Pumpkins For The Soul

If you have read the previous couple of posts then you know it is the second day of our North Georgia adventure and I was on a quest to find the most sincere pumpkin patch in the land to prove to the Great Pumpkin that….actually I just wanted cheap pumpkins. So from memories of years past I knew of a pumpkin patch in Dawesonville that was the premier patch of the state. It is also the buckle of the bible belt and that is where we went.

Well, we found it without too much of a to-do and it had not changed a bit in ten years. Burt’s Pumpkin Patch has turned into quite a tourist attraction but it hasn’t lost it’s moral ground. Right when we pulled in there was a huge sign that stated, “No Profanity Of Any Kind Will Be Tolerated.” Well fuck!

That was just the beginning of the signed rules and regulations you needed to follow to not be tossed out on your gourd. Here are just a few and I swear I am not making any of these up.

No swearing, no sitting on the pumpkins, no standing on the pumpkins, no riding in the wheelbarrows, no pushing the wheelbarrows unless you are over 15, no jumping on the pumpkins, you break it you buy it, no horse play, no handling of food, no picking pumpkins up by the stems, no audible music, only walking in the shop and a few others that have escaped me. Oh yeah, I forgot the bible verse above the check out table; “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” That should keep people from shoplifting apple butter.

I have to admit that this gets me in the Halloween mood. Even if it is 87 degrees and 60% humidity out, I can feel that All Souls Day is on it’s way. I guess that getting pumpkins from a pumpkin patch is better because I have never see green or white pumpkins at Kroger or Albertson’s. The variety was beyond what thought it would be. You had organic ones, genetically altered huge ones, tiny ones, oblong ones, and ever squarish ones. If you walk away from Burt’s without a pumpkin because you were dissatisfied with the selection than you should just make your own. Not grow your own, make your own, because your are basically calling mother nature a no talent bitch.

Here are a few of the $65 and up pumpkins that could house a family of cats. For some reason these pumpkins never appealed to me. I am more of traditional kind of guy and I feel that Farmer Burt had messed with nature a little too much because in the 80’s I never remember being eye level to them.

Burt’s Pumpkin Farm also had an indoor store filled with really cute country items to decorate for the Halloween season. I did feel like I had to tiptoe around because every five feet there was a blunt sign that read, “You Break, You Buy.” I think it would be hard to break one rule without breaking another because if I did drop something it would be followed by me yelling, “Goddamn motherfuckin’ asshole dick-licking suck bitch.”

Well, soon we picked our pumpkins and loaded our barrel with other goodies. I don’t have a front yard so the yard ornaments where just eye candy but the hanging ones where bought. As you can see there is another sign telling us to keep our hand in our pockets but Tara knows I have plastic. I have to admit after an hour I was ready to head on because of the over dominating Bible beating presence. I’m not anti-church but leave Halloween out of it. I think I may feel different if we were there for a Christmas tree.

Well, Burt’s has a great patch and the is little doubt about it. Do I think it is the most sincere patch that will draw the Great Pumpkin, I don’t think so. I feel that the over whelming watchful eye is too much to really enjoy yourself. I give Burt’s Pumpkin Farm 3 out of 5…I don’t know…pumpkins?

October 11, 2007 7

Beer, Polka and Pumpkins Part 2

So there we were following a trail of slow movers (elderly) down the sidewalk to the festival center. I should have known this may be a little above our age because there was a giant bingo sign above the entrance. Never the less, there was live accordions playing, dogs on the grill and I was sure kegs of beer inside. I’m kind of like a shark when it comes to beer. If sharks can smell a drop of blood per a million gallons of water than I can smell a drop of beer per one hundred people dowsed in Ben Gay. I know I am ripping on old people but hang in there. They actually rescue me at the end of this story.

Now that I am almost thirty I really feel that I should take full advantage of these festivals. Who cares about being reserve or what others think? When we walked into the festival I saw a sea of people all sporting German clothing, dancing, singing along and just having a good time. Damn it, I’m getting a hat! So that is what I did. I let my my guard down, bought us food, beer, a program, an awesome hat and introduced myself to the strangers sitting next to us. Of course they were as nice as they could be and just like that we were knee deep in Oktoberfest 2007.

