bluebirds away: Sparrows. This upset my grandma for years, and she made them pay...with their lives. My sweet grandmother had pinpoint aim with her bolt action .22 caliber rifle. Grandma kept the bad birds away as well as the bad boys from her three daughters!
As I picked up the gun, I felt the hostility that my sweet grandma once held against some God-forsaken critters that over-stepped their bounds. I loaded a bullet into the gun and threw a few in my pocket just in case other mangy cats we able to pick up the scent of my new Stuart Little cologne.
It was a hot, muggy Wisconsin day, and my fuse was not very long for stray cats that wanted my blood. I went out to pick a few more berries in peace. I gave them a chance. I kept the .22 ready by my side for an emergency situation. After dropping a few more berries into the bucket, I made eye contact with that devil cat. The look in his eyes was a cocky, challenging, and threatening look. He began to pace towards me. I nodded my head and said, "Hello Kitty! Now we go!". I backpedaled away from the side of the house closest to the sketchy neighbor's house. I walked quickly and the cat followed, ready for round 2. The joke was on him. We made our way into the middle of a field of tall grass and stood about 20 feet apart from devil cat. I made the first move. I pulled out my phone and hopped onto Facebook for a quick status update. (Now, I'd probably tweet it. LanceWetberg. Holla!)(Not Wetberg...that's an account that fans like to tweet for me. The celebrity status is nice, but a little overrated)
After my post, I closed my phone. The 2-minute stand-off had ended. The evil cat slyly crept towards me, but I didn't flinch. I dared him to come closer and try to get another taste of Wetberg. You know it wouldn't taste dry!
The cat began his sprint and prepared to pounce. Like a true man, I started to backpedal, and I pulled the trigger. It wouldn't move. The safety was on, and I felt like a goose. (Rightfully so.) I quickly flipped the lever and the gun was ready. Kitty-Diablo crouched and began to run towards me. He was thinking it was dinner time, and that he's be the most popular of the 42 cats for slaying a 6 foot 4, 195 pound, division 3 player. (A trillionaire?) Yes. In your face Travie McCoy. Any way you look at it, he thought wrong. Diablo won the battle of the raspberry patch, but I won the war. Actually, I won it like the US won world war two. People will scratch their head and ask, "Really? Was that really necessary?". I'll answer that question with another question once posed by Patches O'hullihan in the movie "Dodgeball". I'm just kidding, Patches is almost as deranged as this crazy cat. To get down to it, I'll answer that question with an unquestioned response amongst the NWC Basketball crew. I'll tell all my haters: I couldn't lean him forward with the risk of getting fleas, so... The punishment fits the crime!
This all happened so fast, it gave me the strongest desire to spit out a quick blog to the Wetberg faithful. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be near a laptop for hours, so I slid open my phone and got to work!
When it was all done, I wanted to read it to my mother as she laughed at me because I was afraid of a small kitty. I wanted to read her my work of art with the passion that my recently traumatized self had concocted, because she had been here through all the blood, sweat, and tears. So, I turned up the radio in hopes for a musical dramatic effect from the radio. This was a fail. The best that KTIS and Casting Crowns could provide me with was "The voice of truth, says do not be afraid". Wow...thanks. I guess God certainly speaks in crazy ways.
Until next time my friends, watch out for mangy, infected, delirious black cats, and as always, Stay Wet!
Wetberg
So like I mentioned before, life is just full of memorable events that need to be recorded for history's sake. Life can be WET for now, but some day it's going to dry up. Maybe you're drying up a little bit right now. If this is you, I'll encourage you to sit back, relax, and enjoy a laugh or two as I share a story of how bonding time with my mother went sour. Oh yeah, there's one more thing....GET WET.
I was out picking raspberries innocently at my grandma's house since she is no longer around to pick them. (RIP Grandma). Grandma lived in farm country in western Wisconsin. She has a very sketchy neighboor who was kicked out of the Navy and now hides out in a run-down house next to her. he's about 50 with wrinkly tattoed skin and 42 cats. Naturally, these cats are mangy and basically stray. As I picked berries with my mother, a crowd of 5 cats had assembled around us. I had nothing against cats. I had 4 cute kittens and 3 adult cats who just do their own thing. After about a half and hour of picking berries, one mangy cat got brave. I thought he wanted to be social. The joke was on me. He wanted to be fed. I told my mom, "this cat is giving me a weird look!" and laughed insecurely. The cat got too close for my liking, so i walked into the pushes. He followed. His eyes never broke from me. We had a connection like when you make eye contact with your crush and you look away. Then when you check back in a few seconds, they still haven't broken the stare. Then it quickly turns from cute to creepy. At this point, the cat stood about 5 feet away from me as I walked humbly back onto the grass. Just as I turned to pick a nice red berry, I saw this black, devil possessed cat take a few quick steps and pounces onto my right leg with extended claws! It made a harsh meow as I batted it away like a running back breaking a soft arm tackle. (A.K.A: the way Ryan Grant breaks my whole team's tackles when we play Madden '11) The stiff-arm was too late. The deed had been done. I felt a warm prickling on my right calf. Blood trickled from two gashes in my skin. The pain was not severe, but the result was was filled with gore. I feel for the cat. It didn't live in a good home. Still...he must pay.
So as my leg turned from pasty white to the right half of the American flag, I entered my grandma's empty house and selected my weapon of choice. My dear grandmother was an avid bird lover. She loved her bluebirds and orioles. However, there was one kind of bird that drove the bluebirds away: Sparrows. This upset my grandma for years, and she made them pay...with their lives. My sweet grandmother had pinpoint aim with her bolt action .22 caliber rifle. Grandma kept the bad birds away as well as the bad boys from her three daughters!
As I picked up the gun, I felt the hostility that my sweet grandma once held against some God-forsaken critters that over-stepped their bounds. I loaded a bullet into the gun and threw a few in my pocket just in case other mangy cats we able to pick up the scent of my new Stuart Little cologne.
It was a hot, muggy Wisconsin day, and my fuse was not very long for stray cats that wanted my blood. I went out to pick a few more berries in peace. I gave them a chance. I kept the .22 ready by my side for an emergency situation. After dropping a few more berries into the bucket, I made eye contact with that devil cat. The look in his eyes was a cocky, challenging, and threatening look. He began to pace towards me. I nodded my head and said, "Hello Kitty! Now we go!". I backpedaled away from the side of the house closest to the sketchy neighbor's house. I walked quickly and the cat followed, ready for round 2. The joke was on him. We made our way into the middle of a field of tall grass and stood about 20 feet apart from devil cat. I made the first move. I pulled out my phone and hopped onto Facebook for a quick status update. (Now, I'd probably tweet it. LanceWetberg. Holla!)(Not Wetberg...that's an account that fans like to tweet for me. The celebrity status is nice, but a little overrated)
After my post, I closed my phone. The 2-minute stand-off had ended. The evil cat slyly crept towards me, but I didn't flinch. I dared him to come closer and try to get another taste of Wetberg. You know it wouldn't taste dry!
The cat began his sprint and prepared to pounce. Like a true man, I started to backpedal, and I pulled the trigger. It wouldn't move. The safety was on, and I felt like a goose. (Rightfully so.) I quickly flipped the lever and the gun was ready. Kitty-Diablo crouched and began to run towards me. He was thinking it was dinner time, and that he's be the most popular of the 42 cats for slaying a 6 foot 4, 195 pound, division 3 player. (A trillionaire?) Yes. In your face Travie McCoy. Any way you look at it, he thought wrong. Diablo won the battle of the raspberry patch, but I won the war. Actually, I won it like the US won world war two. People will scratch their head and ask, "Really? Was that really necessary?". I'll answer that question with another question once posed by Patches O'hullihan in the movie "Dodgeball". I'm just kidding, Patches is almost as deranged as this crazy cat. To get down to it, I'll answer that question with an unquestioned response amongst the NWC Basketball crew. I'll tell all my haters: I couldn't lean him forward with the risk of getting fleas, so... The punishment fits the crime!
This all happened so fast, it gave me the strongest desire to spit out a quick blog to the Wetberg faithful. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be near a laptop for hours, so I slid open my phone and got to work!
When it was all done, I wanted to read it to my mother as she laughed at me because I was afraid of a small kitty. I wanted to read her my work of art with the passion that my recently traumatized self had concocted, because she had been here through all the blood, sweat, and tears. So, I turned up the radio in hopes for a musical dramatic effect from the radio. This was a fail. The best that KTIS and Casting Crowns could provide me with was "The voice of truth, says do not be afraid". Wow...thanks. I guess God certainly speaks in crazy ways.
Until next time my friends, watch out for mangy, infected, delirious black cats, and as always, Stay Wet!
Wetberg
Monday, July 12, 2010
Buddy Check
What's good Wetberg's World? I'll assume not a whole lot since you haven't heard from me on this fine blog in a MONTH!I'm sure you all read the blog title and were intrigued...Was Wetberg some kind of camp counselor that conducts buddy checks every 10 minutes at the beach? You'll hear it here first: I'm not and wasn't. That'd be my boy Bri-Guy who also throws up a savage blog called "Bunking with Brian" (Holla!)
