Expanding Horizons

Looking Forward, Smiling Backward

2008-04-13T19:45:00.001-07:00

Well, getting a little reminiscent here, sitting with Thurston (new puppy) and looking at some of the photos on my old G4. It’s good to go over that stuff every now and then and discover exactly what makes you tick. Well, maybe not exactly, because some of the shit I found shouldn’t really make a person “tick.” But you know what I mean, for every time you’ve grown a mustache or done something stupid or put on a ridiculous outfit, you’ve taken a picture. Those records are priceless for me because I look back and truly, positively, without a doubt realize that I wouldn’t change one god damn thing.

From good friends to dressing up like an asshole to doing some of the stupidest things you could conceive for entertainment, it’s been one hell of a ride, and I hope the path never diverges.

Some things have changed. I can’t just take off and do whatever I want because — as of two days from now — I’ll be a homeowner. Even my little Time Sponge, Thurston, is a bit of an anchor if you chose to think of it that way. It’s pretty crazy to think about, but for all the times I could have died, maybe should have died, doing untold amounts of unsafe, pointless, sometimes criminal activities, I’m still here and still kicking ass. This house and dog won’t change that. Hell, Thurston will probably be jumping off the roof into the pool with me if he’s half the pooch I think he is.

Things really have changed though. Now I’m mostly a vegetarian, a homeowner, a parent, (of a needy little Alligator-cow-chicken puppy) a young professional, (well, as close as I’ll ever get) and a responsible US citizen. Pretty big change from breaking into industrial ruins wearing stupid costumes eating 12 meals of the crappiest foods you can imagine.

Anyway, I need to shower (more of this grown-up stuff) so I just wanted to document how good it’s been, and how excited I am for what’s to come. Love it. Everyday. Peace. Cheers. Love.

Jill the Hound

2008-03-24T18:55:00.001-07:00

Oh my gosh it’s been so long since I’ve written for pleasure I can’t even type correctly. Shit crap damn yeah! So many times I’ve wanted to say so many things while writing for “the man” that I’m too excited to even type right now. See that? I went from correctly to right. My grammar is digressing, spelling is getting worse—things are getting back to normal!! When I say the man—just to clarify—I mean my job, but if you have to work for the man, this is a good one to work for. I mean crap, I can work ALL THE FLIPPING TIME and still not mind it that much.

But anyway, babies, we’ve got some catching up to do because while you’ve been faithfully checking this blog daily, hourly, maybe even more frequently, I’ve been partying, wakeboarding, making movies, playing quite a bit of guitar, and—as we’ve already covered—working for the man. I wish I could individually ask each and every one of you beautiful babies what has been taking your work time and repose, but since I can’t we’ll discuss topics near and dear to my heart, like dogs.

I attempted to acquire a dog the other day—a Catahoula Leopard Hound—and she was quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to the world, that is until I lost her. It happened like this: first of all, never go to the pound unless you know all the facts about your landlord, your income, and your tolerance for incompetence. I ambled into the Orange County Animal Services building with absolutely no faith in falling in love with one of the canines. I rounded the first, prison-like corner with an ambivalence normally reserved for a date set up by one of your relatives (or something more clever, you know what I mean) and saw the first puppies and knew I wasn’t getting out of there easily. Stalin could have just genocided 1000 people by personal firing squad, eaten a sea urchin, and lost a grand at the casino and still walk out of there teary-eyed for the poor little puppies. I was no match, obviously.

I passed the first few cages and stayed pretty strong. I came to Jill the Hound and she didn’t come over when I called, nor did she really give me more than a cursory glance. I moved on. Cold I know, but remember all that Stalin stuff? I had to watch out for my own heart.

I got to the end of the west cell blocks, turned on my heel, and resolved to leave sans dog for the time being. Then, a worker came up to me and aggressively asked if I’d like to see any of the dogs one-on-one. I was immediately put off at her dictionary-salesmen tactics and brushed her off, but as my eyes rolled, as it were, they ended up on little Jill the Hound. “I guess I’d like to see this girl,” I said with a definitive tone.

She slipped into her temporary noose collar (never pulling, mind you) and we went to the play room. The play room consisted of a chain link fence surrounding a concrete slab. The volunteer gave me some treats and we got to work. She told me to make Jill sit and I did, then she told me to give her the treat and I did. The first time she reluctantly sat she had my heart. What a good girl. Cute as a button too. None of the anxiety she originally had showed through when she was one on one. How had this dog stayed here so long? She was only nine months old, gorgeous and well-behaved. Well I didn’t stay around too long to ask questions, we just cuddled for a while, threw the ball until she didn’t feel like doing that anymore (hounds are like that) and then I said I’d take her.

We went to the front and it seemed to be a done deal until they asked the question about my landlord. Was she cool with it? I didn’t know. Had she been cool about anything in the past? Nope. Maybe we could foster her for the month she’s going to be here until she can get into her permanent home? Nope. Shit.

Well if you’re going to be closed for the next few days until Wednesday and you’re closing right now, I suppose I can wait and pick her up then. Long story short, I didn’t get her because they changed their hours and I couldn’t pick her up because I was in MN visiting my relatives. Shit. You may be able to tell how much this bothered me because I NEVER write a serious post. When I broke my jaw you got a side-splitter. Just about nothing gets me out of the comedy, but this did it. Look forward, however, to plenty of good stories as I scour craigslist.com for her current (and inadequate, I’m sure) owner to get rid of her so I can go resuce

Daytona 500 Query Letter

2008-02-10T19:29:00.000-08:00

Hello my dear, sweet, ever-loving reader. This is a quick post (more of a transcription actually) of a query letter I'm sending to the Orlando Weekly in an attempt to get some cultural awareness about the sport of Nascar. I'm being required to attend the Daytona 500 to film some wakeboarding (odd, I know, but you'll see what it's about) and I want to fully engulf myself in the experience—really take in all this event has to offer. Is it our modern-day colliseum fully equipped with mustached gladiators in 700 horse power chariots? Is it a testament to man's ability to fuse technology with backwater instinct in a symbiotic relationship of skill and sport at its highest pinnacle? Is it a reason to hang on? Does it provide hope to the dejected and the will to live for a goodly part of the population? (I'm trying to be objective on this, but early numbers don't look good for this last conjecture.) Or is it just a bunch of overgrown children living adolescent fantasies of driving really fast and never turning right? Rest assured, my above-average congregation, I will find out. If I have embarrass myself in front of millions on national television, my pride crashing and burning like so many Nascars (can I use that word as a noun?) on an oil-slicked spit of asphault, I will report my findings and finally get to the bottom of one of societies most asked questions: What's with this friggin' sport?

Without further adieu, here is my letter to the editorial staff at the Orlando Weekly:

Hi there,

My name is Craig Kotilinek and I'm the Managing and Digital Media Editor for Wakeboarding Magazine. I would like to write a story about the cultural phenomenon that is Nascar, and specifically the microcosm that will continue to assault us in the next couple weeks: the Daytona 500. Why would I want to attend such a demographically undesirable event, you ask? I don't. I'm being sent on assignment for WBM to cover the wakeboarding that will take place prior to the race in the lake at the speedway's in-field. Turns out a boat company called Centurion has a partnership with Nascar to do boat wraps, so this is its moneymaker.

My story angle would be a complete outsider looking in on the blissful, money making fish bowl that is the Nascar industry. The "sport" holds a decent part of the population in a mullet-sporting, neck-bearded death grip while the rest of us remain completely apathetic about "Little E's" winless streak or Jeff Gordon's unsavory flamboyance. I can provide clips upon request.

Let me know what you think.

Craig Kotilinek

Fasting sucks

2007-11-29T09:41:00.000-08:00

23 hours into a 24 hour fast and probably the best word to describe what I'm feeling right now is "sirloin." Oh yeah, that and HUNGRY!!!

Why sirloin? Well, we had an eight-hour meeting earlier (actually about an hour and a quarter, but you'll see why it felt longer) and the only magazine I had in front of me was Saveur. This is the premier food magazine with amazingly glossy pics of all your favorite, hunger-staving dishes. On the cover was, guess what, sirloin.

Give Me Pizza or Give Me Death

2007-11-28T20:45:00.000-08:00

Nine hours into my first fast. Things have grown hazy and soft-focused. I haven’t eaten a bite of food (except a half-handful of Tibetan Goji Berries, which shouldn’t rightfully be put in the category of food. I’d tell you why, but look at the name. I mean, come on.) since wolfing a whole-sized Italian sub at Quiznos around 1:30.

I feel pretty healthy.

More than this, though, I feel HUNGRY. I want a cheeseburger stacked on top of a BLT with chocolate sauce on top, all washed down with a gallon of Oatmeal Stout. I want a quadruple grilled cheese with a pizza on the side and 35 cheese curds. I want 12 scoops of Cold Stone Chocolate Devotion with 27 beers.

At no time, nine hours into a 24-hour fast, have I wanted celery. Neither have I wanted carrots or broccoli (unless first deep-fried and served with ranch sauce) or spinach or lettuce. This is incredible to me. The fact that I haven’t eaten in nine hours—probably longer than I’ve abstained from sustenance in at least as many years—and I still don’t think healthy food sounds good. There’s just something about eating pizza and pizza rolls and pizza pockets and anything else that’s terrible for you and then accepting your food coma like a man happily condemned as you lay down and wait for your arteries to close.