I must admit that the fact our hotel was a mere fifty yards away made it hard to turn down my 7th beer and before I knew it the draw of the Orlando based Polka band was too much. We caught the end of a conga line that led right to stage center where it segwayed into the famous Chicken Dance-off. After that I tried my hand at real dancing and what looked simple really was not. I was 35 years younger than everyone there and I was getting my ass kicked on the dance floor. I returned to our seats a little sheepish but it was ok. When I was dancing like I had my legs on backwards a table full of old ladies from a Illinois charter line was watching and took pity and was able to give me guidance while the drummer of the band took my girlfriend on a real polka dance.

It only took a few lessons to really get the hang of it. I learned the two step, the waltz and the polka in less time than I learned I hate black licorice. It took me a few tries to be sure I really didn’t like it. Anyway, I had a blast learning and when I took the girlfriend back out on the dance floor I really turned it up a notch. Mainly because I was sure I wouldn’t break her hip if I had a polka mishap. I rule!

Well, soon the band was finishing up the encore and a bottle of Maalox was being passed around. I have to admit that hanging with these old ladies was the most fun I have had in a long time. They smoke, drink and cuss just like people I love. Too bad that they live so far away but that is always the bad part of vacations. You meet some of the greatest people in the world and at the end all you have is the memories. Better than nothing I suppose.

Well, soon the Oktoberfest was over and we had a blast to say the least. After saying our goodbyes, meeting the band and getting the to-go beer we made the trek back to the room. But I wasn’t ready to surrender yet. It was only 11pm and there had to be after party somewhere! And then I heard it. Someone was rocking Karaoke STYX and that is all I needed to keep the party going. We went into the bar and found a few barfly’s and a DJ that used to be in a KISS tribute band. He and I rocked a duet to “Rock and Roll All Night And Party Everyday.” Perfect end to a perfect day.

Part three is tomorrow and it is all about a quest for the annual pumpkin. It was strange and unusual but something to never forget.

October 8, 2007 3

Beer, Polka, And Pumpkins

I have to admit that October is my favorite month of the year and there are a few reasons for that. One is the fact that I love the Halloween season. That’s a given if you have read my previous posts. The other reason is flippin’ Oktoberfest! It’s a German celebration and a great reason to eat bratwurst, drink beer and dance to the accordion polka rhythm. I love every bit of it and in Helen, Georgia we hit the German fest with both fists. It was wunderbar!

Up in the North Georgia mountains, Helen is a really cute town that hosts this drunkfest. If you start the beer drinking at 4pm then by 10 you may actually believe you are in Germany. The only thing to ground you back to the reality that you are in North Georgia are the numerous T-shirt/novelty shops every 30 feet. You know, T-shirts with the muscle guy with a dalmatian head flexing in a fire fighter outfit or “one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor ” shirt? Anyway, it was like a redneck Germany.

Oh yeah, you can buy a shit load of swords, lighters, old time personal photos, smashed and imprinted pennies, leather hats and whoopie cushions too. I have only been to Germany twice and it is true that whoopie cushions are a hard item to find. So you have that to keep you grounded as well.

Crap, I almost forgot! If you every need skulls and skeletons posed playing golf, working or Elvis impersonating you can get them in Helen. In hind sight I should have bought some as stocking stuffers just to keep the family guessing my sanity.

The elderly out numbered the younger generations by about 200 to 1. There were numerous tour buses and crown vics from all over the country, mainly from Pennsylvania, Illinois and Arizona for some reason. As you can see from the guy in white Stride-Rites and a proud Members Only jacket we kind of stood out. But never the less we had all come to Helen for the same reason and that is Oktoberfest. Even if I was there for the perfect beer and they were there for, I don’t know, the perfect frozen yogurt?

So after a few hours of shopping and old people watching we checked into the hotel. It’s nice to find a Hampton Inn where Deliverance was filmed. That movie is always in mind when I am in the North Georgia mountains because inbreds and banjos freak me out to no extent. Anyway the hotel was great and the people were so nice it was almost sickening. I’m sure if I requested to trade shoes with them they would do so and include their socks as well.

So after some rest and changed into my KISS ’75 Tour shirt we headed out for a night that I was made for; drinking, eating and being merry. Believe it or not Helen was pretty much a ghost town and the check in desk vaguely mentioned the festivities start at 7pm. So we made are way to the center of town to see where Oktoberfest began and all we could see was a line of old people going into a large covered pavilion. That was it and I a little worried I was going to be let down. But it was cool because a few beers can even make church enjoyable.

I write about our Oktoberfest fun tomorrow when I get the pictures back. So for now I will leave you with the first beer of the night. It’s my motto that all guests should have a beer or cocktail so there you are. Enjoy the brew and stop by tomorrow afternoon to read about Polka and the quest for the ultimate pumpkin from the scary, God fearing mountain patch of Dawsonville, GA.