Part of my non-blogging has been attributed to my inspiration, Mark 'The Shark' Titus' retirement from the blogging community as he decided to write a book. The good news is, he's back after being drafted by the Harlem Globetrotters where he is poised to post many more trillions.
On the note of trillions...(a stat line of one minute played and zeros for the rest of the stats.)...I couldn't have recorded a trillion in our previous summer league game if I tried. We had 5 guys, and I was the most qualified to be the point guard with my measly 6'4" stature. We were big, and we were slow. Or roster was myself at the point, Walt at 2, freshmen recruits at 6'5" and 6'7", and Rob Dog. We had 5 guys, 10 lungs, and not enough oxygen. We panted our way to a 6 point loss to a solid St. Olaf team.
Back to the point of this blog. Where've I been for the last 5 weeks? Beaches? Traveling? (only on the court) Hanging out with friends? Barely...No. I've been taking a five credit chemistry class at River Falls' highest rated 4-year university in the town. A semester's worth of General Chemistry was shoved down my thoat five weeks. It was one of the most mediocre experiences of my life. It was a class of 25 students from many different walks of life. I can appreciate this. I'm all about diversity. We had a lot of cultures in there and a lot of different ages, but only one person was able to get under skin. No, I'm not a racist. I didn't even mind that my professor had some kind of crazy Russian accent. I actually preferred it because she sounded out each syllable of each word, and talked nice and slow, but kept a very peppy attitude except for the time she threw a model of an atom overhand like Todd Coffee hurls a late-game fastball for the Brewers...at a student. He deserved it though. He asked a dumb question...too stoned to think straight.
Let's get back to the guy who got under my skin.
I don't think anybody knows the true name of the guy who got under my skin, but he can be described to a T. This guy was an adult education student. I have no grudge against people who return to school. I think that's great that they're trying a new career, or getting more qualified. The only thing that grinds my gears about adult education students is the uncountable (or are they?) number of questions that they ask. Adult Ed. Students that are being trained in their field have legitimate reasons. Students in General Chemistry have little to no reason to ask a rediculous number of questions. If I had to guess, this guy, "Buddy" (as his white lab coat read), probably got fired from his old job for being the most annoying worker.
About 15 minutes into day one, Buddy's hand is waving in the air to ask a stupid question like if notes about the syllabus would be on the mid-term. Beginning then, the Math Ed. major in me flared up hard. I pulled out the back of my folder to tally the number of questions that Buddy would ask each day of class. Well 5 weeks of class went by and the results are in!
A quick background on our class will tell you that we had a 3 1/2 hour lecture on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and a 2 1/2 hour lecture on Thursdays. Mondays we had exams, which were a guaranteed hour of silence. I was very diligent to record tally marks for any and all questions, boisterous comments, and pointless concerns.
Buddy was out to prove a point: He loves chemistry, and he is better at it than everybody in the class. We aren't even in the same generation, and we were reminded each and every day.
Here's a fun fact to paint a picture for you. Over the course of our 18 days of lectures, our class got the privilege of hearing his voice over 256 times! For you non-Math Majors, that just over 14 comments per day. That's about 4 comments per hour. (Every 15 minutes) I sat 30 feet away from him in a large lecture hall and could hear every single whisper scream as he used his years of wisdom to guide a young, confused college student.
Here's a short letter I've composed to my man Buddy,
Dear Buddy,
You probably don't know me, but I know you. That would be creepy, but every member of our class knows you. There's even a good chance that the classes next door know you. You could potentially be my father, or even grandfather. When you've got everyone in the class beat out in age by at least 30 years, you should just blend in the background because you're not the center of attention in the class. Why don't you just put in your time, get your five credits, and go become a game-show host where you can ask all the questions you want.
I'll give you some credit buddy. Of your 256 questions, there were a few that were actually pertinent to my education and helped my learning. However, you asked so many bad questions, I ran out of jokes to tell my lab partner. So not only are you looking bad, but you're making me look bad.
A couple more things: Don't show up to the first day of freshman summer chemistry in a lab coat. We get it...you're smart and a big deal, but your tool-o-meter is flashing on red right now. Also, when you wear classic rock t-shirts tucked into your jeans every day to class, it only exposes our age gap. Finally, don't go around hugging the prof and act like it's you two vs. a class of college kids. She's your professor, not your friend.
Buddy, I know I've been hard on you in this blog and letter, but know I don't hate you. Ya just grind my gears. My gears have been ground to the point of being dry.
So there's a solution for buddy, myself, and each of my 14 adoring fans,
GET WET!
Part of my non-blogging has been attributed to my inspiration, Mark 'The Shark' Titus' retirement from the blogging community as he decided to write a book. The good news is, he's back after being drafted by the Harlem Globetrotters where he is poised to post many more trillions.
On the note of trillions...(a stat line of one minute played and zeros for the rest of the stats.)...I couldn't have recorded a trillion in our previous summer league game if I tried. We had 5 guys, and I was the most qualified to be the point guard with my measly 6'4" stature. We were big, and we were slow. Or roster was myself at the point, Walt at 2, freshmen recruits at 6'5" and 6'7", and Rob Dog. We had 5 guys, 10 lungs, and not enough oxygen. We panted our way to a 6 point loss to a solid St. Olaf team.
Back to the point of this blog. Where've I been for the last 5 weeks? Beaches? Traveling? (only on the court) Hanging out with friends? Barely...No. I've been taking a five credit chemistry class at River Falls' highest rated 4-year university in the town. A semester's worth of General Chemistry was shoved down my thoat five weeks. It was one of the most mediocre experiences of my life. It was a class of 25 students from many different walks of life. I can appreciate this. I'm all about diversity. We had a lot of cultures in there and a lot of different ages, but only one person was able to get under skin. No, I'm not a racist. I didn't even mind that my professor had some kind of crazy Russian accent. I actually preferred it because she sounded out each syllable of each word, and talked nice and slow, but kept a very peppy attitude except for the time she threw a model of an atom overhand like Todd Coffee hurls a late-game fastball for the Brewers...at a student. He deserved it though. He asked a dumb question...too stoned to think straight.
Let's get back to the guy who got under my skin.
I don't think anybody knows the true name of the guy who got under my skin, but he can be described to a T. This guy was an adult education student. I have no grudge against people who return to school. I think that's great that they're trying a new career, or getting more qualified. The only thing that grinds my gears about adult education students is the uncountable (or are they?) number of questions that they ask. Adult Ed. Students that are being trained in their field have legitimate reasons. Students in General Chemistry have little to no reason to ask a rediculous number of questions. If I had to guess, this guy, "Buddy" (as his white lab coat read), probably got fired from his old job for being the most annoying worker.
About 15 minutes into day one, Buddy's hand is waving in the air to ask a stupid question like if notes about the syllabus would be on the mid-term. Beginning then, the Math Ed. major in me flared up hard. I pulled out the back of my folder to tally the number of questions that Buddy would ask each day of class. Well 5 weeks of class went by and the results are in!
A quick background on our class will tell you that we had a 3 1/2 hour lecture on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and a 2 1/2 hour lecture on Thursdays. Mondays we had exams, which were a guaranteed hour of silence. I was very diligent to record tally marks for any and all questions, boisterous comments, and pointless concerns.
Buddy was out to prove a point: He loves chemistry, and he is better at it than everybody in the class. We aren't even in the same generation, and we were reminded each and every day.
Here's a fun fact to paint a picture for you. Over the course of our 18 days of lectures, our class got the privilege of hearing his voice over 256 times! For you non-Math Majors, that just over 14 comments per day. That's about 4 comments per hour. (Every 15 minutes) I sat 30 feet away from him in a large lecture hall and could hear every single whisper scream as he used his years of wisdom to guide a young, confused college student.
Here's a short letter I've composed to my man Buddy,
Dear Buddy,
You probably don't know me, but I know you. That would be creepy, but every member of our class knows you. There's even a good chance that the classes next door know you. You could potentially be my father, or even grandfather. When you've got everyone in the class beat out in age by at least 30 years, you should just blend in the background because you're not the center of attention in the class. Why don't you just put in your time, get your five credits, and go become a game-show host where you can ask all the questions you want.
I'll give you some credit buddy. Of your 256 questions, there were a few that were actually pertinent to my education and helped my learning. However, you asked so many bad questions, I ran out of jokes to tell my lab partner. So not only are you looking bad, but you're making me look bad.
A couple more things: Don't show up to the first day of freshman summer chemistry in a lab coat. We get it...you're smart and a big deal, but your tool-o-meter is flashing on red right now. Also, when you wear classic rock t-shirts tucked into your jeans every day to class, it only exposes our age gap. Finally, don't go around hugging the prof and act like it's you two vs. a class of college kids. She's your professor, not your friend.