The only positive things I can think of—besides the supposed health benefits prescribed here http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16513299 at NPR’s website—is that I haven’t had to brush my teeth (because they don’t really get dirty from drinking water) and I haven’t spent any money on food. Apart from that, my incredibly malnourished brain can come up with only one other benefit: tomorrow morning I can get up late because I don’t have to eat breakfast. Yippee.

So I shall take my low energy reserves to bed for the night and wish, Dear Friends, that you might eat just a little extra tonight so that I might imagine you all enjoying delicious onion rings and burritos and all sorts of other artery clogging goodies that make life worth living and fasting not worth trying. You lucky ducks.

Boat tests

2007-11-10T11:05:00.000-08:00

There is no respect for human life on boat tests. After much much concluding, that is the conclusion I have come to.

It’s a well-known fact that man cannot live on simply ale and grease-ball bar food for an extended period of time, but the fact is, the human body can sustain an incredible amount of abuse for a decent chunk of time and function at a somewhat acceptable level.

Boat tests stretch the limits of this human endurance.

As much as the BT crew is expected to live up to the constant rigors of demanding boat manufacturers and butt-crack-of-dawn call times, so it is expected to push itself beyond the supposed limits of acceptable human behavior into the realm of iconic and even god-like consumption of goods, services, and sustenance.

So it is that the BT crew lived up to this level of debauchery for over a week in Lake Tulloch, California.

I don’t know what else to say. This is one of those times that you almost had to be there.

I may end up editing this post later, but for now, it’s just important for you to know that there is no respect for human life on boat tests.

Project: Revolution/this post gets a lot better, don't give up

2007-09-30T14:17:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone. Hope everything is well and you’re all chasing down your dreams or—more productively—you’re checking ahead with them and hooking up with them later. So it’s been an interesting couple of weeks. I’ve gotten fingers up my butt, a new job, a new place, and lost a girlfriend (that last one we won’t discuss…it’s too new, you know how it is).

Why all the changes, you ask? Well, I’d like to say that I started chewing volupa root from the foothills of the Northern Congo and it’s brought not only luck and prosperity (again, leaving out the whole ex-girlfriend thing, which was neither lucky nor prosperous), but also all the energy of crack without the nasty hangover and cadaverous look. However, the truth is that I simply followed a maxim that has brought me almost exclusively good things from the moment the little voice in my head (which coincidentally sounds just like Billy Idol) started repeating it when things got tough or annoying: Stay the course.

Now, I like to think my sailing uncles instilled this in me at a young age around a warm campfire used to fight off the bitter arctic cold as we roasted bits of Emperor Penguin in preparation for the next day’s Polar Bear hunt—using only sharpened whale bones and our wits, of course.

I like to think this. That doesn’t mean it’s remotely true. I probably just heard Danny Tanner say it to Michelle Tanner on a particularly poignant episode of Full House during my tender college years.

Anyway, the origin is not the point. The point is what I’ve chosen to do with this information, and that is to take it quite literally and set myself to what I’ve chosen to do with my life. I realize that sounds a lot like blowing smoke up my own ass, and that’s because it is quite easy to blow smoke up there after I was violated by an attractive female medical practitioner not one day after hearing I’d gotten the position of Managing and Online Media Editor of WakeBoarding Magazine, which brings me to my next point: If someone is going to stick her fingers up your butt, even in a medical scenario, there has to be some ground rules. You can’t just go probing any innocent, law-abiding, wakeboard-loving citizen who is having pain when he poops. It just isn’t FAIR.

It happened like this. You already know why I was in the doctor’s office. I was sitting on the table, fifteen minutes late, when the doctor walks in (Think Elliot from Scrubs only with bigger boobs and less clothing). Okay, I may be exaggerating ever so slightly, but ever so slightly would not be the way I’d choose to describe how Dr. Barbie broke the news to me that she’d have to do a digital rectal exam (heretofore referred to as DRE in an effort to alleviate some pain and leave some memories unrekindled). She didn’t offer me Chardonnay. She didn’t massage my back and neck. She didn’t whisper sweet nothings in my ear. She wouldn’t, though I repeatedly requested, give me any Valium.

She did, however, extend me the polite consideration of telling me to “bear down.” What the fuck does that mean? Well, just relax like you’re going to poop.

Okay, let me break this down for you, missy, you want me to relax my butt while you just called the nurse in for reinforcements, you wouldn’t massage my neck and back, you wouldn’t whisper sweet nothings in my ear, buy me dinner, or offer me Valium and/or Chardonnay, and now you want me to relax while I’m laying on my side with my butt exposed as you’re dumping half a tube of KY on your fingers and you haven’t even taken your Super Bowl ring off? Forget it, lady, you can—shit, there it is, your fingers are in my butt.

And just like that she had violated me and whipped the glove off and she was out the door and out of my life, not even responding when I mustered a “call me” through salty tears in the fetal position on the sterile doctor’s office table with nothing that even resembled mood lighting.

You’d think the story would end with me pulling my pants up and trying not to slide off my leather car seats (remember that half-tube of KY?) while I cried all the way home, but my comfort level only bends further in this twisted story of heterosexual humiliation.

You see, one of the many small courtesies Dr. Barbie neglected on her hasty retreat from my rectum onto her next victim was the politeness to tell me she had prescribed some nice little butt missiles for me to discover when I got home. That’s right, folks, suppositories. Very comfortable. So obviously I did the only thing a secure heterosexual male does when he is prescribed anything to shove up his butt: I stared at the container listening to Neil Diamond until I wept the slightest of tears and waited for my roommate to get home so I could tell him about this and he could laugh.

Now, it turns out, my roommate is something of an expert on this subject (I don’t feel like I have to re-identify the subject of this travesty) and was a tremendous help in getting me through the emotional maze of things going into my butt instead of coming out.

In case you’ve been following my little butt predicament—whether talking to me directly or reading it in the tabloids—you might be wondering why this post is a little dated. Well, that’s partially because the emotional trauma that comes with sticking a little white apothecary up your backside leaves scars that don’t heal in a matter of weeks. It takes months and sometimes years to overcome such an experience (emotionally as well as physically) for any normal man, but it happened to me a little over a month ago (in Craig time…that basically means less than a year but more than a week).

You’ll be happy to hear that as I sit (mostly with comfort now) and type this fair account to you, I am in mostly good health. I’ve begun walking normally again, I can have a bowel movement without crying, I can lay mostly on my side without post-traumatic flashbacks, and I am almost ready to date again (although never to love…once a girl digitally assaults you and voids your life like a…well, you know...it changes a man).

So it is with hope, Dear Reader, that I scribe to you today. Hope that you may never have this experience, but that if you happen to have rectal issues, hope that this post makes you at least partially more comfortable in an incredibly uncomfortable situation. Good day and be sure to eat plenty of fiber.
-Craig Kotilinek

Turning the corner

2007-06-28T18:41:00.000-07:00

So apparently, the IRS gets all uppity when you don’t sign your tax return. Boo. Here’s the thing, a chimp on amphetamines has a more distinguished signature than your faithful friend Craig, and couldn’t they just maybe…SIGN IT FOR ME???? COME ON! Is this really worth sending the whole thing back to me with a strongly worded letter and an order to pay in more money? When my assistant got this letter, whoa, let me tell you, she did NOT want to give it to me (and for good reason) because she knew how I’d react, and I’ll tell you, I about shit a chicken! This was icing on the cake for me because I had a bit of a financial bender in Minneapolis when I went back for my buddy’s wedding, and when I checked my Bank of America online statement, I was at roughly $100. Boo.

Let me tell you, I was surprised. I mean I knew booze and strippers added up, but I thought there was a clause for bachelor parties or something (apparently Bank of America discontinued that program). How could I have spent this much money in like four days?? Well, It turned out I was wrong, it was a big misunderstanding and I had read the statement incorrectly. It turned out that there were still pending transactions and I actually had $60.

I decided not to worry and just watch it for the rest of the trip and I would deposit my paycheck when I got home and everything would be peaches, but on the way over to my girlfriend’s house, I apparently fit the typical criminal stereotype of a speeder and I was pulled over for going 42 in a posted 30. Boo. I mean fuck a duck, when you see a 25-year-old Caucasian male driving his grandparents’ mid-90’s Volvo wagon, do you see trouble? Never mind the 27 people getting murdered a block to our right, or the 12 hicks gang banging a border collie ten feet to our left, this cop decides to pull over the most broke guy he can find just for kicks. -$142. Thank you MinneCRAPolis!

Now, I would have been okay. I was going to sell a couple of kidneys (both mine), and with my waiting paycheck I could have made rent and paid the ticket while living off of ramen and rice. Would’ve been Zen-like, I figure. I was too proud to take food stamps or cash my alimony checks. I mean, I probably would have had anorexic 300 abs in no time (see previous post). I would have made it. But, like King Leonidis and his group of 300 brave souls, the forces of evil that were mounted against me were too strong, and they had yet another wave of sword-toting Persian to finally fall my brave $60. That sword-toting, bastardized, motherless (that was redundant, I think) whore that is the IRS came knocking at my door.

Now, this is where this post comes full circle. If you didn’t remember the first part about signing your tax return, here’s some advice for you: for God’s sake DO IT! For all I know, that was the only reason my return was checked carefully enough for those pigs to realize I owe about double the amount I actually paid. Boo.