October 8, 2007 6

Eating Sounds

I don’t know if I am being overly prickish about this but there is one thing that turns my blood cold and that is the sounds people make when eating certain foods. I probably do the same but I am usually preoccupied with not choking or dropping food from mouth to shirt. Either way, like an asshole, I am only annoyed when other people do this. Please don’t judge me for being this way because deep down, I know you feel the same too.

Apples. I personally believe God made the apple the forbidden fruit bacause he could not stand to hear the crunching and sucking sound Adam and Eve would surely make. Satan on the other hand loves that sound because in Hell, apple eating sounds would be blasted from loud speakers 24/7. You can’t find this in the New Testament but the Billy New New Testament, it is there in bold print.

I recently spent a weekend with my Dad and he loves apples. After dinner I watched him eat an apple with such intensity, it was remenisant of Day of the Dead. With every bite I felt the need to shout, “Watch your fingers!” I had to remove myself from the situation and take a walk in the rain.

Cereal Milk. I can’t really explain why this grosses me out but it does. A few years ago I was over at a friend’s house and their kids where at the kitchen table eating cereal. Now I love kids and it takes a lot for me to be cross with them. They could shit in the ball pool at Chuck E. Cheese and I would think it is cute. But watching these kids blow bubbles in their old cereal milk with straws and slurp it up made me vurp. I prayed that these kids could just finish before I slam my face into the macaronni art covered fridge.

Movie Popcorn. I rarely go to the movies but a year ago I had the pleasure of sitting in front of a dude that ate popcorn like a dog eats a 15 piece whad of gum. I swear that every other minute I checking the back of my head for A.B.C. popcorn. I know I could have moved but I also hate making people feel bad because it would have been obvious that I was annoyed. So I sat there, catching half of Flags Of Our Fathers, and I think I took my aggression out on Clint Eastwood because I walked away thinking that the film was average at best.

Commercials. This goes out to advertisement execs. If you really want me to change the channel, air a commercial with people eating loudly. There is a advertisement that gives a first person view of a chick siting in a lake gnawing on a granola bar. Why do we have to suffer through that? There are two things certain about granola bars; they will keep you from shitting for a month and they are hard as plywood. Do they need to drive that point home with inside the skull crunching?

How many licks does it take to get to the inside of a tootsie roll tootsie pop? “That’s not a lick you dick-hole owl!” That’s what I would say if I was that kid.

I know I have been crabby about this subject but I am about to tackle six straight hours on MBA online work and it’s my way of venting before I have to do this. Thanks for hearing me out. I am really not this big of a dick. Unless you chew your ice. Then I may kill you.

September 28, 2007 6

I Got Silver In The Special Olympics

Ok. After about thirty mails wanting me to post this story again, here it is. It’s on my Livejournal but I guess you guys want it on here for easier access. So, this is for you. I am glad you find my bad luck entertaining. Now that I look back, I do too. Remeber, it’s about karma, not making fun of Special Olympians. Enjoy.

If anyone questions karma I encourage them to read this post. Most of my close friends are familiar with this little story but I feel it is important to share with more so I may somehow save them from themselves. First lesson is try not to use the term “retard.” It should be used in verbage for like, “I will retard my comment for later,” Not, “Nice Air Supply shirt, you look like a retard.” The second lesson is to never do an impression, no matter how great in likeness to someone with a disability. I had a really good one. It was a tasteful blend from the movie What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and There’s Something About Mary. The third is to never laugh at those who live with a mental disorder no matter what they do. I had to learn these lessons the hard way and I am about to tell how, so pay attention. This could happen to you.

I spent six years in the infantry and I will tell you it wasn’t the breeding ground of morality and sensitivity. I felt a sensation of invincibility and truly believed that all the parachuting, bar fights, helicopter jumps and trips to foreign lands would lead to nothing more than another day, another LES.(leave earning statement…pay stub) Even though this sounds like the life of excitement it had times of sheer boredom. One could only find the joy of a cigarette and companions for entertainment during long night watches in the distant forests of Bosnia. I believe that these idle times led to the greatest and deepest conversations and also some of the most humorous impressions. That is probably where my down syndrome impression was forged. It brought such joy to a bunch of war pigs. These were special people because it takes a certain personality to talk so lovingly about one’s family while holding belt-fed weapon. So, it takes a similar sick sense of humor to yield a laugh.