Buddy, I know I've been hard on you in this blog and letter, but know I don't hate you. Ya just grind my gears. My gears have been ground to the point of being dry.
So there's a solution for buddy, myself, and each of my 14 adoring fans,
GET WET!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Peace up. A-Town.
Wetberg's World: What's Happenin? That's probably the question exact question you have for me and the reason you clicked to read this blog. Another reason could be that you have an unhealthy addiction to the ins and outs of my life. Common side effects of this vary from as minimal as hourly update checks to literal shaking as you crave to read about the shenanigans I've been up to. Well if you've been shaking, you can soon be back in your happy place as I'm about to drop a fresh Wetberg right in your face. (Take it how you will). Pun intended.
Now, what've I been up to the last two weeks? Firstly, I've just been out here grinding. Secondly, I've been a full time student. When I'm not doing that, I'm just out doing what I do. I think that paints a real nice picture of my summer.
So on to the purpose of this entry. It is not to tell you about my obsession with the raunchy Usher song with the catchy beat from 2001. No, it's to share a story of a brotherhood that was re-united in one of the greatest cities in the Fox Valley region of Wisconsin: Appleton. (A-town....as the suburban white kids like to call it)....I was tempted to dub it one of the greatest cities in the world, but after many E. Libby reminders, we all know that Bloomington, MN takes that cake the way a little kid destroys one on his first birthday. B-Town is great. We get it. On to A-town!
It was a Thursday afternoon. I had a few hours of class under my belt and was fresh out of a doctor’s appointment telling me I'll be needing a minor surgery on my right knee. If this is the first time you've heard this, Adam Scheffner is not doing his job very well on the NFL Network. I tried calling it in to ESPN as breaking news, but they were too busy showing the same ground-out that Jim Joyce blew that cost a dude a perfect game. Atta kid Jim. I don't know the name of a single major league baseball ump, but thanks for putting yourself out there as the worst ump I've ever seen. ESPN makes some good efforts to talk you up, but then repeatedly exposes you for making the worst call of your life, then goes on to show you crying on national TV. I feel for you, but the punishment fits the crime. Sorry for the long baseball rant, but this rant has been a great transition to my trip to A-town.
My day had been average. After not caring about class, receiving the package from the doctor, and my overall disappointment with Adam Scheffner and Jim Joyce, I was ready for a bright spot in my day. 4 short hours of driving and alternating between Jay-Z, and Chris Tomlin led me to that bright spot I had been waiting for. I arrived at the baseball stadium of the Brewers minor league team: The Wisconsin Timber Rattlers.
As I approached the entrance door I saw him and began to hear a one-man round of applause. I had reunited with my good college friend, Gary who was beaming from ear to ear. Correction: this was not college Gary. This was Gary minus 17 pounds. I was so proud of him as I held him in our embracing hug. (no homo) I can't decide what I was happier about, Gary's commitment to fitness, or that I had just saved my $5 admission fee by walking in during the 3rd inning. (In your face T-Rats)
As we walked in to the stadium, I heard the chatter of 1000 baseball fans, and smelled about 2000 glasses of beer. (The T-Rat fans were either doing some serious double-fisting, or they all decided to cake on their Miller Light Cologne during pregame. The place just reeked of Wisconsin.
We got to our seats, and waiting for us were four friendly faces. Two twin girls that Gary was friends from in high school, a good guy-friend of his, and the man of the next hour, my former roommate, my current teammate, my point guard, WQ member, the grime master himself: Ellis.
It was a picture perfect night. The lights were bright. There was some quality single A minor league baseball happening. We were hanging with some good friends. Then...all of a sudden....the night got even better:
Being a minor league team, the T-Rats had to have a bunch of contest, drawings, games, and other between innings festivities. I was really bummed when I didn't win the buy one get one free coupon for a Taco Bell Crunch Wrap. (Over a $2 Value!!)
Between one of the innings, was the Bratzooka bombing. I've been to MN Twins games where they shoot T-shirts into the crowd for a lucky fan, but not the T-Rats...They were bombing foil wrapped brats! We were on our feet jumping and waving our hands like 13 year old girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Then a brat launched high into the sky. The drunks were stretching out to snag the flying brat, and I said to Ellis, "Dude this one's coming for us!" That being said, Lib removed his "White man can't jump hat.(Usually a hideous adjustable hat that was popular in the early 1990s. Now you see them at garage sales for $.50. He flaunts it backwards on the back of his head..."his swag") As the brat arched down towards us, Ellis reached his arm back well into the vacant row behind us and made a miraculous catch. Next thing we know, a camera man is in our face, and we are on the big screen. Lib and Wetberg...in HD.
With Lib as the main attraction for his incredible brat catch, I was in the secondary friend role. I did the right thing by dishing out high fives, and acting like we won the lottery. Looking back at it, I wish I had pulled a Mark Titus after winning the Big Ten Championship and just made some ridiculous faces into the camera as Thad Matta was interviewed...Class Act shark!
As we celebrated with him, an inning came an went. We watched a few more innings of baseball and eventually opted to have a big night, NWC style. So sure enough, within fifteen minutes we were hittin' the Bees! (going to Applebees for half price apps)
The girls we were with were not as Bees savvy as we had become after many trips last year. I knew which half-price appetizer I was going with before I entered the family friendly establishment. In fact, I'd like to attribute 2 pounds out of my freshman 15 to Applebees. The next 8 goes to Cafe Naz and their weird food. The final 5 pounds is split between shoppers value Ice Cream and sweets sent in care packages by loved ones of the WQ. (Thanks Claire and Barbara).
12 hot wings later, we said our goodbyes, went back to the G-Zil pad/mansion and immediately hopped on facebook. Everything just seemed so right. It felt like nearly every single night as an NWC Eagle. Moyer 5D had been reunited. After a few minutes of facebook creeping, we all decided to call it a night. We had just been apart for almost a month, and within hours, we were right back in stride.
This was just the first half of my trip though. This was Lib+Lance+Gary night. We went big. I'm going to cut this blog off here and hopefully have the next night's festivities up soon.
I hope this answers any questions of What's happenin in Wetberg's World.
Until next time my friends,
Stay wet and God Bless,
Wetberg
Now, what've I been up to the last two weeks? Firstly, I've just been out here grinding. Secondly, I've been a full time student. When I'm not doing that, I'm just out doing what I do. I think that paints a real nice picture of my summer.
So on to the purpose of this entry. It is not to tell you about my obsession with the raunchy Usher song with the catchy beat from 2001. No, it's to share a story of a brotherhood that was re-united in one of the greatest cities in the Fox Valley region of Wisconsin: Appleton. (A-town....as the suburban white kids like to call it)....I was tempted to dub it one of the greatest cities in the world, but after many E. Libby reminders, we all know that Bloomington, MN takes that cake the way a little kid destroys one on his first birthday. B-Town is great. We get it. On to A-town!
It was a Thursday afternoon. I had a few hours of class under my belt and was fresh out of a doctor’s appointment telling me I'll be needing a minor surgery on my right knee. If this is the first time you've heard this, Adam Scheffner is not doing his job very well on the NFL Network. I tried calling it in to ESPN as breaking news, but they were too busy showing the same ground-out that Jim Joyce blew that cost a dude a perfect game. Atta kid Jim. I don't know the name of a single major league baseball ump, but thanks for putting yourself out there as the worst ump I've ever seen. ESPN makes some good efforts to talk you up, but then repeatedly exposes you for making the worst call of your life, then goes on to show you crying on national TV. I feel for you, but the punishment fits the crime. Sorry for the long baseball rant, but this rant has been a great transition to my trip to A-town.
My day had been average. After not caring about class, receiving the package from the doctor, and my overall disappointment with Adam Scheffner and Jim Joyce, I was ready for a bright spot in my day. 4 short hours of driving and alternating between Jay-Z, and Chris Tomlin led me to that bright spot I had been waiting for. I arrived at the baseball stadium of the Brewers minor league team: The Wisconsin Timber Rattlers.
As I approached the entrance door I saw him and began to hear a one-man round of applause. I had reunited with my good college friend, Gary who was beaming from ear to ear. Correction: this was not college Gary. This was Gary minus 17 pounds. I was so proud of him as I held him in our embracing hug. (no homo) I can't decide what I was happier about, Gary's commitment to fitness, or that I had just saved my $5 admission fee by walking in during the 3rd inning. (In your face T-Rats)
As we walked in to the stadium, I heard the chatter of 1000 baseball fans, and smelled about 2000 glasses of beer. (The T-Rat fans were either doing some serious double-fisting, or they all decided to cake on their Miller Light Cologne during pregame. The place just reeked of Wisconsin.
We got to our seats, and waiting for us were four friendly faces. Two twin girls that Gary was friends from in high school, a good guy-friend of his, and the man of the next hour, my former roommate, my current teammate, my point guard, WQ member, the grime master himself: Ellis.