This is where the mysterious title of this epic, life-changing post comes into play. You see, this is the most broke I’ve ever been in my entire life. And I mean MY ENTIRE LIFE! I wasn’t born this broke because I started out at zero and now I’m below that. I wasn’t this broke at age two because I had a piggy bank and I’ll be damned if I didn’t save like a mini Rockefeller at every birthday, Christmas, or lost tooth that came around. I wasn’t this broke when I got back from war because I was never in war. I wasn’t this broke when I was in high school because I worked every summer and had fuckall to spend my money on in little St. Croix Falls. You get the picture, I am a broke joke. Boo.

But oh how the tables can turn, and oh how a person can round a corner in their life only to find themselves going in the opposite freaking direction! Currently, I am heading toward Tijuana and I soon I will be heading for that town in Arkansas (or wherever) that Wal-Mart was started. Yeah, highest per capita income in the world, you bet your ass buddy!

This isn’t to say there isn’t something romantic about the way a Tijuana street gets caught in the pale moonlight. But here’s the thing, Tijuana’s magic is a luster that can be rubbed away like a gold-plated grill, it’s a place to visit occasionally, but God forbid you live there. It’s just not done. Even the strippers commute in. So it is that I shall make the fateful trip to said border town occasionally in my life (there’s no denying that, I'm going to have hard times), but it shall never be with an air of permanence, for I’ll be turning the corner and heading back up north to terrorize the Waltons.

300 Abs

2007-04-02T07:22:00.001-07:00

Yeah, for anyone who’s seen this bloody, epic battle of digital effects versus narrative (effects wins, to save you some suspense), you know what I’m talking about. For those who haven’t, I’m talking about abs that are chiseled out of countless hours in a dark and cold gym with a cement floor and some serious blood sweat and tears. This is what I want. The kind of painted-on abs that allowed King Leonidis to defeat not only a shit-ton of greasy Persians, but also a crazy wolf thing with red eyes. That can’t be easy.

Anyway, without getting too far into the incredibly gripping plot of this film, the real takeaway I got from this flick was the abs. While obviously not 100 percent honest, the gym buffs from this flick inspired me to improve my physique through a rigorous diet and exercise program. It starts today and includes not only switching from Natty to Natty Light, but also cutting out any grade-Z kangaroo meat from such sub-par fast food joints like McDonalds, Arby’s, Wendy’s (although I can’t make any promises about those delicious little milk shakes), and the BK Lounge. Instead, I will veer toward such life-changing, abdominal-altering eating establishments as the Publix deli; Jimmy John’s on University (Ryan and I drove at least 10 miles out of the way last night to get a delicious Italian Nightclub), and of course Mom’s (I mean Craig’s) home-cooked meals. Delightful in their ab improvement and fairly high on taste as well.

There you have it, my friends, the ab program that will probably end the Iraq war and send all the world’s evil doers back to their caves to examine their perfect eight pack in subtle lighting. I’d like to thank the movie 300 for painting on fake abs to get me motivated toward a rock solid core with muscles the size of small foothills.

Rules of Engagement/Future Opportunities

2007-02-21T09:55:00.000-08:00

Babies, babies, babies, here we are again, broadcasting in high definition with the quintessential underground information about your narrator’s life. Yes, the info may be exaggerated and distorted beyond the realm of anything resembling truth into a twisted world of satire and embellished surrealism that would have made Dali proud, but it’s all in the name of good old-fashioned entertainment. And while you may not get the most fair, accurate, or balanced information from Yours Truly, it will certainly be a ride, and you’ll (hopefully) never be bored.

So thoughts of quitting the country could not be closer to the front lines of my battlefield-of-a consciousness. That’s right, Dear Reader, your old pal Craig may be making the way of the ex-patriot some time in the near future if the current course and bearings are stayed. Why, you ask, would such a drastic move be contemplated? Well, the answer is a simple one. Whether I’m abroad for two years or two days, the single most thunk thought in my head is one of potential. Potential for other countries to provide things this country doesn’t have. Potential to meet new people and sail new oceans and eat new foods. Potential to see new things before they've been seen so many times that they are ruined by curiosity.

The opportunity might be presenting itself in the near future, and all I can do is follow the path that presents itself to me. You see, my fellow lemmings, I can’t truly choose what I want for my life, I can simply steer it in certain directions and see what happens. I’m like a dog who salivates at his food bowl. He knows he wants food (but doesn’t really understand why) and all he can do is wait for his master to appease him. He knows this is the way things are, and he knows that things aren’t going to change, so he just accepts what’s going to happen while trying to veer into something he will enjoy.

And so I write to you today to say that Minnesota is a small speck on a very big globe. Florida is a phallic-shaped chance that could have slipped into the ocean for all anyone cared. The world is my true home, and soon I shall be at its doorstep.

Because We Can

2007-01-05T15:07:00.000-08:00

I just read recently—and believe whole-heartedly—that humans never grow up; we just learn how we’re supposed to act in society. But these last three months—and especially the last two weeks—have taught me what I knew since birth: People generally enjoy other people, and if you’re a genuine person who says what he really feels, people will respect it. This is the only true way to communication. You can’t always be worried if you’re standing too close or your breath smells or people might not agree with what you have to say, you just have to trust that humans are generally the same and generally good.

I know it may sound silly that I just relearned this life maxim, but I think it’s something that people have when they’re young and they lose bit by bit, day by day until they can’t relate to other people. It’s a hell of a lot easier to talk about your asshole boss than it is to breach the subject of hopes and dreams. Most conversation is a boring way to pass the time and mask what we truly feel.

I would feel a lot more comfortable talking to my friend about music than how he truly feels about his dad dying, but the latter is what makes us human. Grief, love, joy, sadness, hate, death; all make us human and all are so often brushed off as cliché or dismissed with subject changes. We are supposed to be adults and we are supposed to work hard and not be bothered by things like emotions and attractions and feelings, but as we were born of these things, so shall we return to them.

There’s no better example than good old Grandpa Marvin. I can’t speak of his childhood, but I will say from experiencing his adulthood that it was simple. When he was being shipped off to Italy at age 18, the primary concern he and his parents had was whether or not to sell his bicycle.

Marvin has always had a certain way of doing things, and that’s the way they will always be. He can’t be bothered with things like automatic dishwashers! there’s no time to think about that! He’s got to wash dishes! It’s just simpler that way.

I can also say that young Marvin was mild-mannered. He has a picture on his wall that says his name and—in some language or other—that it means unerring friend. It couldn’t be more true. There was never a more rock-solid friend than Marvin.

Gramps’ life has always had some constants, but he was not always as nice a man as he is now. When he was building and inspecting roads for Hennepin County in his middle age, he was a somewhat tyrannical man with a closed mind and a short fuse. Mister, if you didn’t like his way of doing things, he was going to take his glasses off and punch you right in the nose. A boxer throughout his tour as a member of the 10th Mountain Division, he didn’t hesitate to use intimidation to get his way.

This picture could not be further from the hunched old man I have known all my life. I have pictures of him reading my brother and I to sleep when we were both small enough to fit in his lap. He would take me downhill skiing with a leash attached to my back so I couldn’t get too far away. He didn’t yell at me when I tried to be like my dad and do some bodywork on his Volvo with a Ball peen hammer. He was patient as a saint when I threw a paint can “grenade” and it happened to land on his car (it was parked in enemy territory).

Grandpa Marvin aged gracefully to the temperament he was born with: mild and caring. I believe that society taught him he had to intimidate and yell to get his way, and while this was, and to a degree still is, a part of his personality, it was forged in the trenches of WWII and the male-dominated, overly masculine, racially-bigoted culture of his mid life.

I think the closer a person can stay to their root feelings and hardwired values, the happier they will be. This means speaking up for what you believe in, and damn the consequences. It means equality (did you care what color the kid in Kindergarten who stole your crayons was? No! You just wanted your Cornflower Blue back so you could finish your damn ocean picture).

You weren’t born with any preconceived notions of what a person would talk about or how boring they’d be based on their khakis. When you were young you didn’t mind when people got excited. In fact, you loved it. You didn’t get nervous and look from side to side to see who might be judging, you just got more excited. You didn’t have to be drunk to relate to people. You would sing loudly along to whatever music sounded good to you, not what topped Clear Channel’s lists or seemed quirky and obscure and might get you attention.

I have friends who define themselves by their music to the point that they are snobs and can’t have an open-minded discussion with other music enthusiasts because they attack.

This is how wars are started. Freedom and liberty and the United States are just words. Sure, words can have rock-solid connotations, but when it comes down to it, the U.S. could be called anything and it would still be just another continent. And freedom. It just so happens that we have a word for our particular brand of liberty that might be homicidally constricting to someone from Copenhagen. Or Istanbul. Or someone from the Austin.

The point is that freedom is not the continent you’re on or the party you vote for, it’s the rules you place on yourself within your society. It’s not a dollar amount or cubic miles.

If a person is defined by their society, then whenever they step outside those boundaries at the whim of their personal beliefs—however rigid they may be—then they are liberating themselves. Say a culture forbids women to show their faces and one woman, simply to feel the warmth of sun on her skin, decides to throw off her veil. That’s freedom. It may be the reason someone dyes his hair blue. It may be the reason someone chooses to work for themselves instead of having a nine to five job with a steady paycheck. It may be the reason someone sails a boat for five years with the simple dream of circumnavigating the globe. It may be the reason someone climbs Mount Everest. It may be the reason someone speaks about feminism. I know it’s the reason people make art for the sake of art. Fully knowing their work will never be sold and their eyes may be the only pair that ever sees it, they still work as passionately as if the fate of the world depended on them.