Ah but fate, how you rear your freakish head. After I left the service I was changed by my deployments. I saw the worst of mankind and vowed to live a life of meaning. The feelings I had of invincibility shifted quite hard to the acceptance that this life has an end and what you do now is payed for at some point. My first payment was to a debt I accumulated by my perfect Corky impression. The way I payed it is funny to most but to me it is as if God himself signed the bill.

After I graduated I ran a personal training studio in Alpharetta, GA. It was a real upscale club and life was really going my way. I had great friends, popularity in the community and six figures at 24. You know what happened next? I was so on top of the world I needed share with my fortune with others. So on a Sunday afternoon a middle aged woman walked into the gym with her son. His name was Chris and he stood 5′ 5” and about 210 lbs of just girth. He had down syndrome and his mother was looking for a safe place for his power lifting training. He was a Special Olympian. After an hour of talking they both became members and I became Chris’s trainer and coach. What a treat, money in the gym and reprieve of my soul. Life was good.

The months leading to the Special Olympics with Chris were tumultuous at best. His mother was single and also had a teenage daughter so there were little if any barriers and Chris knew how to get away with anything. I can’t tell you how many times we would finish a dead lift set and I would find myself in a head lock. No matter how you look at it, trying to wrestle your head from a sweaty man child is hard to do and maintain dignity. It probably looked like Chuck Norris sparring with the Kung Fu chimp. In case you were wondering I would be Mr. Norris.

I never looked forward to the day of the Special Olympic competition. I guess it never seemed that it would arrive. Our training wasn’t showing any results and there was no information for the Olympic regulations. The finality of the event did come, though. The day before the competition Chris’s mother came in with a Kroger bag and left it on my desk. She gave me the details on the event with directions and words of encouragement but it was her final statement that shook me to the core.

“Oh yeah, your matching singlet is in the bag. You guys are going to look so cute! Let’s go for GOLD!”

Did she say “singlet?” Fuck yes she did. This is when my good deed rapidly turned to a debt to be paid, and man did I pay. I paid for every limp, every drool, every “Have you stheen my….wiener?” and every exaggerated finger extension. The day to live as a “touched” person has come but before it began my good friend Joe took me out drinking so I would not wallow alone in self loathing. After all, it was just the Special Olympics and I was only a coach. Right?

The next day I woke up with a cranking hangover and thirty minutes late. I skipped the shower and shave, put on the sweats and jumped in the car. On the way to the college (hosted the Olympics) I looked in the rear view and noticed I had mad bed head with blood shot eyes. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day. I soon arrived to find Chris and his mom sitting in the bleachers of the coliseum. There was a stage with two benches, two squat racks and two dead lift racks with a series of colored lights behind a judges booth. The white lights were for a good lift and the red were for a failed attempt. Now that the visual aid is set I will fill in the for my feelings of dread.

“You made it Billy! Are you wearing the uniform? Let’s put it on because your group is up next.”

I went to the bathroom and put on the singlet and wouldn’t you know it? TOO SMALL! It was so tight my junk formed the letter “S” and I dared not even look at my behind. So let me paint this picture as well. I was in a singlet that was too small, I was hungover with bed head, not shaved and red eyes with running shoes. I fit the part.

When I was all suited up I walked back to the coliseum and something else caught my eye. It was a huge slide show with all the competitors bio’s. They gave pictures with where they are from, what they enjoy doing and what they like to eat. I found it mildly entertaining while waiting to coach Chris through his event but then the entertertainment became a clue to the reality I was about to face. One of the slides was my own bio. Now keep in mind I didn’t write this so I can only assume Chris’s mom did. It read something like this:

Billy Webster

C Group From Alpharetta, Ga

” He likes to lift weights and listen to music like Pearl Jam. He is cool and has lots of friends who lift weights too. He loves pizza and healthy food. He competes for FX gym, Centennial High School, and his partner is Chris.”

“Partner?” When you first read this it sounds like I would be competing rather than coaching. Well, you know what? No matter how many times you read it, it reads the same. She pulled a 180 on me and I was entered as a competitor/ coach. Apparently you can combine the scores per regulation. I was panic stricken. But it was too late. Before I could raise my concerns I was rushed off behind the stage to a line of about fifty “athletes” all waiting their turn to bench press. I found myself looking for comfort in a familiar face and the only face I found was Chris. In line I found myself assimilated with all sorts of “special” people having all sorts of “special” conversations. I remained silent trying to understand how I went from a coach to this and how can I get out of the situation. But it was too late.