It was a picture perfect night. The lights were bright. There was some quality single A minor league baseball happening. We were hanging with some good friends. Then...all of a sudden....the night got even better:
Being a minor league team, the T-Rats had to have a bunch of contest, drawings, games, and other between innings festivities. I was really bummed when I didn't win the buy one get one free coupon for a Taco Bell Crunch Wrap. (Over a $2 Value!!)
Between one of the innings, was the Bratzooka bombing. I've been to MN Twins games where they shoot T-shirts into the crowd for a lucky fan, but not the T-Rats...They were bombing foil wrapped brats! We were on our feet jumping and waving our hands like 13 year old girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Then a brat launched high into the sky. The drunks were stretching out to snag the flying brat, and I said to Ellis, "Dude this one's coming for us!" That being said, Lib removed his "White man can't jump hat.(Usually a hideous adjustable hat that was popular in the early 1990s. Now you see them at garage sales for $.50. He flaunts it backwards on the back of his head..."his swag") As the brat arched down towards us, Ellis reached his arm back well into the vacant row behind us and made a miraculous catch. Next thing we know, a camera man is in our face, and we are on the big screen. Lib and Wetberg...in HD.
With Lib as the main attraction for his incredible brat catch, I was in the secondary friend role. I did the right thing by dishing out high fives, and acting like we won the lottery. Looking back at it, I wish I had pulled a Mark Titus after winning the Big Ten Championship and just made some ridiculous faces into the camera as Thad Matta was interviewed...Class Act shark!
As we celebrated with him, an inning came an went. We watched a few more innings of baseball and eventually opted to have a big night, NWC style. So sure enough, within fifteen minutes we were hittin' the Bees! (going to Applebees for half price apps)
The girls we were with were not as Bees savvy as we had become after many trips last year. I knew which half-price appetizer I was going with before I entered the family friendly establishment. In fact, I'd like to attribute 2 pounds out of my freshman 15 to Applebees. The next 8 goes to Cafe Naz and their weird food. The final 5 pounds is split between shoppers value Ice Cream and sweets sent in care packages by loved ones of the WQ. (Thanks Claire and Barbara).
12 hot wings later, we said our goodbyes, went back to the G-Zil pad/mansion and immediately hopped on facebook. Everything just seemed so right. It felt like nearly every single night as an NWC Eagle. Moyer 5D had been reunited. After a few minutes of facebook creeping, we all decided to call it a night. We had just been apart for almost a month, and within hours, we were right back in stride.
This was just the first half of my trip though. This was Lib+Lance+Gary night. We went big. I'm going to cut this blog off here and hopefully have the next night's festivities up soon.
I hope this answers any questions of What's happenin in Wetberg's World.
Until next time my friends,
Stay wet and God Bless,
Wetberg
Friday, June 4, 2010
A Brush With Death
I was about to open this blog with a "What up blogspot?"...yeah, then I realized that I'd sound like that kid in Chapel that seemed like a huge tool when he said, "What up N-Dubya-C?" during announcements.
So I'll just open with a humble DP-ish "Hey guys". It's an honor and privilege to be here with you all. I'm so thankful for all the little things in life like sharing my thoughts and reactions with you all.
As I promised, I will be sharing with you guys about something that happened to me. (Usually this follows the phrase, "It's great to be in your beautiful country") Atta Kid Cooooach. Today, I'll be sharing about my adventure, my bromance, and my quest to earn enough man cards back to be at even par. (See previous posting).
The intention of the trip was for a spontaneous, adventurous, manly trip of the summer to make up for 9 months of separation between two bros. The plan was to canoe up the Red Cedar River in Wisconsin for a day and then float back down and get some fishing in the next day. We intended to spend the night camping on a sandbar and just have a good time.
So we hustled for a canoe (thanks D-Swin), and did an ametuer job of securing it in the bed of my dad's pickup truck. The truck wasn't made for transporting canoes, so it hung off the back a good 4 feet or so. We attempted to strap it in and prayed that it would hold. Fortunately, it did just that. After a day of planning and packing, we were all ready to go embark on this journey.
We got to the river and realized that our canoe and gear was pretty heavy. We had no intentions of doing any portaging. It was just Gilby and myself, two division three basketball players. We're not savage beasts like Bear Grylls. We may have overestimated our phisical fitness and unrealistically planned to canoe up river. (By we, I mean me.) Yep. I'm a chickenhead for that one.
So we entered the water and paddled upstream with fresh bodies and inspired intensity. After 45 minutes, I looked back and saw our entry point about 200 yards behind us. We were going nowhere fast. As perfect timing would have it, just as we were ready to give up, it began to downpour on us despite being fairly sunny out. Yaap...that made the decision easy to just paddle down river and make it a two day fishing trip. We could figure out ride arrangements to get us back to our vehicle later. With Walt not in mind, we were living in the moment. After about 45 seconds we had floated back passed our drop in point. The time flew by as I was receiving an "I told ya so" speech from my main man and power stroker from the front of the canoe.
The Red Cedar River flows in a southwestern direction. Eventually if dumps into the Mighty Mississippi. We feared that we might canoe too far and eventually be paddling through oil down in the gulf. (Too soon?) So with little to no considerations of the consequences of our actions, we began to paddle down stream. Shortly into the trip, we were getting rained on. Great start pause not. As afternoon faded into evening we began strategizing a place for us to camp for the night. We paddled slowly down the stream throwing out occasional fishing lines in hopes of landing a fish for supper. We caught fish at the rate that Reep grows facial hair. We didn't catch any. (Sorry Reep, but the attempted moustache in 'Tina was awful.)
We were losing daylight as we zig-zagged down the river, so we decided it was time to pick a spot to stay. There was a 30% chance of rain in the forecast so we thought it'd be smart to be in the woods somewhere where we'd get a little cover. Sure enough, as the darker clouds rolled in, we pull up to a gem of a camping spot. It was a nice, open grassy area with an apparent exiting place for our canoe. What a blessing right?!
We set up camp. I pitched the tent, and Gilby made a fire circle of rocks and sand. (Only YOU can prevent forest fires!) After we were set up, we gathered a bunch of wet wood from the rain and began to attempt to build an all natural fire. After a few fails we started to impatient. Gilby was making thin strips of wood using his fillet knife (the only and most vital tool we had with us). For the first time in my life, I wished I had been a boyscout. That wish was soon taken back as I realized simply watching some discovery channel would teach many of the same lessons and avoid those weird looking outfits. (No offense to any boy scouts who read Wetberg). If there are any who are, you're probably a crappy boyscout. Why would you be online reading blogs, when you could be out building fires and tying knots.
Eventually, we got a fire started and celebrated by sharing half a package of hot dogs. After eating, we threw in our lines and after a few minutes, I caught a couple fish. One was a smallmouth bass that was legit to keep. So I put it on a stringer and left it in the water for later. Mother-nature had different plans for us that night. Casting and reeling for a couple hours as the sun went down was too soft of a night. Time to get WET! Literally. That 30% chance of rain we saw may have been a misprint of 30% chance of flash flooding as we will get poured on hard for a couple hours. As we were getting soaked, we got all our food and supplies into the tent and decided to call it an early night. The tent started leaking on us and we were wet from getting cleaned up so it wasn't the most comfortable place to be in. Rain was seeping through the top of the tent, but don't worry, we had a good thick tarp on the bottom to collect all that water. No moisture was about to seep through the bottom. So we had a puddle in our tent. No big deal...we just formed barriers for the water by lifting parts of the tarp. We now had a big puddle and us sleeping in an L shape in the tent. We were pushed up against the tent walls. It couldn't be bad. At least we weren't getting more wet!
As we settled in and got comfortable (no homo), wetness became the least of our concerns. Just as I was about to enter a slumber, I felt an animal walking on the outside of our tent. It rubbed up against the tent with my high shoulder touching the other side of the tent. Yep, I was grazed by a hungry wild animal. Naturally, I jump up and start yelling and clapping as loud as possible. I was laying on my side and felt the side/bottom of the beast's torso.
We realized that in our rush for cover, we had all our food in our tent. We had a half-open package of hot dogs. I can take the blame for being the chickenhead on that one. Of course the carnivorous wild animal that brushed my shoulder was looking for an easy meal of free raw meat. Who wouldn't? What if this creature just wanted 4 or 5 hot dogs for an appetizer? Would it go for our granola bars next, or would it go for the gold and devour a couple of 6'4" division III basketball players? I strategically decided to make the animal choose one or the other. The food immediately went into a tree about 50 feet from our tent. Good choice to leave the tent minutes after having my core stroked by a wild beast? Probably not, but in an effort to regain a man-card, I didn't back down.
As we settled back into our soaking wet tent, we sat in silence as we heard a collection of animals tromping around as if they were forming a pack to attack our wolf-pack of two. We sat in fear for a couple hours with the dull fillet knife clenched in my hand.