It can be almost anything.

Any one of us could have been born in any other country under very different circumstances. That’s what makes nationalism so ignorant. You can’t tell a Frenchman from an Englishman from an American until you talk to him and uncover what society has done to shape his personality. You also couldn’t tell a yard of African dirt from Central American dirt from Chinese dirt if you didn’t already know that imaginary lines divided countries and each had it’s own name.

The point of this essay is not to say that there shouldn’t be wars or conflicts, and that everyone should live a certain way, it’s simply one man’s definition of liberty and happiness. It’s to say I’ll be damned if I’ll answer the call of another man’s definition of happiness and security for a purpose I don’t agree with. It’s to say that every person has a choice and anyone who says they are out of options is lying to you. It’s to say that the world is bigger than regions and countries and continents; the world is full of people just like you and I who are finding their own versions of happiness and freedom, and while they may not write them in an essay, you will see their freedom in their work and love and play. It’s to say that societal norms are just societal norms, and they change from society to society. It’s to ask the individuals to stay the course. It’s to share one opinion of what happiness is, but most of all, it’s because I feel like it and it’s my liberty and I can.

Get the memo I’m cutting the strings Gepetto

2007-01-05T15:05:00.000-08:00

It’s been two weeks in Minnesota, away from my dear, warm, activity-filled Florida, and I am on the apex of my last afternoon in my true home. I will be here for another 24 hours, and I feel like reflecting on what I’ve learned.

It’s funny you should be able to learn so much in two weeks, but it’s not necessarily the amount of time you’re there, or even the place, but how you spend your time and how you live your life. For the last two weeks I’ve been living as a luxurious vagabond, roaming from warm house to warm house on friends’ couches and beds, really riding a wave of hospitality that I hope to someday return.
The hardest times are when you feel like you’re imposing. You don’t want to do it, but sooner or later a time will come in a fortnight when you and your benevolent hosts have conflicts of interest. These are usually small tiffs that heal almost instantly among good friends, but they are there and they are annoying. In some way they help you learn more about yourself too. For example, if I’m imposing myself upon the kindness of my sister and her fiancée, I have to eat at their table, sleep in their bed, use their shower, and follow their rules. Fortunately, they have very few rules and are about as laidback and fun as hosts can be, so the only strings attached are usually mine. Some times I just don’t feel comfortable lounging around someone else’s house while they go and nine-to-five their day away. Correction: I didn’t feel comfortable.

I feel like I’ve reached a new level in not sweating the small stuff that can potentially hold a person back. I feel like I am more willing to approach an old friend I haven’t seen in years and really didn’t know well to begin with, and try to find something in common. I feel like I’m mending partially burned bridges in an effort to reclaim friendships that have had so much unrealized potential for so long. I feel like I have less anger at the world and more hope for the future than I have in a long time, and more than most people have all their lives. I feel like doors that were once locked tight have now opened up or I’ve found another way in. I feel like avenues too far and dark and narrow have now opened up and I can see the end clearly without missing everything along the way. I see more beauty and purpose in everyday things and people than I have in years.
This was feeling was related incomparably well in a way that only hip hop can with the track “Get Fly” by Atmosphere:

And I can tell when you’re mad at your past
Because you tend to take the turns just a little too fast
And I can tell how you push your foot on the gas
that you already knew that you was gunna finsish last
Slow it down and take a little time
To look up at them clouds with the fake silver lining
Up in a tree knowing damn well you never reach the top
But you don't stop, you keep climbing
Well okay, it's settled
No more nights in this weed and thorn-infested meadow
Uh-uh, from this day forth, only forward I pedal
Get the memo I'm cutting the strings Gepetto

THE CURSED DRIVE

2006-10-16T12:03:00.000-07:00

So I think I can finally consider myself “settled.” I’ve made some money now, found some girls, had some surf, wakeboarded my balls off, and connected to the internet (that last one was easily the most difficult, but I can assure you, dear readers, that I did it with only you in mind).

The drive was a story within itself, but not an entirely pleasant one, so I will abbreviate it considerably and spare you the gory details of 26 hours in the car with an incredibly bored Craig Kotilinek. To summarize: there was singing, laughing, talking (more than you would think for a solo car trip), eating (literally ALL of it unhealthy), bleeding, shouting, airing—just to name a few things.

There were definitely some funny moments, which I will detail with somewhat fuzzy recollection right now. First, Megan didn’t have air conditioning. Yeah, she smelled like rotten cottage cheese. At first I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t rolling up her window at 90, then two and two made four and I realized that the Danger Ranger wasn’t exactly tip top and didn’t exactly have climate control. A pity for anyone within her sphere of stink.

Another comical scene—although not exactly glamorous for yours truly—was the fact that La Bamba (my little red Volvo S60) was hauling a 900 pound trailer with untold pounds of my shit in the back at twice Uhaul’s recommended speed for 1300 miles. Yeah, I would periodically glance in my side-view mirror as I was slowly crawling up to speed (while my future roommates tried to ditch me with their faster vehicles sans trailers) and see the asinine Uhaul sign that read “Not to exceed 45 MPH.” What does that even mean? Who in the holy hell is going to drive across the country at moped speed? By my calculations—derived from our average cruising speed of about 85 mph—it would take roughly three and a half weeks to get from frigid MN to sunny FL going 45 frigging miles per hour! Good call Uhaul.

La Bamba and I altered Uhaul’s cruising speed ever so slightly, and while we made it in record time for a six cylinder Volvo hauling a load recommended for an F350, La Bamba paid a dear price: her precious left front tire. If you want a good cry, now is a good time in the story to do so, before the carnage. Done? Okay.

So my future roommates and I had just awoken from our slumber in the parking lot next to the Country Kitchen and we were traveling at break neck speeds through downtown Atlanta when it happened. It sounded to me like an overloaded semitruck engine breaking down a 90% grade. That or a yeti growling. Anyway, my tire was flat due to a particularly malicious, upward-facing nail, and needed to be changed on the side of a busy interstate with traffic wizzing by only inches away. I could see it clearly, death would come on four, swiftly-rotating tires. It would take a real man to do this deed. There was only one man for this job, and I can’t remember his name, but damn AAA does a good job. I sat in my car and took a nap.

Speaking of which, a nap sounds pretty damn good right now. You can expect further updates whenever I wake up.

'Minton in D-Town with some Premium kegeration

2006-09-05T13:04:00.000-07:00

Here’s the thing: How do you have as much fun in a weekend in the town of Duluth, MN (AKA Backwater BFE) as you have had almost anywhere in the world? First thing, you need to make sure you attended school at UMD for at least one year and received one or more underage consumption tickets in said town. This allows you to have fond memories of the city and will make you relish even more in the fact that you can drink as much as you want when you go there now.

Second thing is a badminton court. This is absolutely essential. You must play on it for a continuous six hours and make sure you school your buddies like it ain’t no thang! That’s right Groad and Corey, you guys are Freshy McRookies.

Then you must have a kegerator with a constant supply of CO2-pumped Premium GrainBelt flowing like the Mighty Lake Superior only a stone’s throw away. Top this off with two days of blue-skyed goodness and a Superior strip club (that was anything but superior), and you have the makings of a grandiose weekend of cyclopean proportions.

The first thing to be discussed will be the badminton court. To set the record straight, I never lost a game when the court was painted and regulation size. Now, I am all for unfair play and I am a cheater by nature, but when it comes to ‘minton, I put the ass in biznass and the drool in rools--I take this game way too seriously. Before the court was painted, Roady made a career out of getting caught up in the boundary ropes because the concept of having two small pieces of rubber on the bottom of his feet (shoes) was completely foreign to his Groady brain and he claimed a lackluster victory. After the court was painted, however, the domination could begin. We played game after game after game—real barn burners—from the early afternoon under water-blue skies to the wee hours under the pale glow of motion lights; the battles raged on. Digits were lost. People laughed, cried, bled, and answered their CELL PHONES! That’s right, Corey, some things are just inexcusable and unforgettable. And through it all there was the Beer.

I capitalize the word because it was like another guest at the house that night and it deserves a proper name. It probably comported itself better than all of us, and it deserves its proper respect. Now that’s not to say it wasn’t cheap, hangover-making swill, but what the hell, it was in a kegerator! If anyone isn’t familiar with this device, it is a CO2-driven keg nestled in a nice cool refrigerator with a tap coming out of the door, allowing for a perfect pour and that bar-like feel in the comfort of your own home. We had frosty mugs bigger than Nalgenes, and despite double-fisted endeavors (wow, that one could be misconstrued), we just couldn’t empty the Little Keg that Could. After the darts, ‘minton, brats, and beer, it was time to head downtown thanks to our benevolent sober cab: The Groad.

We scoured the bars in search of female life forms, but there was nothing happening in the entire town of Duluth. And what does one do in this situation but persevere and move over to Superior, WI. We checked out Frankie’s (famous for dollar shots and famously bad karaoke) and found more of the same so we made the bold decision to point in the direction of the strip clubs. After walking for what seemed like forever (it was probably the anticipation after not having been to a strip club in about three years), we finally rounded the corner into the strip club without a cover. Big mistake. Things never to do: get out of a helicopter uphill, run on a barge, and go to a strip club that doesn’t have a cover. There are reasons it doesn’t have a cover, but it is hard to resist the urge to go in and see how things are going in there. Just a little peek to make sure we weren't getting ripped off.

