Take Me Home, Country Roads

As most of you have surely noticed I’ve haven’t been able to keep you apprised of my comings and goings for the last month. I apologize for this for this lack of communication, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me when you hear my explanation. With the start of the baseball season, I’ve been privy to witnessing quite a few Cub victories. Now, I don’t have a problem with a Cub win in and of itself. The problem arises when the final out is recorded and the entire stadium breaks into a celebratory rendition of this song. I defy you to listen to all three minutes of this tune and not have it stuck in your head for the rest of the day. When it is on a constant loop in your head for the afternoon, just be thankful that you’re not me. I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head since the season began. It’s really disturbing my study, sleep, and most importantly blogging habits. So if you have any suggestions as to how I can get this song out of my head, I’d love to hear it.

In the month since I’ve last been in contact, I’ve continued my search for a new hobby to filly my days in my new home. Unfortunately this quest hit yet another snag. I’d hoped that the new hobby would be something somewhat active, but such pursuits were compromised when Lori came down with a debilitating injury. I came home from work one night to find Lori in bed, rocking out to a re-run of an Usher performance on Saturday Night Live. Apparently she had failed to stretch prior to getting into bed, for she pulled a hamstring in the convulsive fits that pass for bed-dancing (Unfortunately this is an odd term that we must use a lot in our household. On another occasion I came home to find her once again dancing under the covers of the bed. This wouldn’t have been so bad had our new laptop not been balanced precariously on her stomach, the cheap speakers statically blaring a 30 year old Queen video that she found on Youtube).

So with an active hobby out of the question for the time being, I sought out some pursuits that were more sedentary in nature. I decided that I might try my hand at being a big buck hunter. I first became interested in this sport when helping a friend train for an up-coming tournament he was going to be participating in. By agreeing to give up a Sunday afternoon of reading about the fatal flaws of the Schlieffen plan for a trip to a bar in Wriggleyville, my friend provided unlimited wings and 22 oz Miller Lite drafts. Needless to say I was hooked on this brand of hunting immediately. However, the game quickly became more than just a Sunday Funday excuse to indulge my gluttonous nature. I found that I enjoyed picking off vast quantities of large game while tightly gripping the orange toy rifle with hot sauce-stained hands. The tournament the following week proved to be equally entertaining. Having received a predilection for big buck hunting too late to enter, I had to make the tournament interesting by running numbers amongst the spectators (Ok…so it was really just me and one other guy gambling. But our prop bets were fun nonetheless. For example, we did an over/under on the number of expletives hurled by the guy who was taking things way too seriously. We also had a bet concerning what brand of dip the winner would be packing. The finals came down to a Kodiak man shooting against a Skoal user with the Bear taking the title).

This affinity for Big Buck Hunter coincided with another new hobby, a desire to enter the world of competitive mustache growing. As a graduate college student who dropped out of the work force, I’ve rediscovered the joys of wearing my facial hair any way I want, regardless of society’s or my principal’s mores. However, while preparing to shave my beard down to my favorite go-to ‘stache, the thick handle bar, I came to a profound realization. When in New York, my mustache drew rave reviews partly because it was awesome and partly because it was ironic. However, while here in the Midwest, it would still be awesome yet it would cease to be ironic. I’d be just another hill-billy with a great mustache.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, with razor in hand, I suddenly had a disturbing mental image: There I was, back at the Big Buck Hunter tournament, mowing down unsuspecting wildlife, with a striking mustache and a huge wad of dip packed tightly in my lip. Was this to be my future? After all, hadn’t I just slipped up and ordered “pop” the other day at a restaurant? Didn't I tell Lori I was going to the deli to pick up "lunch meat"? It’s only been nine months! Could I be losing my East Coast roots already? This was indeed a troubling revelation. I needed something to chase this image from my head. I dropped the razor and turned to the only thing I knew that could rid me of these painful thoughts.