Eventually, I settled into a light sleep, but my partner Gilby wasn't so fortunate. After a short hour or two of sleep, I was nudged by a fear-stricken best friend. There had been a horrible screeching noise. Something had just died. The beasts were on the attack! This did not help our comfort level. I was praying...hard. After hearing the ear-piercing screech, it was followed by some thumping sounds and some tearing noises. Was this a small bear, a wolf, a fox, a wild dog? We didn't know and didn't want to find out. These noises were followed by a thrashing from the river. Great...The attacker had now gone for my 14" small mouth bass that was stuck to my stringer. By now we're soaking wet, scared to death, and in no position of control. All we could do was wait it out and pray we weren't fourth-meal for some savage beast. (We later found out from a fellow Jimmy Johns worker that Bobcats are very prevalent along the Red Cedar River, and it most likely caught, killed, and ate a rabbit.)
After some inconsistent, light sleep, morning finally came. We were still alive. Praise the Lord! We stepped outside the tent and observed round footprints in the mud with the area of a Red Bull Can. (Bobcat). Also we saw many deer tracks which accounted for the crashing we thought might be bears or Lord knows what else. We began to set of a quite legitimate camp site as the sun rose. We had a clothesline, got a fire going despite the inch plus of rain, and made ourselves some breakfast. I checked the river, and the fish was still there. It must have just been having a bad dream and decided to flop around vigorously in the middle of the night. I really appreciate that. So, I filleted my fish and ate it for breakfast by cooking it over the fire on a flat river rock. (resourceful AND manly!) Nice me.
We kept the fire going and decided to do a little more fishing as our stuff began to dry out. About 10:00 a.m. a couple on the golf cart pulls up as I'm fishing and Gilby is tending to the fire:
Angry Land Owner: "What're you doing?!"
Gilby: "Uhhh..."
A.L.O.: "Yeah, Uh is right! You can't be here! This is private property! We saw the smoke and thought our whole forest was on fire!"
Gilby: "Oh okay, I'm sorry. We'll pack up and leave right now."
A.L.O #2: "How long have you guys been here?!"
(I would've loved to say we were there for like 3 weeks, but I was too flattered by the backhanded compliment of our nice camp. Plus, we were avoiding confrontation.) We said, "just the night. We'll be gone before you know it."
A.L.O.: "Yeah you will!" (duh...that's what we just said...chickenhead.) We'll be back to check on you soon. You'd better be gone!"
We didn't attempt to create a conflict by explaining ourselves, but I feel like I could've guilt tripped these selfish land-owners and made them feel like total idiots. As we packed up and left the logic of it all fell into place.
Wow...forgive us for stopping to get some cover in the midst of a severe thunderstorm. Also, how could there possibly be a forest fire hours after getting over an inch of rain? We could barely start a fire by trying as hard as we could. We even cheated and used some newspaper that we managed to keep relatively dry! This angry couple needed to get off our junk.
However, we avoided the conflict and left the scene with our tails between our legs.
We paddled a while down the stream to avoid Satan's relatives, (the landowners) made arrangements to be picked up that night, and spent the day floating down the river, stopping for some fishing in the beautiful weather. We had limited success. We caught fish like my former roommate, grows a moustache: sporatically, but over time, we totaled a few fish. By the end of the day we had 12 together-a nice round dozen.
Finally we were picked up by my life-saver brother and I was transported back to the truck to return to the river and pick up the canoe. Gilby stayed at the river in hopes of catching me in fish count. As I neared the takeout point with the truck, I received a text from Gilby saying he had snapped his pole, but not to worry, his line was still all in tact and his Rapala was safe.
We packed everything up and reflected on our eventful, unbelievable adventure. We roughed it for two days, survived a torrential downpour, had a brush with death, nearly got fined for trespassing, learned how to canoe, and caught a few fish. Most importantly, the trip served it's mission. We were just two guys and we were having a good time (**having a good time, having a good time). We got to catch up after being separated for most of the school year. Through all the ups and the downs, the triumphs of catching fish and setting up camp, and the low moments writhing in fear while soaking wet in pitch blackness, we made great memories and flared our bromance to the next level.
We needed a couple days apart because we were flirting with the level of Navy buddies that tattoo each others' names on their backsides. Now we're just back to being best friends, and rolling as a wolf-pack of two.
If you read this with any doubt, I will swear on my life that this is all truth. Also, if you don't think this is a big deal, think about where you are: You're probably sitting at a computer at your house next to a golf course. What happened on that memorable night was incredible. It's taken a couple weeks to find the strength to share this with Wetberg nation, but here it is.
This is what's happenin' in Wetberg's World:
Until next time, stay wet my brethren.
-Wetberg
**http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nt2OVAgkHBc (This will bring a joke to full circle from a couple paragraphs ago)
So I'll just open with a humble DP-ish "Hey guys". It's an honor and privilege to be here with you all. I'm so thankful for all the little things in life like sharing my thoughts and reactions with you all.
As I promised, I will be sharing with you guys about something that happened to me. (Usually this follows the phrase, "It's great to be in your beautiful country") Atta Kid Cooooach. Today, I'll be sharing about my adventure, my bromance, and my quest to earn enough man cards back to be at even par. (See previous posting).
The intention of the trip was for a spontaneous, adventurous, manly trip of the summer to make up for 9 months of separation between two bros. The plan was to canoe up the Red Cedar River in Wisconsin for a day and then float back down and get some fishing in the next day. We intended to spend the night camping on a sandbar and just have a good time.
So we hustled for a canoe (thanks D-Swin), and did an ametuer job of securing it in the bed of my dad's pickup truck. The truck wasn't made for transporting canoes, so it hung off the back a good 4 feet or so. We attempted to strap it in and prayed that it would hold. Fortunately, it did just that. After a day of planning and packing, we were all ready to go embark on this journey.
We got to the river and realized that our canoe and gear was pretty heavy. We had no intentions of doing any portaging. It was just Gilby and myself, two division three basketball players. We're not savage beasts like Bear Grylls. We may have overestimated our phisical fitness and unrealistically planned to canoe up river. (By we, I mean me.) Yep. I'm a chickenhead for that one.
So we entered the water and paddled upstream with fresh bodies and inspired intensity. After 45 minutes, I looked back and saw our entry point about 200 yards behind us. We were going nowhere fast. As perfect timing would have it, just as we were ready to give up, it began to downpour on us despite being fairly sunny out. Yaap...that made the decision easy to just paddle down river and make it a two day fishing trip. We could figure out ride arrangements to get us back to our vehicle later. With Walt not in mind, we were living in the moment. After about 45 seconds we had floated back passed our drop in point. The time flew by as I was receiving an "I told ya so" speech from my main man and power stroker from the front of the canoe.
The Red Cedar River flows in a southwestern direction. Eventually if dumps into the Mighty Mississippi. We feared that we might canoe too far and eventually be paddling through oil down in the gulf. (Too soon?) So with little to no considerations of the consequences of our actions, we began to paddle down stream. Shortly into the trip, we were getting rained on. Great start pause not. As afternoon faded into evening we began strategizing a place for us to camp for the night. We paddled slowly down the stream throwing out occasional fishing lines in hopes of landing a fish for supper. We caught fish at the rate that Reep grows facial hair. We didn't catch any. (Sorry Reep, but the attempted moustache in 'Tina was awful.)
We were losing daylight as we zig-zagged down the river, so we decided it was time to pick a spot to stay. There was a 30% chance of rain in the forecast so we thought it'd be smart to be in the woods somewhere where we'd get a little cover. Sure enough, as the darker clouds rolled in, we pull up to a gem of a camping spot. It was a nice, open grassy area with an apparent exiting place for our canoe. What a blessing right?!
We set up camp. I pitched the tent, and Gilby made a fire circle of rocks and sand. (Only YOU can prevent forest fires!) After we were set up, we gathered a bunch of wet wood from the rain and began to attempt to build an all natural fire. After a few fails we started to impatient. Gilby was making thin strips of wood using his fillet knife (the only and most vital tool we had with us). For the first time in my life, I wished I had been a boyscout. That wish was soon taken back as I realized simply watching some discovery channel would teach many of the same lessons and avoid those weird looking outfits. (No offense to any boy scouts who read Wetberg). If there are any who are, you're probably a crappy boyscout. Why would you be online reading blogs, when you could be out building fires and tying knots.
Eventually, we got a fire started and celebrated by sharing half a package of hot dogs. After eating, we threw in our lines and after a few minutes, I caught a couple fish. One was a smallmouth bass that was legit to keep. So I put it on a stringer and left it in the water for later. Mother-nature had different plans for us that night. Casting and reeling for a couple hours as the sun went down was too soft of a night. Time to get WET! Literally. That 30% chance of rain we saw may have been a misprint of 30% chance of flash flooding as we will get poured on hard for a couple hours. As we were getting soaked, we got all our food and supplies into the tent and decided to call it an early night. The tent started leaking on us and we were wet from getting cleaned up so it wasn't the most comfortable place to be in. Rain was seeping through the top of the tent, but don't worry, we had a good thick tarp on the bottom to collect all that water. No moisture was about to seep through the bottom. So we had a puddle in our tent. No big deal...we just formed barriers for the water by lifting parts of the tarp. We now had a big puddle and us sleeping in an L shape in the tent. We were pushed up against the tent walls. It couldn't be bad. At least we weren't getting more wet!