I tell you now, you must resist.

We walked in and immediately turned around to walk out. They were probably insulted, but I say they insulted us! So anyway, then we went to Centerfolds and dropped the five dollars for cover and had an “interesting” remainder of our night. I will spare the details, but will give you an example of the quality of this place, and I suppose, by default you will understand the amazingly sub-par quality of the first place as well.

Example: Corey bought beers for he and I and they came to $7.50 for four Leines. That’s it. That’s all you need to know right there.

So after some ‘minton the next morning to secure my legacy, a bit of breakfast and some denting at the beach, life was pretty good and we were on our marry way back to civilization. That is the recipe for a great weekend in Duluth, MN, and I recommend you repeat it as many times as possible.

More intern knowledge/How many similes can one post have?

2006-08-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

A word about computers

So it turns out the technology at NWA hasn’t been updated since the late '80s. As you can imagine, this will provide something of a challenge to interns having to accomplish everything on the intern accomplishment list (especially things like “uploading ePassages,” have fun with that one!). Here are a few handy little tricks passed down through the generations of interns to help you resist throwing these stone-age, Micky Mouse, piece of crap computers off the atrium.

The Laptop

-First of all, you need to make sure you hit restart on the laptop when you are leaving for the day. This is less important with the current machine, but with the POS we had before, it was absolutely essential.

-Second, this little baby will lag like an anaconda after eating a 500-pound gazelle if you put a little work on it. I am talking a huge, like alpha-male gazelle here. This thing lags like an overloaded 747 with one engine (to use airline industry similes); especially if you are working on the dreaded “uploading ePassages” file. Ctrl S, Ctrl S, Ctrl S, I say. And I say this because as long as you are continually saving your work, you will be golden if the little sucker decides to kick the bucket, or you decide to throw it off the atrium. Should you decide the latter, you better freaking tape it and send me a copy of the video (treebait@hotmail.com)!!!

The Mac

-The next thing to consider is not killing yourself when the Mac starts making Chernobyl noises as its monitor starts up. This is normal. And by normal I don’t mean that your computer at home should do this, I just mean that for this particular technology (equivalent to a German grenade circa 1920s, and just as dangerous), it is standard operating procedure. Booya.

-Another thing about The Mac is that—much like a good NWA intern—it will shut down and go to sleep whenever it feels like work is getting too difficult. When it does this (not if, mind you), the best thing to do is to wait a few minutes and then quickly jab the startup button like Muhammad Ali. If you do it slowly, or jab without enough zeal, your results will be less than satisfactory.

-Also, The Mac has a nasty little habit of shutting down of its own volition when you are in the middle of a project. Apple S, Apple S, Apple S. I can’t say this enough. You must save your work by the nanosecond on that machine because it is about as stable as a Japanese airport. I am going to eat some buffalo jerky now. It is a tasty treat. Oh, another sub note on this one, The Mac will freeze. If it does, the best thing I’ve found is to just unplug the little SOB and start over. There is probably a better way, but I haven’t found it, and as long as you are Apple S-ing like a humming bird on crack, everything should be cool as a cucumber.

As you can see from the above graph, The Mac has caused considerably more trouble than any other piece of Intern Technology and should be used sparingly. The laptop—another likely candidate—is no saint itself and shouldn’t be trusted as well. The scissors, on the other hand, have had relatively few explosions and almost no freezes or lags (sometimes an intern’s hands get tired after a whole lot of cutting, and some could be chalked up to user error). This piece of technology should be most widely utilized.

Top Secret Contingency plan

-Last thing, and you probably saw this one coming, if all else fails, throw the damn things off the atrium. Two points if you can hit a planter.

A real bona fide ADD post

2006-08-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

Hello all, today I come to you with an extreme disability to concentrate. You must forgive me if this is an eratic post wrough with spelling errors and bad grammar, but I simply can't help it.

I feel like I am in the throws of a crack addiction. I wonder if this is what it feels like? I think I just lost control of my legs, and there is a purple ardvark hovering above my head. Looks slightly like Jimmy Hoffa. Not sure what this means.

Okay, back to it. This job, I think it's this job. I have had nothing to do all day and the most normal I have felt was about two seconds ago when I typed the word "word," yeah, just there. I need a purpose, and this job does nothing to fill it. That is why I can go home and work for hours on video projects; because everything I do and create for a project at home is my own. It can be used. It is quantifiable. It is tangible. It is bona fide. That last one is the most important.

And I am not using the term bona fide in its exact, original context, but (a), I qualified this post beforehand and told you all that it will be cracked out beyond belief, and (b), because that old context is quite crotchety and carries with it too much baggage. From time to time, words should be used in a new context just to revive them. For example, a popular new saying that has come about in recent weeks among the vocabularically-forward is to "peace the area." This means that you will be leaving in a somewhat haphazard and raucous fashion. It is taking a stodgy old word and breathing new life into it in an effort to make the world a more interesting place.

So anyway, this non-concentration stuff is starting to go away, but there is still a severe cobweb nesting cozily between my ears that is pulling the right neurons to tell my brain "go to sleep, Craig, no one will notice, you can just sleep right here and..." (snoring) Whoa! Okay, I'm back. I just took a little snooze there, but now I am back. Then the cobweb starts poking again, this time saying: "Craig, what about your queen-sized bed back home? Doesn't that sound far-preferable to this cubicle napping? (For some reason the voice always sounds like Dracula on valium to me)" This is when my willpower starts to get wane and I feel like truly the best thing to do would be to make sure I get to bed immediately. Whoa, this computer is starting to go a little crazy, I am going to peace the area before it crazhes and I lose all this stuff...

The meaning of life...

2006-08-22T13:26:00.000-07:00

Now, amigos, I would like to relate to you a short story that a smart person once told me.

There was an executive, we'll call him Doug for simplicity's sake, who went to a desert island on vacation. He was talking with a local man who was going out fishing at one point and decided to ask the man about his life; just for curiosity's sake.

"So what exactly is it you do all day?" Doug asked.

"Well," said Craig (because I kind of want this to be me). "I wake up in the morning, go out fishing for a bit until I catch enough food to feed my family, then come back and take a nap. After the nap, I go out surfing for a bit, then I head down to the local bar and have a few drinks and play some guitar with my friends and wife."

"Aaaah," said Doug. "This is interesting, what do you do next?"

"Well, then my wife and I go home, have great sex, go to sleep, and I get up in the morning and do it all again."

"Hmmmm," Doug mumbled. "I haven't had sex with my wife since the late '80s..." He shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable next to the island man. Doug always shook; like time was being wasted simply by being alive. Suddenly, his head shot up and all doubt instantly ran from his face. "Do you know what you need to do? You need to incorporate!"

"Hmmm, incorporate, eh?"

"Yeah, INCORPORATE! All you have to do is get a bunch of the other island guys to go out fishing with you and then you will make a lot of money and you can retire!" Doug was foaming at the mouth.

"What would I do when I retire?" asked Craig.

Doug shook his head to clear it and get rid of the foam. "Well, you would get up in the morning, fish for a bit, go home, take a nap, get up and go surfing, then head down to the local drinking establishment and play some guitar."

Craig laughed. "What about the sex?"
Doug's face went blank. "Remember I haven't done that since the late '80s. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I get so busy..."

If you didn't understand the story, you are probably reading the wrong blog (or I forgot to proofread, it happens. WARNING: recycled joke.). If you did get it, take it to heart. Don't be that investment banker working for the amount of zeros behind his check. Do what you love, do it often, and, as always, keep expanding your horizons.

Intern knowledge-giving letter

2006-08-21T08:36:00.000-07:00

Hi there, public,
this is a letter, verbatim, that I am passing on to my next-of-intern at Northwest Airlines. I apologize for the unusually clean content, but this IS an internal communications vehicle, and, as such, can't contain the edginess you have come to expect for Expanding Horizons, but I hope you still enjoy it.

New Intern,

I would like to take this moment to pause and reflect on all the internly things I have done at this internship, and to let you know, dear intern, that things will likely be equally interney for you here. So congratulations on that.

The fact that I will probably never see the fruits of this labor (I am moving to FL to escape this ridiculously cold weather) does not hinder me at all in this endeavor, and that is called self-motivation—which brings us to our first lesson. Self motivation is very important in this internship as it allows you to function without the constant help and support of your editor, Mr. Scott Fagerstrom (you’ll have to excuse the timeliness of this letter if Scotto is no longer around). See, you may find yourself wondering if it is all worth it when you are sitting around sometimes with nothing to do, but then you have to consider the fact that when you do get things to accomplish, they will probably come in Mongol hoards and be due yesterday, and you will be so overwhelmed that you will long for those times when you had a second to think. So remember: cherish your down time and try to find as many things as possible to keep yourself busy.

Next point, be sure to keep busy. I don’t say this for the good of Northwest Airlines—although I have only the company’s best interest at heart—I say this because it will help you get through the day. Sometimes cubicle life can get pretty boring, and the best way to ensure you don’t hang yourself with your mouse cord is to immerse yourself in work. Oh man, I just got a strawberry seed out of my tooth and it feels great!!!