I must admit that I was less enthused to be an actual participant since I wasn’t retarded to begin with but like a good sport I shrugged it off and focused on the job at hand. That job was preparing Chris to lift his registered weight with perfect form. But there was a snag. As my back was turned Chris felt it was necessary to punch the kid in the face that was standing in front us. I will not say that it added to the insanity of my current state but it definitely detracted from my singlet wedgie. All I could do is pull Chris a side to chastise is action and give him positive encouragement with the promise of a coke if he apologized to the poor kid that he socked in the face.

Meanwhile we had moved closer to the starting position of the bench press. Game faces were on and there was medals to be won. Watching the athletes before us I felt we were in a good position to win something. Not to be too competitive but some guys were barley benching what looked to be 30 lbs. Come on. I looked at Chris’s lift cards and we started at 45lbs so right there we were winners. But looking at the card there was no weight filled in for me. I’ll show ’em. I’m going to start out modest and lift 100 lbs and on the third round max it to 200. Oh yeah, that should clinch it.

Now we were third in line to lift and I had to give our card to the judges table but this was a little confusing standing behind the curtain of the stage. I asked one of the passing coaches and she pointed to the table with the Georgia State Triple Delta sorority girls. OH MY GOD…I have to hand my card to a sorority that is doing their community service in a singlet. Did I deserve this too? I actually did this ladies and gentlemen. I walked up to the table and turned my card in under the assumption that I too was “special.” There was none the wiser at the table but when walking away I actually heard a consolidated “awwwww”. I wanted to die.

Zero hour was finally here and Chris was on the bench. All he had to do was lift the assigned weight like we had done hundreds of times before. But the poor guy was too nervous and he started his lift before he judges gave us the sign. Sadly Chris was exempt from this portion of the lift due to lack of timing apparently. Some coach I was. But there was still hope.

While consoling my team mate there were a couple of guys changing out the weights for my lift. I noticed that instead of the moderate blue weights that every other lifter used, these guys were stacking the big bastard orange ones. I thought, “were these Special Olympians too?” There had to be a mistake because this was serious weight. And then it hit me. The Olympics were always in Kilograms not pounds. What I thought was a modest wieght of 100 lbs was now an insaine weight of 220 lbs. Oh shit!

What a conundrum. Making a stupid mistake like this was bad enough but now I can’t tell the sorority judges because I pretended I was retarded. Oh fuck, I’m about to fail at the Special Olympics in the first round. I laid down on the bench and stared at the ceiling waiting for the judges to say “up!” and prayed. In the audience I heard Chris’s mom yell, “GO BILLY!” with what sounded like a consolidated groan from the crowd. With all the adrenaline I could muster I lifted the 220 lbs and completed it. Whew!

I will not lie to you. I had never lifted that much weight before. It felt good that it was over but then came more great news. In order to maintain gold standing I had to increase the following lift by 20%. I didn’t even try it. I lifted the 220 two more times but that was it.

About half way through the competition I needed a break so I headed outside to make a few calls and have a better conversation than the one’s I had in line to lift. One of those conversations was a pretty insightful political opinion about what this one dude would do if he found Saddam Hussein. I think it went like this:

“If I found Saddam I would shoot a grenade at him and a say this one is for you, Saddam! Then I would kill him.”

I had to agree. All I could do was smile and repeat, “sounds good.”

Anyway, I went outside and called my pal Joe but there was no answer. Sitting on the curb in my singlet I reflected on my situation and believe it or not I was smiling. Then I was spotted. Apparently a chaperon saw me as an escaped competitor and came outside to lure me back in. She snuck behind me and began to rub my back and asked in a loving way, “Who are you with sweetheart?” This was enough to send me over the edge. With a disdainful look I stared up at her and said, “I’m not retarded.”

She stumbled back startled. “I am so sorry, why are you…I mean….are you a competitor?” I explained my situation and she couldn’t help but laugh. Her daughter had down syndrome so it was ok for her to see the comedy of my predicament. All she could say was how nice I was but she felt for me. I kind of did too.

The rest of the day went better than how it started but I can be honest with you, I was happy to go home. I have a whole new respect for the committee of the Special Olympics, the parents who raise them and the volunteers who help them. I know that it is not good to have fun at other people’s expense and to thank God that my life can be free of the Special Olympics if I choose.

The following Monday Chris’s mom came into the gym with pictures to share and my medals. I got silver.