As we settled in and got comfortable (no homo), wetness became the least of our concerns. Just as I was about to enter a slumber, I felt an animal walking on the outside of our tent. It rubbed up against the tent with my high shoulder touching the other side of the tent. Yep, I was grazed by a hungry wild animal. Naturally, I jump up and start yelling and clapping as loud as possible. I was laying on my side and felt the side/bottom of the beast's torso.
We realized that in our rush for cover, we had all our food in our tent. We had a half-open package of hot dogs. I can take the blame for being the chickenhead on that one. Of course the carnivorous wild animal that brushed my shoulder was looking for an easy meal of free raw meat. Who wouldn't? What if this creature just wanted 4 or 5 hot dogs for an appetizer? Would it go for our granola bars next, or would it go for the gold and devour a couple of 6'4" division III basketball players? I strategically decided to make the animal choose one or the other. The food immediately went into a tree about 50 feet from our tent. Good choice to leave the tent minutes after having my core stroked by a wild beast? Probably not, but in an effort to regain a man-card, I didn't back down.
As we settled back into our soaking wet tent, we sat in silence as we heard a collection of animals tromping around as if they were forming a pack to attack our wolf-pack of two. We sat in fear for a couple hours with the dull fillet knife clenched in my hand.
Eventually, I settled into a light sleep, but my partner Gilby wasn't so fortunate. After a short hour or two of sleep, I was nudged by a fear-stricken best friend. There had been a horrible screeching noise. Something had just died. The beasts were on the attack! This did not help our comfort level. I was praying...hard. After hearing the ear-piercing screech, it was followed by some thumping sounds and some tearing noises. Was this a small bear, a wolf, a fox, a wild dog? We didn't know and didn't want to find out. These noises were followed by a thrashing from the river. Great...The attacker had now gone for my 14" small mouth bass that was stuck to my stringer. By now we're soaking wet, scared to death, and in no position of control. All we could do was wait it out and pray we weren't fourth-meal for some savage beast. (We later found out from a fellow Jimmy Johns worker that Bobcats are very prevalent along the Red Cedar River, and it most likely caught, killed, and ate a rabbit.)
After some inconsistent, light sleep, morning finally came. We were still alive. Praise the Lord! We stepped outside the tent and observed round footprints in the mud with the area of a Red Bull Can. (Bobcat). Also we saw many deer tracks which accounted for the crashing we thought might be bears or Lord knows what else. We began to set of a quite legitimate camp site as the sun rose. We had a clothesline, got a fire going despite the inch plus of rain, and made ourselves some breakfast. I checked the river, and the fish was still there. It must have just been having a bad dream and decided to flop around vigorously in the middle of the night. I really appreciate that. So, I filleted my fish and ate it for breakfast by cooking it over the fire on a flat river rock. (resourceful AND manly!) Nice me.
We kept the fire going and decided to do a little more fishing as our stuff began to dry out. About 10:00 a.m. a couple on the golf cart pulls up as I'm fishing and Gilby is tending to the fire:
Angry Land Owner: "What're you doing?!"
Gilby: "Uhhh..."
A.L.O.: "Yeah, Uh is right! You can't be here! This is private property! We saw the smoke and thought our whole forest was on fire!"
Gilby: "Oh okay, I'm sorry. We'll pack up and leave right now."
A.L.O #2: "How long have you guys been here?!"
(I would've loved to say we were there for like 3 weeks, but I was too flattered by the backhanded compliment of our nice camp. Plus, we were avoiding confrontation.) We said, "just the night. We'll be gone before you know it."
A.L.O.: "Yeah you will!" (duh...that's what we just said...chickenhead.) We'll be back to check on you soon. You'd better be gone!"
We didn't attempt to create a conflict by explaining ourselves, but I feel like I could've guilt tripped these selfish land-owners and made them feel like total idiots. As we packed up and left the logic of it all fell into place.
Wow...forgive us for stopping to get some cover in the midst of a severe thunderstorm. Also, how could there possibly be a forest fire hours after getting over an inch of rain? We could barely start a fire by trying as hard as we could. We even cheated and used some newspaper that we managed to keep relatively dry! This angry couple needed to get off our junk.
However, we avoided the conflict and left the scene with our tails between our legs.
We paddled a while down the stream to avoid Satan's relatives, (the landowners) made arrangements to be picked up that night, and spent the day floating down the river, stopping for some fishing in the beautiful weather. We had limited success. We caught fish like my former roommate, grows a moustache: sporatically, but over time, we totaled a few fish. By the end of the day we had 12 together-a nice round dozen.
Finally we were picked up by my life-saver brother and I was transported back to the truck to return to the river and pick up the canoe. Gilby stayed at the river in hopes of catching me in fish count. As I neared the takeout point with the truck, I received a text from Gilby saying he had snapped his pole, but not to worry, his line was still all in tact and his Rapala was safe.
We packed everything up and reflected on our eventful, unbelievable adventure. We roughed it for two days, survived a torrential downpour, had a brush with death, nearly got fined for trespassing, learned how to canoe, and caught a few fish. Most importantly, the trip served it's mission. We were just two guys and we were having a good time (**having a good time, having a good time). We got to catch up after being separated for most of the school year. Through all the ups and the downs, the triumphs of catching fish and setting up camp, and the low moments writhing in fear while soaking wet in pitch blackness, we made great memories and flared our bromance to the next level.
We needed a couple days apart because we were flirting with the level of Navy buddies that tattoo each others' names on their backsides. Now we're just back to being best friends, and rolling as a wolf-pack of two.
If you read this with any doubt, I will swear on my life that this is all truth. Also, if you don't think this is a big deal, think about where you are: You're probably sitting at a computer at your house next to a golf course. What happened on that memorable night was incredible. It's taken a couple weeks to find the strength to share this with Wetberg nation, but here it is.
This is what's happenin' in Wetberg's World:
Until next time, stay wet my brethren.
-Wetberg
**http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nt2OVAgkHBc (This will bring a joke to full circle from a couple paragraphs ago)
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Getting Hard at Home
Oh man, it's great to be back here at my blogging sanctuary. It's depressing that it's been over three weeks since my last post. Don't worry, I'm not pulling a Mark Titus and quitting altogether. It's just been a little rough for a G lately. Fans are becoming giddy and harassing me on my Facebook wall. I'm being confronted at social gatherings. I feel like a mother bird who is tantalizing a nest full of baby chicks by dangling a worm an inch out of their reach. Actually, that analogy makes little to no sense, but I like the thought, so I'll keep it. I apologize to all my faithful followers who have been chomping at the bit to read my perspective of what's been going on in my life. It's been a crazy time of the year with finals, moving home, and going on a missions trip to Argentina. If you would like to read about that, I was doing some blogging at nwceagles.com. They're no Wetberg blogs! Don't get that twisted for a second, but they do give some insight to what we did for 11 days in 'Tina.
Now I'm sure many of you saw the title I put for this posting. If you go to Northwestern, you were appalled, and anyone else from River Falls or beyond got more excited than they should. NWC can take a chill pill, and everyone else can get their head out of the gutters.
Here's what's been happenin in Wetberg's World:
So now I'm back in good old RF and starting to get used to life in rural Western Wisconsin. I have the satisfaction of doing below average, but passing all my college classes this spring, so I can return to Northwestern and record a few more trillions for the Eagles. (Lord Willing). However, like my main man Walt, I live in the moment. The moment is summer and River Falls.
I've been back for about three days and I feel like I'm right back in stride. After spending the last nine months in the comfy twin cities, it has been nice to get down and dirty with life in RF. (Gutter Check). yeah...get out.
My first day back conveniently was the time that cleaning of the pig pens take place. I don't think anyone in their right mind should get excited for a task like this, but I was a little bit because I was getting that feeling of manhood that I got a taste of on Steak night (see previous post). If I were given 5 "man-cards" that could be lost or re-gained depending on the manliness of my decisions, I would be sitting at a Gentleman's 3. Usually I'm all about the triple, but not in this case. Let me illustrate a breakdown:
Day 1 of being back: 1 man card lost, 1 Man card regained.
During day one, I had to shovel fecal matter out of the pig pens. This should be a +1 right? Nothing like getting your hands dirty and doing some hard labor. So, I'll take a +1 for completing the task with no complaints. However, there was one time when I was shoveling some into the wheelbarrow, a chunk fell off and I jumped out of the way much harder than I should have. I was for some reason scared to get my 9th grade basketball shoes, that have been used for this task for two years, more dirty. Perhaps I thought some of it was going to bounce up and get on my skirt? Lord only knows. But I was and still am thoroughly embarrassed. I feel like a goose. So I broke even on the first day back. The next couple days were not so favorable.
