Tipped a canoe and rafting, too

Why, hello there. I don't know where to start. This is almost awkward. Feels like we went on a date three weeks ago and I'm just now getting around to calling.

So what's my excuse? I dunno, post-Blogust fatigue syndrome, maybe? Also, if work gets any more "fun" I'm pretty sure it will be in direct violation of the Geneva Convention. If it makes you feel any better, I've completely let my fantasy baseball team go, too.

But enough of that. If you're still here then I am going to assume there is hope for us. And so, I want to try and catch up on a couple of things I have taken part in over the past few weeks. Today I will recap my whitewater rafting trip on the Ocoee over Labor Day weekend.

This was my first time. And boy, it was quite a whirlwind. Took us about five hours, which was about an hour longer than it was supposed to take. And I remember at least seven or eight times I was pretty sure we were going in the wrong direction. I seriously began to wonder if we were going to make it.

And that was just the drive up.

Rafting itself was fun, if a bit of hard work. Our guide was quite demanding. I should have known something wasn't exactly right when we were getting in our raft and I saw the words "Hell's Dinghy" painted on the side.

Throughout the trip I kept noticing passengers in the other rafts (which, by the way, were passing us as our guide kept getting us stuck on rocks) didn't seem to be paddling half as much as we were. Others noticed it, too. I think I can best describe it as the Grizzly River Rampage meets hard labor camp. So you know, you get wet but you work for it.

Also as fate would have it, I wound up in the front of the raft, which according to our "guide" (so take this with a grain of salt) meant I was integral to helping steer the craft. All the paddlers on my side of the raft were supposed to pace themselves off of me.

Umm, is now the time to mention I tipped a canoe earlier this summer?


(That's me in the helmet. That's me in the front-right, losing my religion...)

Our guide kept making fun of himself and at first I thought it was an attempt at self-deprecating humor. But in the end, I think he was just being honest. He wasn't very good. Then again, he got us to the end, no one fell out, and we all survived, which with me up front was probably no small accomplishment.

I was surprised at just how many rafts and rafting companies were running the river. In my mind, I had pictured it a bit more isolated, where maybe you pass another raft every four or five minutes. But it's nothing like that. There was a line of rafts waiting to enter the river, one right after another, and you were never out of sight of at least three other rafts. It was more like an amusement park, which I think could lure people into a false sense of safety.

In closing, any recapitulation of this trip would be unjust and incomplete without me mentioning the "changing room incident." We got back to the outpost (fancy word for rafting company headquarters) and one of the guides said there were rooms in the back where we could change.

So I went back to the car, got some dry clothes and went into the so-called changing room. I guess I was expecting it to be like Old Navy. You know, several tiny rooms, each with a door, a mirror, and a little bench. Unfortunately, it was not like that at all. There was just this big open room with three shower stalls. No other walls. No partitions. Nothing. I mean, I would have been better off changing behind a tree.

Well, I turned my back to the rest of the guys. There were only three or four of us in there at the time and I figured facing the wall was the best place to start. You know, it wouldn't have been so bad if I had been wearing underwear. I'm completely comfortable walking around in my underwear. But I was only wearing swim trunks, which have the sort of built-in underwear.

Anyway, for some unbeknownst reason, I decided to take a quick glance around. I dunno, I think maybe I was gonna check to see if the showers had curtains and I could change in there. Well that was quite possibly the biggest mistake of my life.

This is why I could never be in prison. Or a porn star. I just can't do communal showers.

Anyway, other than the awkward changing room incident and the possible long-term effects thereof, the Ocoee trip was miles of fun. Literally. It was five miles of rafting. I'm thankful I got to experience whitewater rafting at its most commercial. And also thankful I didn't read this list of rafting accidents and fatalities in the state of Tennessee before the trip. Else I may never have gone.

"Oh life is bigger. It's bigger than you, and you are not me. The lengths that I will go to. The distance in your eyes..."

Destin 2010

"I get ten vacation days a year, and I try to hold off from taking them as long as possible. This year I got to the third week in January." ~ Pam Beasley, The Office.