So anyway, this handy little intern bible (or Koran, or Sudoku book; whatever you prefer) will help successfully navigate the epic obstacles that surround you at all times when in Building A. Some topics: the cafeteria, finding other buildings, uploading Newswire, uploading ePassages, accessing voicemail, not drooling while you sleep at your cube, etc.

So, from me to you, enjoy the Intern Alpha handbook (everything sounds cooler when you throw an “alpha” in!).

-Former Intern

p.s. all the info for which I have electronic copies will be in the k/common/passages/miscellaneous. If you don’t currently know what this is, you soon will!!

Cheeling

2006-08-18T14:59:00.000-07:00

Today I would like to take a few minutes (something all of us should do once in a while) and speak to you all (Ben, Ebes, and Shannigan) about tranquility. Now, I am not talking about some chilling in front of the television with a PBR and your favorite mullet wig, I am talking about real tranquility. I am talking like Ghandi-ass, Buddhism kind of calm. The kind of calm mentioned in my last post as I was sitting in 95 degree water on a blow-up mattress in the middle of a crystal clear pool with blue skies above me and the only responsibility for the weekend was to be as irresponsible as possible. Now that is chilling.

I think more people need to do this. Too many folk happen upon a lucrative job and get the money buzz and have no choice but to keep going up and up and working more and more until they have no time at all to do things and can’t enjoy the shit they buy that’s actually the shit keeping them working. This is not chilling. This is amassing crap you don’t need. Some of the happiest times I’ve had were when I was living like a gypsy in Europe with only the clothes on my back, the stuff in my bag, and the memories in my head.

This is what I think about as five o’clock creeps toward me and I think of what a waste of talent and time life can be when you’re not doing what you want. The happiest people do whatever they want whenever they want. Look at The Fonz. Did he ever take any guff from anyone? Hell no. Did whatever he damn well pleased, and he seemed to be a really happy guy. I was reading a story about Jack Johnson the other day and he said how he had started playing with his band in HI and was discovered by some big fuck-off record label like Columbia and they were making him offers. Jack was classy enough not to mention how much money they initially offered, but he said he told his buddies that they should just say no. He said he was perfectly happy with how much money he was making at the time, and he didn’t necessarily need more fame in his life either.

They doubled the offer.

This story segues nicely into our next topic of conversation: How I am going to throw my computer off the atrium. Okay, small joke, I will not be throwing it because it could potentially damage the foliage at the bottom, and that just wouldn’t be fair.

But more seriously, the best career advice (or relationship advice) I have ever gotten is these simple words: don’t be afraid to walk away. I’m serious right now, like Jack Johnson was willing to walk away, when I’ve had relationships start to go south, or girls losing interest, it’s like a freaking hot girl defibrillator to walk away. People who crave attention just can’t handle it, and to balanced people, you are instantly more desirable.

Without time to dispense more wisdom, I will leave you with those words for the day and promise a more comical post next time. Remember to chill this weekend.

Not Your Average Orlando Trip/One Man’s Yardbird is Another Man’s Chicken

2006-08-16T13:09:00.000-07:00

So, as many of you know (okay, it is just me talking to me, or occasionally Ben...but still, I like to think that someday Expanding Horizons will get the wide-spread media attention and notoriety that it deserves, and the archives have to be ready), I made a little jaunt down to O Dirrty this weekend to check things out for a possible move.

Before I went, I knew this wasn’t going to be any average trip to Orlando. You know: a trip to Disney World, maybe some boo-fays, a CAR to get around, a room without bugs…that sort of thing. The other reason I knew was because everyone told me beforehand. Staying in a hostel you say? What’s that? Oh, I’ve seen the movie, you’re crazy. What are you going to Orlando for? Looking at an apartment? You’re going to move? Last week you were moving to St. Paul! You’re crazy.

Yeah, thanks. Life hasn’t been exactly predictable lately, so I figured this trip would continue in the same fashion and I would just roll with it. So when I waited two hours for a shuttle to the hostel and arrived at 2:30 a.m. on Friday, I just rolled with it. When I woke up the next morning and everyone was Japanese, I just rolled with it. When I was the only person in my room not going to Disney World, I just rolled with it.

Things tend to work out better that way. Otherwise you might just get caught up in the reality of the situation: that you’re surrounded for the next two days by Japanese kids who wake up at the butt crack of dawn to take a 15-hour, Redbull-induced trip to see Mickey.

I had never felt more alone.

No, but seriously, they were really good people. So after the bevy of Magic Kingdomers took off for the day, I slept another few hours and decided it was time to hit the old public transport system on an epic odyssey to find the fabled Lake Fredrica Resort; my possible future residence.

After consulting the front desk and finding out it was only about a 30 mile journey, I wondered what I would do for the rest of the day as I strolled to the Waffle House for some downhome sustenance. (More about WH when I consult my notes).

The bus ride turned out to be just over three hours one way to make the 30 mile jaunt. Not bad, IF YOU’RE RIDING A FERRET!! I had to buy two bus passes each way because they only lasted 1.5 hours each! On the bright side, though, my six bucks in fares probably went to the air conditioning that kept me alive throughout the day. Oh yeah, I haven’t mentioned yet, it was like 190 degrees in Florida. Like I said, it was an epic odyssey.

I entered the resort lobby looking something like The Road Warrior (yeah, I’m talking about present-day Mel Gibson; he is looking rough) after the journey (I ended up going about 15 blocks past the resort and having to walk back) and checked out the place. It was nice. Really nice. Just under $300 per month (with a couple of rawdy roommates) for a private lake and like 1200 square feet, right near everything. Nice. I’ll take it.

So after chowing some tasty Mexican and enduring public-transport-types for another three hours, I made it back to the hostel. At this point, an extreme sense of relaxation set in as I realized that I was “stuck” in Orlando until Monday morning and I had already accomplished virtually everything I had set out to do (mind you it was only one thing)!! I felt that I had to use this feeling to my advantage, so I hit the pool immediately and proceeded to repose to the best of my abilities. As I was bobbing on an air mattress in water as warm as the 95-degree air while Bob Marley sang the immortal chorus of “Singing don’t worry about a thing, cuz every little thing is going to be all right,” I think I was about as reposed as one person can possibly be. I was reposed enough to take a six-hour public transport ride for the second time that day…okay, I didn’t have to do that, and nobody’s that reposed.

So that night I schooled some Asian kids in foosball (which some limeys called table football, which made me angry and lead to even more ass-kicking) and then went out to Disney’s Paradise Island (That’s right, you can never fully escape Mickey’s presence when you’re south of the Mason Dixon Line) with some new-found friends. There were five clubs, and the techno one had a revolving dance floor. Pretty sweet/really confusing when you’re drunk. I continued my saga of never being able to successfully hit on a girl at a club (I think maybe it’s because I dance like a camel in a wind storm), and after drinking some Chinese beer in a moving vehicle, paying $7.50 for a jack and coke, and hitting the T Bell, it was time to rest for the evening.

I awoke on Sunday in the P.M. and—on a hot tip from a friend—started walking my ass three or four miles east to see the Baby Gators. Oh wait, did I say see? I meant feed, beotch!! Yeah, that’s right, feed! So after having a conversation about everything and nothing under the sun with the County Road, I was baby gator feeding in no time. It was cool, you could hit them on the head with a piece of fake meat and they would snap at it and all gather around like…well, like baby gators!

After this, I ended up heading back to the hostel and hitting the pool, where I met Victoria, the “Fit-but-don’t-you-know-it” Russian girl, and chilled out after my hard day of baby gator feeding.

Things started to slow down a bit after this, and I will spare you the gruesome details of sitting around the hostel watching City of Angels, freaking out the Irish girl by eating fake crab meat, playing basketball like a newborn deer, and chillin’ like a villain for the rest of the evening.

So I ended up spending part of the night (got up at four a.m.) at the hostel and then taking the shuttle back to the airport where I gypsied-out for a bit until I had to hop on my flight and take first class all the way home. Not a bad weekend all around. It wasn’t a fast weekend, it wasn’t an entirely slow weekend. It wasn’t uber interesting, nor was it boring. I will say, however, that it was not your average Orlando trip.

quick post

2006-08-07T14:51:00.000-07:00

Hey there bloggee land! How are things? This is just going to be a quick post today (as indicated by the ever-so-descriptive title--we just make it easy for you on Expanding Horizons--we also like to point out the obvious, like how I forgot to turn off the itallics! Yay!) So anyway, I have a decision to make, and this baby's a whopper. I am thinking about moving to Florida. Now don't get me wrong, my loyal and friendly constituents (incorrect use of this word. as this is a quick post, I will not take the time to find a real-world-friendly noun to replace it, but instead I will just continue to make small amendments to the post in parenthetical notation), I love my life in MN more than ever right now, I have a nice girlfriend (I KNOW!! I thought I was gay too!!), a cheap place to rent, a new computer to edit things on, and a pretty decent job that allows me some blogging time, but very soon winter will come.

For those of you who haven't experienced the legendary Minnesota winters, don't! Stay in sunny, beautiful states and don't bother coming to this frozen tundra. Need some evidence?

Salt sucks. Ice sucks (unless it is in its delicious creamed form, in which case it doesn't suck, it melts). Cold sucks (I almost lost a digit walking to class one day, and I'm not even in the coldest part of MN; people in Duluth have to grow beards just to survive! Yes, even the girls!).