Today especially, was a tough day. I lost two cards in one day. At this rate, I'm going to be visiting a different restroom by June. This afternoon, I decided to help my brother out and mow a couple of his lawns for him in town. They were two push-mowed lawns that took about an hour and a half between them. When I was finishing up the second lawn I wiped a little sweat off my head and prepared to gladly accept a man card along with a glass of lemonade. O for 2 on that one! When I looked at my hands, I had blisters on both thumbs from the mowers. I wouldn't say I am naturally the burliest of men, but I've only been in the cities for 9 months! I have gotten so soft! To make matters worse, I received a text after seeing my sissy hands asking me to do some babysitting! I guess when it rains, it pours. I'm dishing out cards left and right. (Anyone who knows me knows I'm not going to turn down a chance to make a quick 20 bucks!)
So here we sit at three man cards. How can I earn a couple back?! Who on T.V. is the most manliest? I'm in a huge slump, and need to get out sooner than later! Survivorman is pretty manly. Yeah, that's an understatement. He's a savage beast! Watch out bub. LW and EG are about to get our survivorman on!
The timing of this slump is a blessing in disguise because my best bud, Gilby, and I had intended on going on a canoe trip for a couple days and rough it all. We intend to sleep on sand bars and cook over a camp fire. (like real burly men). Gilby's ability to grow a red beard says enough about his manhood, so he's not trying replace and cards. I wish I could stay the same. I wish I could just be doing some general maintenance, but I'm trying to come out of a debt here. We'll be paddling upstream for a day and a half, then float back downstream and do some serious fishing. This may seem like a serious bromance, but I will call no homo, so everything is cool.
I look forward to hooking you all up with some stories of our adventure and maybe even a good fish story!
Until then,
Stay Wet! This is what's happenin in Wetberg's World!
-Wetberg (+3)
Now I'm sure many of you saw the title I put for this posting. If you go to Northwestern, you were appalled, and anyone else from River Falls or beyond got more excited than they should. NWC can take a chill pill, and everyone else can get their head out of the gutters.
Here's what's been happenin in Wetberg's World:
So now I'm back in good old RF and starting to get used to life in rural Western Wisconsin. I have the satisfaction of doing below average, but passing all my college classes this spring, so I can return to Northwestern and record a few more trillions for the Eagles. (Lord Willing). However, like my main man Walt, I live in the moment. The moment is summer and River Falls.
I've been back for about three days and I feel like I'm right back in stride. After spending the last nine months in the comfy twin cities, it has been nice to get down and dirty with life in RF. (Gutter Check). yeah...get out.
My first day back conveniently was the time that cleaning of the pig pens take place. I don't think anyone in their right mind should get excited for a task like this, but I was a little bit because I was getting that feeling of manhood that I got a taste of on Steak night (see previous post). If I were given 5 "man-cards" that could be lost or re-gained depending on the manliness of my decisions, I would be sitting at a Gentleman's 3. Usually I'm all about the triple, but not in this case. Let me illustrate a breakdown:
Day 1 of being back: 1 man card lost, 1 Man card regained.
During day one, I had to shovel fecal matter out of the pig pens. This should be a +1 right? Nothing like getting your hands dirty and doing some hard labor. So, I'll take a +1 for completing the task with no complaints. However, there was one time when I was shoveling some into the wheelbarrow, a chunk fell off and I jumped out of the way much harder than I should have. I was for some reason scared to get my 9th grade basketball shoes, that have been used for this task for two years, more dirty. Perhaps I thought some of it was going to bounce up and get on my skirt? Lord only knows. But I was and still am thoroughly embarrassed. I feel like a goose. So I broke even on the first day back. The next couple days were not so favorable.
Today especially, was a tough day. I lost two cards in one day. At this rate, I'm going to be visiting a different restroom by June. This afternoon, I decided to help my brother out and mow a couple of his lawns for him in town. They were two push-mowed lawns that took about an hour and a half between them. When I was finishing up the second lawn I wiped a little sweat off my head and prepared to gladly accept a man card along with a glass of lemonade. O for 2 on that one! When I looked at my hands, I had blisters on both thumbs from the mowers. I wouldn't say I am naturally the burliest of men, but I've only been in the cities for 9 months! I have gotten so soft! To make matters worse, I received a text after seeing my sissy hands asking me to do some babysitting! I guess when it rains, it pours. I'm dishing out cards left and right. (Anyone who knows me knows I'm not going to turn down a chance to make a quick 20 bucks!)
So here we sit at three man cards. How can I earn a couple back?! Who on T.V. is the most manliest? I'm in a huge slump, and need to get out sooner than later! Survivorman is pretty manly. Yeah, that's an understatement. He's a savage beast! Watch out bub. LW and EG are about to get our survivorman on!
The timing of this slump is a blessing in disguise because my best bud, Gilby, and I had intended on going on a canoe trip for a couple days and rough it all. We intend to sleep on sand bars and cook over a camp fire. (like real burly men). Gilby's ability to grow a red beard says enough about his manhood, so he's not trying replace and cards. I wish I could stay the same. I wish I could just be doing some general maintenance, but I'm trying to come out of a debt here. We'll be paddling upstream for a day and a half, then float back downstream and do some serious fishing. This may seem like a serious bromance, but I will call no homo, so everything is cool.
I look forward to hooking you all up with some stories of our adventure and maybe even a good fish story!
Until then,
Stay Wet! This is what's happenin in Wetberg's World!
-Wetberg (+3)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Steak Night (Wish I had a Date Night)
As I eluded in my previous post, there was more to my Saturday than what you all got the privilege of reading about. It was truly a day of being a man and doing some things that guys do.
"Doing what guys do" is a phrase that only a select few guys in River Falls is familiar with. It came to be a popular phrase when my entire lunch table was invited to a birthday party by a member of the JV basketball team well in advance of it actually happening. Some of you may be thinking three weeks or a month. You're wrong. We were invited over six months in advance. The party was to be epic. When I asked what we'd be doing at this "party" the response was similar to, "Oh man, We're just gonna do what guys do. Ya know? We're gonna throw some meat on the grill and toss the ol' pigskin around!" The Birthday Boy to be (in over 6 months) was excited beyond words.
Unfortunately, I was unable to attend this party despite the advanced notice. In fact, I think everyone was unable to attend. My reason was legit though. Northwestern College was dragging me around on tours and talks like a collared dog for Orientation week. Would've I loved to be "throwin' some meat on the grill and tossin' the ol' pigskin around? Absolutely! Who wouldn't? But no, I was getting told that I would be experiencing many changes during the upcoming year. (No, this was not the puberty talk I received last year....oops! I mean when the time came that both my parents and I had to experience the awkwardness of that conversation.) The point is, I missed out on a golden opportunity to be a man.
This didn't sit well with me in the fall, as it shouldn't with any decent person who has the stones to call himself a man. (Walt is working on it and making great strides! Gold star bud!) How was I about to fix this? Well, being the innovator I am, I thought to myself, "Why not fix two issues in one night?" What is the second issue you may ask?
I have been known to be unreasonably stingy when dealing with my money. (So why did I end up dedicating my life to paying off debt by coming to a private school to pursue an education degree? Good Question. I'm going to credit my man G-O-D with that one.) Anyways, within a couple weeks of school my roommates and close friends could smell the stench of frugality coming from my every statement and action..."Half Price Appetizers? That's half price too much for this guy."
These actions that brought/bring me so much satisfaction, brought my close friends the opposite emotion. They were bound and determined to get me to "go big" before the end of the school year. I agreed through clenched teeth and put it off as long as I could. What I agreed to was to play a round of Golf in the afternoon (like real men) and to follow that with a fine steak dinner. Through a fair amount of compromising, I negotiated a deal where we could play 9 holes of golf at a city course that only set me back $10. The real killer was the steak dinner half though. Instead of going to a classy establishment such as Outback Steakhouse, we agreed to buy the finest steaks and grill them ourselves (like real men).
And it was done. The day came, and we were about to make it happen! It was a windy day on the golf course, so our scores didn't reflect our greatest scores. However, my partner in crime through this all (Geezy/GZ) said the dumbest thing in our previous outing that I had to rekindle multiple times. He said, "Eh, the wind doesn't really affect my shot."
Are you stroking me?! Unless you hit nothing but worm-burners, the ball is BOUND to be influenced by a brisk wind! Does he have some expensive ball that is immune to wind? If so, that's cool, but I have no interest of buying one due to my severe condition of stinginess. I always look for the balls that cost me nothing. (That's what she said.) But seriously, I have no shame in adding a ball to my stash that was recently hit blindly over a hill, where the poor golfer who hit it has no idea where it landed...hmm...gopher must've eaten it!