It's time now for a special Wednesday edition of Thursdays with Bone. Don't think of it as six days late. Think of it as a day early. Work was a malicious, spiteful, complaining woman last week. So even though I've only been back from the beach for ten days, I'm already in need of another vacation.

Day one at the beach included quite a scare for our hero. I was in the ocean when I heard some people yelling. I turned to see they were all looking my way and appeared to be very interested in something swimming in the water. Well, I swear it sounded like they were saying "Shark!" So naturally, I started splashing towards the shore like a frightened little girl.

Then I heard someone yelling "No!" When I looked, they appeared to be motioning for me to stay still. I'm sorry, but if there's a shark in the water, I'm getting out of the water. I might not be able to outrun it but it sure won't be for lack of trying. Finally, I glanced over in the direction they'd been looking and saw a school of stingrays passing just a few yards from where I was standing. Fine, so it wasn't a shark. I'm still getting out of the water.

I did, however, manage to redeem myself -- at least in my own mind -- a bit later when I rescued a girl's sunglasses from the surf. Despite her repeated assurances of "don't worry about it, they were only like ten dollars" I donned my goggles and dove into the water time and again, fearlessly. (The stingrays were long gone by this time.)

I should probably mention here that I have to hold my nose when I'm underwater. That really detracts from the whole Aquaman superhero image. Nevertheless, at long last I emerged, hoisting the glasses -- once thought lost forever -- into the air and returning them to their rightful owner. Another damsel in (slight) distress left... un...distressed.

In addition to visiting all my favorite places -- as listed in the post below -- we tried a new restaurant for dinner one night, an Italian joint called Graffiti. Your classic hole-in-the-wall, it didn't look like much from the outside. I may have even been a little afraid. (Despite what you might think, I don't have that much street cred. I'm more of a internet-message-board cred kind of guy.)

But it turned out to be a really neat place. The walls were covered with all this funky art, and every piece was for sale. The food turned out to be phenomenal. Having had my fill of seafood the previous two nights, I ordered the Greek pizza. And I tell you this, I nearly wept it was so good. It was like a full-body massage for the palate.

Finally, no recap of this Destin trip would be complete without mentioning the odd individual we came across while playing putt-putt one evening. Let's call him Master Putter.

He was a couple of groups ahead of us. Things kept getting backed up and we were having to wait a couple of minutes to start every hole. That's when I began to notice Master Putter.

He'd brought his own putter to the course, as well as his own golf ball. And he had a golf glove hanging out of his pocket. As if that wasn't enough, he was taking exactly four practice strokes before every. single. shot. Also, he was kneeling down attempting to read the green before every putt.

So even though it's taking forever to play, I'm thinking this guy must be really good, right?

Oh no.

We get to a place where the course sort of doubles back and I can see him putting. He hits an excellent first putt, leaving himself about 18 inches for a 2. He blows that about four feet by, misses the come-backer and ends up taking a 4.

Then I overhear him saying to one of his buddies (he was in a threesome... with two other guys, just in case I needed to clarify that), "Man, par would be a really good score on this course."

Par was 54. I shot a 45. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about the course's difficulty or lack thereof. Apparently, super putting was not one of Master P's super powers. Maybe he is invulnerable to women?

He was both hilarious and incredibly annoying at the same time. Then again, the same has probably been said about me a time or two.

On a much more serious note, the Destin beaches were in their usual pristine condition. Although with British Petroleum's continuing devastation of the ecosystem, who knows how long that will be the case. I realize the beaches are just one small part of the damage that is being done. Anytime they show oil-covered animals being pulled from the water, I can't even bear to watch.

But I love the beach. To think that it might not be there next year saddens me more than I am able to say.

"Are we losing the human race? Do we ever really learn from our mistakes? Who's ahead? Who's behind? Will there be a finish line?"

Feeding the fever

This week's Thursdays With Bone has been moved to Friday. Also, due to the fact that I'm currently at the beach, it is a repost. I know, we're already into reruns after one week?

Anyway, this is a post about a place I love. And it's where I'll be until Sunday. Hopefully, BP won't be destroying it anytime soon.

From 2007, here's a little number I like to call "The Fever."