Not convinced yet? Well, let me just tell you that I can't wakeboard in the winter either. Now, the rumors you've heard are true, I am a bit hobbled at the moment, but for the love of Bonifay it won't be for long! If I stay in MN, it is very likely that I will mend just in time for the lakes to freeze over and I will have to masturbate to The Book Wakeboard DVD collection for the next 20 months (that's how long winter feels like in MN).

Really the only positive I see about winter is being able to snowboard (I don't do this in MN anyway because we don't get enough snow), and wearing cool winter jackets (Seriously, I have a really styley one, but I am thinking it probably gets just cold enough in Florida to be able to wear it; those people wear parkas when it gets below 50 degrees anyway).

So, dear friends, it is with the immortal words of the famed poet Robert Frost that I leave you for today: "Winter fucking sucks, move somewhere warm, beotch."*

*Frost never said this nor has he ever used the word beotch. He wouldn't condone such language and the fact is I just made that quote up now and wanted to attribute it to someone intelligent in order to lend crediblity. I think it worked.

Sea Doo sees me wakeboarding in a national ad campaign

2006-08-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

I was truly dazed by this. The fact that someone would pay me (aka Cajun) to take off work to sit in a boat and wakeboard once in a while was a job that porn stars probably dream about.

It went like this: I drove up to Shell Lake (aka Bum Fuck Egypt) late on Monday night after forgetting that I had to pack and stopping at my parents’ house for some Boost Nutritional Energy Drink for old people (Seriously can’t get enough of this stuff). I was driving a Saab Viggen with a clutch, and since I drive a manual like an infant and my dad warned me three times about the cracked-out Wisconsin deer, I was tense to say the least. Just when I thought I had reached the Canadian border, I hit the town of Shell Lake and the massive, log-sided Americinn was waiting for me. At this point, I would have taken a gutter and a bottle of gin with a Goodwill jacket for a pillow, but I was pleasantly surprised.

My soon-to-be-buddy Cody (soon-to-be-alias Razorback) was checking in as I got in the door and enquired as to whether he would be getting a Jacuzzi is his room. He was denied. I was not. They gave me a room with a king size, wood-framed bed, a Jacuzzi, and as much square footage as my entire apartment. It was sick. I didn’t even know what to do with all the space so I just threw my stuff all over so I could feel like I wasn’t wasting it. Same with the air conditioning. I got the room down to about 40 degrees and then slept in everything I owned just so I could feel like I was getting the full effects of the freeness of this beautiful room (I made that last part up).

Then came the long-awaited sleep…wait, I made that part up too. I didn’t catch a wink that night. After having the opportunity to sleep only about five hours, I tossed and turned and thought all things wakeboarding until the buttcrack of dawn arrived and it was time to house some continental breakfast in preparation for the day’s riding. When I say the butt crack—let me just be crystal clear—I don’t mean a little depositable plumber’s crack, I am talking the hairy full moon here. I am talking never-seen-the-light-of-day white.

I am talking 5:00 a.m. call time here people.

I know, I will give you a second to realize the full majesty of this cyclopean task. Back on your chair again? Had a bathroom break? Did you get a clean pair of grundies? Good. Let’s continue. So after eating I limped the Viggen to Jim Gallop’s lake cabin where all the magic would soon happen. And magical it was. There was an eight-foot A-frame rail, two boats, like 15 jet skis, and a mirror beneath us. And because we had risen earlier than any human has ever risen before, there was a layer of fog over the entire lake that made it look like we had gotten up before the laws of physics and we were riding on secondhand bong smoke. Crazy. (Look for the amazing stories of Expanding Horizons to be augmented by pictures in the near future as well.)

Our first rider up, and the featured rider for the weekend, was Jade Whirley (aka The Viper; I know, it sounds like an STD, but a cool one). Jade proceeded to kill the A-frame with a barrage of ridiculous sliding that culminated with a gapped gnar gnar (this is how we will refer to this trick because I am not entirely sure how far he spun as I was usually picking my jaw up from bottom of the lake and cheering like a raped ape).

Then it was my turn. Now, as you are all cherished friends of your humble narrator, I feel I can tell you in good confidence that this was a learning experience. I had hit a few rails at Kansas City (event relation appears below), but nothing to prepare me for getting towed into an eight-foot A-frame made of board-munching fake wood (make a mental note of this last comment, dear reader, it will be important for future posts and may even save your life). They didn’t require helmets, but this was one time when I wasn’t skipping on the safety equipment. I did what I did and learned a lot from the Vipe and Doug, my benevolent driver.

Then it was Kyle Walton’s (aka Scooter) turn to kill it on the wakeskate. If you’ve never seen this kid ride, you need to check it out—just the steez factor is worth watching. Scoot did all manner of flippy, spinny tricks with which I am not completely familiar, but I know I saw some beautiful big spins caught real high and he “popped his shit” on a massive kickflip (Seriously, you could have fit a Shetland Pony underneath him.) Then Kyle, with some egging from the crowd (aka Cajun, Viper, The Maven, and Razorback) decided it was a good idea to try to back lip the A frame.

Good idea Kyle, real safe.

Scootaloop got about half way up and then got bucked and grazed the rail with his back to land with his head about a foot away from the supports. Twice. He did it twice. (I will try to obtain photos of this; it’s just too good.) Scooter decided to take a rest after the second try and we all ate some of the best catered BBQ ever made in the great town of Shell Lake. Then it was time to chill for a bit. After an adrenaline rush like a bucking from the eight-foot monstrosity, it was time for the hammock.

Jim was nice enough to take us out to his grown-up tree house too. It was about 30 feet off the ground and could sleep four people very comfortably. Viper got bucked from his ATV after a quick wheeley attempt by The Raze, but he was on his feet before anyone could laugh and mock. That is a lie, we laughed, and we mocked. After this we had to run back to the beach because the helicopter was on its way. Now, the first rule of helicopters is: never get out uphill from a helicopter, but the second, only slightly lesser-known rule is never look at the helicopter.

This is because there is always a little man with a little camera on the helicopter, and he is always shooting pictures of you, so you look like a bad porn star if you look at the helicopter. This rule applies even when the helicopter is like 15 feet above the water (or about seven feet above the boat’s tower) and humming along next to you. It does not apply, however, when the helicopter gets about three feet above the tower. In this case you scream like a little girl and hope you make it out alive. I made it out alive, but damn I was smelling chopper gas for the rest of the day and my vocal cords hurt!

Jade went out first, stuck his run and threw the handle. He was done. That was all he needed to do, and Jim got all the shots he needed. Then Megan (aka The Maven) stuck her huge backrolls and the tweaked tail grabs that made Scooter go nuts (Seriously, homeboy can’t get enough of the tail grabs).
We continued like this—hurry up; wait—for the rest of the day and then when evening set in we had some lifestyle shots around a campfire in which everyone was subjected to my impromptu guitar bellowings and we all ate the props (aka: burnt hot dogs). The next day was an early one as well, but like an hour later, so I couldn’t quite see God’s balls with the majesty of the scene, but it was still pretty freaking picturesque. There was a pretty good on-shore wind today with some rain in the afternoon, so the video shoot was cut short for the moment. Then came the fateful words “let’s make a wakeskate.”

At this point, my cherished friends, is when the epic tale of the “Widdlestix” company genesis intersects with our current tale. Look for the full literary account you know and love (especially if Alliance Wakeboard magazine wants to use the story; it was just forwarded to graphics) as well as a photodocumentary of the monumental occasion. It pains me to gloss over this, my faithful comrades, but rest assured, there will be a premium article written very soon to document this occasion. I will repose for the moment on this subject.

We were released shortly after Kyle and Cody’s first ride on the new company’s home-made board, and our only immediate plans involved six little letters arranged into two well-needed words: the bar. This was our late night. Almost everyone ended up getting to Patty’s (or suzie's for something like that), the only bar in town, and we partied it up until the wee hours. The ever-benevolent Mr. Gallop was nice enough to buy the bar a round, and we were more than willing to accept, thereby increasing the distance of the bar from the hotel. The hotel used to be about 200 feet away, but by two a.m. it had become unfathomably distant in the zig zagged, swerving pattern we had recently become accustomed to. The dangers mounted along with the distance. Even the bravest lad could become disoriented and hypnotized by the Americinn sign and—despite never taking his eyes off of it—never reach his hotel bed for the night. A scary thought, I know.

Thankfully, everyone made the crossing and showed up the next morning—some in better condition than others. Scooter was looking a little rough. He sounded like a 50-year-old female waitress who had smoked a pack a day for the last 48 years and was one step away from a cancer kazoo (“you want some cwoffee, hon?”). Despite the fact that he was still drunk, Kyle killed it for the helicopter, shoving and big spinning over the cameraman wading in the water with the chopper thumping along above. After another great meal and an even better paycheck, it was time to part ways and reflect on how to write the article. It was a sad and jerky drive home (although I didn’t have too much time to lament as I got lost several times) but an amazing opportunity that would undoubtedly lead to several more. This concludes the longest blog post ever to grace the electronic goodness of Expanding Horizons (I promise I will try to get paragraph breaks in here eventually; it just looks less conspicuous to write in large blocks at work. See that, I'm a man of my word).

2006-07-28T13:56:00.000-07:00

Hello all,
this is a version of a story I sent out to wakeboarding magazine in hopes of fame a glory in the form of a printed byline. They haven't bought it by press time, but we are holding out hopes for the future of this little baby to make it beyond the three readers of Expanding Horizons.