Anyways, after our golfing excursion, it was off to the local grocer to purchase the supplies for our big night. We agreed that the menu would consist of steak, potatoes, and dessert. There is no room on a man's plate for vegetables or anything resembling the color green. We also were planning on washing this all down with the finest O'Doules (fake beer). I thought non-alcoholic beer would be legit for our dry campus, but the half of a percent of alcohol wasn't about to fly at NWC, so we settled for a drink that is more encouraged by our faith-based community: grape juice.
Upon entering the store, I was experiencing some minor shaking and butterflies in my stomach as I knew this would be the biggest grocery bill I'd run up during the year. After quickly finding our potatoes, it was selection time. Which cut of steak was right for the night? Geezy naturally went with the most expensive he could find. A 17 oz Rib-eye (approx $12). I may consider this for the day I propose to my future wife, but not for steak night. I decided to treat myself to the finest 18 oz. round steak (the worst/cheapest money can buy). This set me back a whopping $3.56. I'm glad I saved all my loose change in a cup during the year. The steak dinner fund was a classic example of saving every penny and then kissing it goodbye for a short pleasure and lifetime of memories. Some people have found different ways to learn this lesson, but to each his own: I just "went big"!
We concluded our trip by buying our favorite kind of ice cream, Cookies and Cream as well as some cake and Hershey's shell topping. Yes, I did have every intention of finishing my freshman 15 in one night. Mission accomplished. I left the store with a bill that was closing in on $10. I felt my eyes swelling and throat closing, but managed to make the swipe and get on with the glorious night we had been waiting for like a below average looking, insecure teen girl waiting to be asked to the prom. (I think you get the picture)
Geezy strapped on his flipper in one hand and blackberry in the other as he grilled our steaks like he had done it a million times. Quick note: He was an amateur, as was I. Probably the most embarrassing moment of it all was that neither of us knew how to light a lighter to get these steaks cooking. We had to call on the closest high school freshman to do the honors.
Once everything was fixed up, we enjoyed each other's company as we sat directly across from each other(No homo), gazed into each other's eyes(no homo), and talked about how glad we were that we could make it all happen(NH). DJ Walter was spitting the finest classical music that youtube had to offer. It was certainly a night to remember, a night which my vice-grip on my wallet loosened, so I could invest in a steak with the consistency of a middle aged tree. No ranch or BBQ sauce could help me endure the five minutes i spent chewing each and every bite.
The night was a tremendous experience (No homo), and we agreed to make this an annual event(No homo). It was great to practice up with the hopes of one day sharing a night like that with a very special person of the opposite gender. So until that day, it will be called, "Steak Night" (Wish I had a Date Night).
So to all the young men who read this blog: don't be afraid to share a special night with a bro(no homo). You can call it a "bromance", "man-date", or even "guy love". (See following Scrubs clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Pamgat1Wro )(No homo.)
Just one quick disclaimer: You can never call "No Homo" too many times. No homo.
Until next time my friends, Stay wet!
God Bless,
-Wetberg
"Doing what guys do" is a phrase that only a select few guys in River Falls is familiar with. It came to be a popular phrase when my entire lunch table was invited to a birthday party by a member of the JV basketball team well in advance of it actually happening. Some of you may be thinking three weeks or a month. You're wrong. We were invited over six months in advance. The party was to be epic. When I asked what we'd be doing at this "party" the response was similar to, "Oh man, We're just gonna do what guys do. Ya know? We're gonna throw some meat on the grill and toss the ol' pigskin around!" The Birthday Boy to be (in over 6 months) was excited beyond words.
Unfortunately, I was unable to attend this party despite the advanced notice. In fact, I think everyone was unable to attend. My reason was legit though. Northwestern College was dragging me around on tours and talks like a collared dog for Orientation week. Would've I loved to be "throwin' some meat on the grill and tossin' the ol' pigskin around? Absolutely! Who wouldn't? But no, I was getting told that I would be experiencing many changes during the upcoming year. (No, this was not the puberty talk I received last year....oops! I mean when the time came that both my parents and I had to experience the awkwardness of that conversation.) The point is, I missed out on a golden opportunity to be a man.
This didn't sit well with me in the fall, as it shouldn't with any decent person who has the stones to call himself a man. (Walt is working on it and making great strides! Gold star bud!) How was I about to fix this? Well, being the innovator I am, I thought to myself, "Why not fix two issues in one night?" What is the second issue you may ask?
I have been known to be unreasonably stingy when dealing with my money. (So why did I end up dedicating my life to paying off debt by coming to a private school to pursue an education degree? Good Question. I'm going to credit my man G-O-D with that one.) Anyways, within a couple weeks of school my roommates and close friends could smell the stench of frugality coming from my every statement and action..."Half Price Appetizers? That's half price too much for this guy."
These actions that brought/bring me so much satisfaction, brought my close friends the opposite emotion. They were bound and determined to get me to "go big" before the end of the school year. I agreed through clenched teeth and put it off as long as I could. What I agreed to was to play a round of Golf in the afternoon (like real men) and to follow that with a fine steak dinner. Through a fair amount of compromising, I negotiated a deal where we could play 9 holes of golf at a city course that only set me back $10. The real killer was the steak dinner half though. Instead of going to a classy establishment such as Outback Steakhouse, we agreed to buy the finest steaks and grill them ourselves (like real men).
And it was done. The day came, and we were about to make it happen! It was a windy day on the golf course, so our scores didn't reflect our greatest scores. However, my partner in crime through this all (Geezy/GZ) said the dumbest thing in our previous outing that I had to rekindle multiple times. He said, "Eh, the wind doesn't really affect my shot."
Are you stroking me?! Unless you hit nothing but worm-burners, the ball is BOUND to be influenced by a brisk wind! Does he have some expensive ball that is immune to wind? If so, that's cool, but I have no interest of buying one due to my severe condition of stinginess. I always look for the balls that cost me nothing. (That's what she said.) But seriously, I have no shame in adding a ball to my stash that was recently hit blindly over a hill, where the poor golfer who hit it has no idea where it landed...hmm...gopher must've eaten it!
Anyways, after our golfing excursion, it was off to the local grocer to purchase the supplies for our big night. We agreed that the menu would consist of steak, potatoes, and dessert. There is no room on a man's plate for vegetables or anything resembling the color green. We also were planning on washing this all down with the finest O'Doules (fake beer). I thought non-alcoholic beer would be legit for our dry campus, but the half of a percent of alcohol wasn't about to fly at NWC, so we settled for a drink that is more encouraged by our faith-based community: grape juice.
Upon entering the store, I was experiencing some minor shaking and butterflies in my stomach as I knew this would be the biggest grocery bill I'd run up during the year. After quickly finding our potatoes, it was selection time. Which cut of steak was right for the night? Geezy naturally went with the most expensive he could find. A 17 oz Rib-eye (approx $12). I may consider this for the day I propose to my future wife, but not for steak night. I decided to treat myself to the finest 18 oz. round steak (the worst/cheapest money can buy). This set me back a whopping $3.56. I'm glad I saved all my loose change in a cup during the year. The steak dinner fund was a classic example of saving every penny and then kissing it goodbye for a short pleasure and lifetime of memories. Some people have found different ways to learn this lesson, but to each his own: I just "went big"!
We concluded our trip by buying our favorite kind of ice cream, Cookies and Cream as well as some cake and Hershey's shell topping. Yes, I did have every intention of finishing my freshman 15 in one night. Mission accomplished. I left the store with a bill that was closing in on $10. I felt my eyes swelling and throat closing, but managed to make the swipe and get on with the glorious night we had been waiting for like a below average looking, insecure teen girl waiting to be asked to the prom. (I think you get the picture)
Geezy strapped on his flipper in one hand and blackberry in the other as he grilled our steaks like he had done it a million times. Quick note: He was an amateur, as was I. Probably the most embarrassing moment of it all was that neither of us knew how to light a lighter to get these steaks cooking. We had to call on the closest high school freshman to do the honors.
Once everything was fixed up, we enjoyed each other's company as we sat directly across from each other(No homo), gazed into each other's eyes(no homo), and talked about how glad we were that we could make it all happen(NH). DJ Walter was spitting the finest classical music that youtube had to offer. It was certainly a night to remember, a night which my vice-grip on my wallet loosened, so I could invest in a steak with the consistency of a middle aged tree. No ranch or BBQ sauce could help me endure the five minutes i spent chewing each and every bite.
The night was a tremendous experience (No homo), and we agreed to make this an annual event(No homo). It was great to practice up with the hopes of one day sharing a night like that with a very special person of the opposite gender. So until that day, it will be called, "Steak Night" (Wish I had a Date Night).
So to all the young men who read this blog: don't be afraid to share a special night with a bro(no homo). You can call it a "bromance", "man-date", or even "guy love". (See following Scrubs clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Pamgat1Wro )(No homo.)
Just one quick disclaimer: You can never call "No Homo" too many times. No homo.
Until next time my friends, Stay wet!
God Bless,
-Wetberg
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