On US Highway 98, just east of Destin, between Miramar and Santa Rosa, sits a little cafe called The Donut Hole. It's become tradition that on the day we leave the beach, we stop there for breakfast.I recommend the southwestern omelet. And the doughnuts, of course. I always get a box of doughnuts for the road. The food is great. The service sometimes lacking because it's so busy. But I've never been when there wasn't a line of people out the door and down the side of the building waiting.

I wish I was there.

There's a beachside restaurant called The Back Porch, with big bay windows to let in the ocean breeze, an outside bar, and picnic tables in the sand. I recommend the dreamsicle cake for dessert. And any and all of the seafood. You'll think they must have caught it that morning. And maybe they did.

I wish I was there.

There's an empty spot in the sand, just at the edge of the uprush, perfect for sitting. Where the water might wash over your feet once every five or six waves. Where you can bury your toes in the cool, damp sand, and think about anything and everything. Or nothing at all. And even though it's only a few hundred feet to the highway, it seems a million miles away.

I wish I was there.

I've got beach fever, if you can't tell. The highs have been between 60 and 70 here for seemingly the past week. I've been driving with the sunroof open, even at night. And last night before the storms moved in, it was warm and very windy, and reminded me of the ocean breeze.

So I've been listening to Buffett and thinking about the beach. The sand. The breeze. The waves. Gorgeous American girls working on their tans. All the while, me having no clue as to whether they are 16 or 29.

Last night, I opened the window so I could listen to it rain. Seemed like it rained for twelve hours.

That's another good thing about the beach. Even when it rains, it never seems to last very long.

I wish I was there.

"I got my toes in the water, toes in the sand, not a worry in the world..."

The Queen City

(Yesterday was my 7th bloggiversary. I figured I couldn't truly claim to have made it the full seven years unless I did at least one more post. This is a recap of my trip to Cincinnati a couple of weekends ago.)

I think I was always meant to go to Cincinnati. I was raised to be a Reds fan. Well, I was raised to be a Bama fan and good southern boy first, but Mom also rooted for the Big Red Machine. (For my sports-challenged readers, the Big Red Machine is not some obscure Communist organization. It was the nickname of the Cincinnati Reds teams of the 1970's, who appeared in four World Series in the decade, winning two.) Once the Big Red Machine was dismantled, Mom could not have cared less how the Reds fared. So it has been my cross alone to bear, lo, these many years.

The most interesting thing on the drive up Friday evening was the point in the state of Kentucky where there is an adult video store on the right side of I-65 and a billboard with the words "Hell Is Real" on the left side. I made sure to keep it on the straight and narrow through there.

As I neared Ohio, an interesting geographical question began to formulate within my brain: When exactly does the South turn into the North? That was followed by other questions bubbling up, festering. At what latitude do people begin to speak faster and become difficult to understand? Do they serve sweet tea on this side of the Ohio and not on the other side? And just how many Union sympathizers have infiltrated Kentucky in the last century-and-a-half?

We actually stayed on the Kentucky side, in Covington, just to be safe. From the hotel, it was only a short bus ride or mile-and-a-half walk across the Ohio River to the stadium. The walk was either very pleasant or incredibly soggy, depending on the weather.

We wound up attending both the Saturday and Sunday games. The Reds lost the Saturday game, 5-0. On Sunday, the outlook was as dreary as the drizzly Ohio sky, as the home team fell behind 4-2. But a late-inning comeback produced a thrilling 5-4 victory. My fantasy team closer got the save. My fantasy team catcher had the game-winning RBI in the bottom of the 8th inning. And the guy my fantasy team is named after hit a homer. I was glad we had decided to go back.

One of the highlights of most any trip is the food. At the ballpark, we sampled a Skyline chili cheese coney and something called a Walking 3-Way, which is not nearly as difficult as it sounds.

Saturday night, we went to Fountain Square, which is a simply gorgeous area downtown. I found out later -- by Wikipedia'ing, of course -- that the fountain can be seen in the opening credits of WKRP In Cincinnati. After reading that, I think it's fairly obvious that fate had led us there.

We had dinner outside at the Rock Bottom Brewery. There's just something about eating outdoors at little cafes and restaurants that I absolutely love. It reminds me of being in Europe, which is quite odd when you consider that I have never been to Europe.

Our last meal actually came at the suggestion of the desk clerk at the hotel. As we were checking out on Monday, she commented that she liked my shirt. I was wearing my "This Is How I Roll" Bama shirt. Turns out she was a Bama fan, so naturally we struck up a conversation. She knew her stuff, too! Refusing to call Auburn by name, she referred to it instead as "that school on the other side of the state." Talk about feeling at home.

Anyway, she recommended a place across the street called Riverfront Pizza for lunch. I tried their ranch pizza, which was pretty good. But the best part was that they had sweet tea! That's when I knew that the Yanks hadn't completely taken over Kentucky.

After I got home, I was telling Mom about going to the Reds Hall Of Fame following the game on Sunday.

"Did you see Johnny Bench or Pete Rose?"
"No, they weren't there."
"What about Morgan?" (That's apparently what my Mom calls Joe Morgan, which I wasn't aware of until that moment.)
"No. He wasn't there either."
But I was glad that she remembered them.

Overall, I loved Cincinnati. There are certain places that feel like home when I visit. They bring a sense of being completely comfortable and content. The beach is always like that. Nashville is like that sometimes. And walking into Great American Ballpark for the first time, there was a similar feeling. Seeing thousands of fellow Reds fans I thought, "Ah, these are my people."

Three or four different times random people on the street made comments about the Reds to me. Even though it's been thirty years since the Big Red Machine and twenty years since their last World Series title, it's still a baseball town.

"I walked half way from Louisville. Now there she lies at the foot of the hill. Shinin' like a jewel in the valley below, Cincinnati, Ohio. Cincinnati, where the river winds, 'cross the Mason and the Dixon line..."

April showers bring... something from the Bone-chives

I'm off to Cincinnati, where there is a 70-90% chance of rain all weekend. Hopefully, they'll be able to fit a baseball game in there somewhere. Even if there's a four-hour rain delay, the game doesn't end until midnight and there are only like fifty fans left in the stands, I'll be one of them. And there's a 100% chance of that.

This would have been a perfect opportunity for stop number two on the Blog Reality Tour. Unfortunately, I don't believe I link to any bloggers in Ohio. There used to be one in Kentucky, and maybe a couple in Tennessee, but I guess they've all found other ways to occupy their time.

I shall return on Monday. That is, unless a Reds scout notices my surprising athletic ability and the agility of someone fifteen years younger as I scamper to chase a foul ball, and they decide to hire me on the spot as a full-time ball boy. Or, ball man, whichever. Until then, and in honor of Earth Day, I am recycling a post.

It's poetry month over at Cooper's. (OK, so as I google it now, evidently it's National Poetry Month. Who knew!) So I figured I'd do a poem for one of my three posts this month.

I would never claim to write actual and decent poetry. I'm way too literal, and always end up feeling like somewhere the words have to eventually rhyme. I'm more of a lyrics guy. Lyrics without music, that's me. I think I would have collaborated well with Bobby McFerrin.

Now that I have hopefully lowered your expectations to a sufficient level, here is an attempt at poetry, originally posted in 2007:


Perfume hint caught
Memory sparked
That year I was in love

Eager heart leapt
Lesson relearned
Forever is but a word

Freely falling fast
Feeling remembered
And missed

Past replaces present
Eyes now tightly closed
Smile grazes lips

Midnight phone calls
Sultry afternoons
Slinky black dress

Past recedes to past
I'll always believe
I loved you best

"Ain't no sun. Ain't no blue sky. The wind blows cold now that you've gone away. And tomorrow, just like today, there's a hundred percent chance of rain..."

Sugar Bowl and bust

If you ain't been there
Then you ain't been nowhere
The livin's lazy and the lovin's fine...


(Bourbon Street, from my phone, circa 2009)

My first trip to New Orleans was eight or nine years ago. A few of us stayed in Mobile and made a day trip over to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras. Bought some beads, had some cajun food, but never saw any... how shall I put this? Let's just say it would be akin to visiting the Louvre and not seeing the Mona Lisa.

This weekend marked my second trip to the Crescent City. Friday morning, the Darryls and I headed out for the Sugar Bowl. Wolfgang had volunteered to drive. But instead of his truck, he drove his old car which I hadn't seen in three years and didn't even know he still had. Evidently, his thinking was that it would be better on gas. So off we went in a faded red Mitsubishi Mirage with one windshield wiper. Fortunately, it only rained about half the trip.

We stopped in Mississippi for lunch and when we got back in the car, the check engine light was on. Wolfgang said it probably just needed water. Apparently, he knew there was a leak but hadn't bothered to mention that until now, three hours into our trip. At that point I was thinking, just let us make it to the game and we can rent a car to get back home.

We did make it to New Orleans around 3:30. By the time we found our hotel and got checked in, it was nearly time to start walking to the game. This was the first bowl game I have ever attended. And even though we wound up losing, I'm glad I went. The Superdome is massive, or maybe it just seemed so because I was up so high. And crowd-wise, it was almost like a Bama home game.

There was a lady behind us who had obviously imbibed several of the adult beverages that the Superdome had to offer. She kept imploring me to turn my hat around to make a rally cap, which I never did. Later on, after a particularly bad play, she grabbed me and said, "It's your fault. You're the reason for the season!" To which I replied, "I'm Jesus?" I don't think she got it.

After the game, we walked down Bourbon Street. It was crazy crowded. We found a place to eat--though I can't recall the name--and got seated on the balcony overlooking Bourbon. Spent the rest of my evening there, where I enjoyed a cup of gumbo and also, at long last, caught a glimpse of the Mona Lisa.

Saturday, we had lunch at Bubba Gump's on Decatur and then souvenir shopped for a bit. It started raining Saturday evening, so I was glad that I had packed the umbrella which my mother inexplicably gave me for Christmas. Though I don't know why she got it. I never carry an umbrella. I find them a little effeminate. Nevertheless, I figured since I ooze manliness in all other areas of my life, I could stand to show a softer, more sensitive side just this once.

We walked over to see the resplendent Saint Louis Cathedral, then had supper at The Gumbo Shop on St. Peter. I had a combination plate with jambalaya and red beans and rice, and a slice of pecan pie for dessert.

The downpour kept the streets nearly empty, and we spent the rest of the night indoors listening to live music. To be sitting in Louisiana listening to a band play Sweet Home Alabama, and hear about fifteen people yell "Roll, Tide, Roll!" when they got to the chorus, that was pretty cool.

We also enjoyed the dueling pianos at Pat O'Briens for a bit. The pianists were singing popular songs like Sweet Caroline and Vogue. But they were playing them at a hyped-up tempo. It sounded a whole lot like the Will Ferrell/Ana Gasteyer skit on SNL where they are the music teachers at Altadina Middle School. It was humorous, and fun.

We left Sunday morning, stopping to fill up with gas. And water. We decided to stop and have lupper at the famed Dreamland in Tuscaloosa. Despite all the Bama games I've been to, this was my first time eating at Dreamland.

As we got out to go inside, the car was smoking. And not in a "Man, that Audrina is smoking!" kind of way. Smoke was wafting out from underneath the hood. By this point, is anyone really surprised by this? Wolfgang opened the hood and discovered the problem. Apparently, Mister Goodwrench had forgotten to put the radiator cap back on when he added water that morning. The ribs were delicious, by the way.

By some miracle, we made it home. There's more, but I have a feeling New Orleans could take a lesson from its friends in Las Vegas. You know, sort of a "What happens in N'awlins stays in N'awlins" kind of thing.

It's impossible to go to New Orleans, or even think about it, without thinking of Katrina. As far as I could tell, the French Quarter showed little to no signs that Katrina had ever happened. There had been two murders in the 9th Ward on New Year's Day, so we opted not to drive through there. But going down I-10, nearly all the houses and apartments visible from the road still looked abandoned and as if they hadn't been repaired at all. Each a reminder of the catastrophe.

I guess I'll always be sad for New Orleans. But I'll always pull for it, too. New Orleans is a wonderful city with a way of making you feel at ease and right at home. I look forward to visiting again, because I learned something about myself this weekend. I really love art!

"Pour me something tall and strong. Make it a Hurricane before I go insane..."