Hed: I am really not good at these.
Dek: I'm worse at these.
One day it occurred to me that riding cable parks has become a completely different facet of wakeboarding that a great part of the community has never experienced. It also occurred to me that I had been wakeboarding exclusively behind a boat since the days when wakeboards only had one tip. I decided it was time I experienced this new phenomenon.
Being from Minnesota, this could pose a bit of a challenge. But, being an intern at Northwest Airlines, it just so happens that I get one free flight per month through N Dub, and I had to use it up on June 30 before it expired at the end of the month.
So I jumped on the internet and searched through the cable parks. It quickly became apparent that although Kansas City is a sick town with amazing night life, great people, and — oh yeah, the newest North American cable park — the number of people flying to KC does not reflect how cool the city is. It's amazingly easy and cheap to fly into KC. It was decided. I flew out there at the butt crack of dawn on the first in search of the baddest cable park north of the Mason Dixon Line (the only one, in fact).
I was flying solo on this one, so I rented a beautiful 2006 Ice-Blue-Raspberry-Lemonade-KOOL-AID-colored Monte Carlo for its steez factor (it went to 11) and its massive trunk. You see, dear friends, as money is somewhat tight and I was all by my onesee for the journey, I felt the best bed I could have was a mobile free one: the back seat/trunk of the Monte.
After almost driving the wrong way through the spike strips out of the parking lot, I classed it up at the Waffle House and was on my way south to KC. I finally made it through downtown KC (I seriously recommend the 635 bypass; the metro smells like meat packing), and consulted my map, feeling sure that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and had ended up just west of that river in Deliverance. Could it possibly be this far out? Turns out it could. I swallowed hard as I turned off the paved road and tried to take it easy on the Monte's suspension by slaloming around the Volkswagen-size potholes. Then I remembered that although the Monte was beautiful, she was indeed a rental, so I ceased swerving and charged through the path at a mighty clip. I came around the bend and was stricken dumb by the mythical site of the cable towers looming over the glassy Kansas City Cable Park. It was a wakeboarding oasis in the middle of BFE. I think I scared the attendants a little as I charged in the office claiming I had come from Minnesota and demanded to ride from sun up to sun down (the sun was already up). They told me to chill out for a bit as they wouldn't be opening for another half hour, so I got directions to the nearest gas station and bade them farewell for the moment.
The Monte and I again charged down the cratered path into the depths of Hicksville to the gas station for some Redbull, sunscreen, and a disposable camera (wanted to be sure I could catch all the neck beards and mullets on film to show the boys at home). Then I saw something that made me terribly sad: It was a fully loaded X Star traveling to a local lake at about noon on the first of July. The reality of the situation was that this X Star would not be used for wakeboarding that day; it would be a 60,000 dollar drink dispenser and its unfortunate owners would sadly break out the tube for the afternoon as they waited for about an hour of good riding at dusk. If you've ever seen pictures of wakeboard boats that have sank in the sometimes-treacherous waters of Lake Powell, you know the sickening feeling I had at this moment. After a moment of silence I felt better as I realized I had six hours of continuous riding time ahead of me.
Fully bro-ed up and feeling really good about my decision to ride the cable, I proceeded to roll dirty into the park, and after missing my first dock start, I rode with all the local boys for the best part of six hours, never waiting more than three minutes for a ride. I was like a kid in a candy store. A ____ thousand dollar, 23-mile-per-hour {{need to check this}} candy store on a lot of Redbull. The owner and developer, Mike _____, was immediately cool and hooked me up with everything I needed.
Mike saw the opportunity for a cable park back in ____ when a massive hole was dug in preparation for the local freeway. Mike bought the land, and instead of filling in the hole, he reshaped it into an oblong donut shape and waited for it to rain. They pumped in some water from a local stream, but for the most part, the bed of clay lining the hole served as an all-natural reservoir and a few structures, and six towers later{{check this}}, a cable park was born. (quote).
Once I started to get a hold of the cable and stopped getting slammed because I neglected to get between the corner buoys, a couple of local riders, Ben ____ and ________, the cable operator, were nice enough to tell me how to load the line. You just play tug of war with the cable and then you will fly up in the air, you say? Well all right then. Now, for those of you who have ever tried an air roll behind the boat and slammed really good (I got a black eye one time), this can be pretty scary, but you must remember that a cable is a very different animal than a boat and if you commit to Ben and _____'s instructions you will probably be all right. I did, and a back roll to revert was right there. I started to get more confident. A raley you say? Okay. Hark, did someone ask me to try a half cab roll? Not a problem. What's that? A switch raley?
That one was a problem.
After having my bell rung like that, I decided I would end up like Gary Busey if I didn't slow the progression down a bit — it was time to hit some sliders and kickers. With one four-foot trannied kicker, one eight-foot launch ramp, a wall ride/six foot A frame, a 40 foot flat bar, and a 30 foot kinked rail {{list continues}}, KC has just about every structure you could ever ask for.
Besides a ridiculous cable park, KC also has some of the nicest people you will ever meet. Everyone there—novice to expert—was instantly a member of the wakeboarding family, and they recognized their own. So after I told my story and where I was staying that night, I had no less than five offers of couches for the night (although I was fully prepared to sleep in the Monte).
After the cable closed and I couldn't possibly hit another slider, Mike took me back to downtown KC (the only part that doesn't smell like meat packing) where he and _____ from ______ watersports were hosting a rail jam by the Mighty Mo for a town festival. The setup, by _________ out of Texas, had riders starting out of the back of a trailer and hitting a _________ foot pool, ollying up onto a ______ foot ramp and down a ____ foot ramp into the ______ pool to finish with a slaysh to spray the crowd. After some local riders proceeded to kill it on the rail, the crowd finally thinned and we went out to hit the town.
After six hours of riding, six hours of partying, and three hours of sleep, I navigated the Monte back through the meat packing capital of the free world, had one last hoorah at IHOP, and caught my flight back to Minnesota to crash out before telling all my buddies the story. After not knowing what to expect, it turned out to be one of the best days of the summer and I am eternally grateful to the boys of KC (and some ladies) for showing me such a good time. That said, it will be a great day when I can look back and think how crazy it was that I had to travel all the way to Kansas to ride a cable as I laugh with my buddies on the way to our very own cable park in Minnesota. It's easy to be bitter that the David Hasselhoff-loving, mullet-adoring Germans have over ten times as many cable parks as we North Americans, but I'm here to tell you that with a standby airline ticket, a few 20 spots, a rented Monte Carlo, and the desire to ride, anyone can make a weekend out of Kansas City and have just as much fun as I had.

Good things on the Expanding Horizons

2006-07-13T15:07:00.000-07:00

Oh man, do you ever have those times when everything is just going your way? I seriously can’t lose right now. (Warning: this is going to be a very narcissistic post) I have a photo shoot with Sea Doo that the benevolent Mr. Chris Bank set me up with (happy birthday buddy!), and I just found out the details: It will be in Shell Lake, WI (that immediately says class and prestige right there!), they are paying me exorbitant amounts of money for the first two days (July 18th and 19th), and half a fortune on the 20th because it will be a half day. We are shooting stills the first day and video the second day. They will shoot from another boat, a PWC and a helicopter. I tried to make that really non chellant, but seriously, I almost hurdled my cubicle wall and jumped off the atrium ledge into a Northwest Airlines planter box right there. I couldn’t believe it. So that is going to be all kinds of steezy, but that’s not all!! This weekend, we are going on the boat on the river and getting belligerent on wakeboards and cheap swill followed by camping under the stars (see earlier Lake Minnetonka Virgin post for details of the happenings on the boats)!!! I’m a little bit excited about that one too. On top of that, and to keep on the wakeboarding theme, I sent a query letter out to Wakeboarding Magazine (the rag I’ve been reading since before wakeboards were twin-tipped) and got a response saying that I should definitely write about my trip to KC (see earlier KC post) and send pictures and I might be able to get it in the magazine!!! Seriously, almost lost it again there. It probably doesn’t help that I have had a lot of redbull, but I am really DHing stoked about this stuff. Then, on top of that, my supervisor at the shining N Dub comes up to me the yesterday and is like, “Craig, we are looking at creating a full time position for you.” I almost hugged him and then remembered that that would not be the epitome of casual in a business casual environment. I would be podcasting and trying to get them to accept blogging and doing a bunch of internet overhauls and just generally putting the ass in biznass!!! Anyway, I’ll keep you posted as to how these great things turn out, and you can expect nothing less than the delicious details in Expanding Horizons in the weeks to come.

Virgin Minnetonka

2006-07-10T15:13:00.000-07:00

This last weekend we went out on the big boat on the big lake.
Minnetonka was excessive. That is the best way to put it. Example: if one boat is good, then 500 are better. If nine beers are good, 27 are friggin’ ridiculous. I followed this general rule of thumb as much as possible. I daresay there is a lot of boating in my future.

This is a great situation because Chris (who owns the 32-foot, fiberglass drink dispenser) lives about a block away from me, either he or I or my sister has to drive, so one of us has to stay clean, but the rest are riding dirty just as far as the boat can take us.

There were a ton of people, both on our boat and in many other vessels, and since the lake had oceaned-out white caps on it, there was no point in wakeboarding. Everyone knows that if you can’t wakeboard and you’re on the water, it would just be silly not to drink yourself into a stupor. Out of sheer non-wakeboarding-driven depression we proceeded to do just that.

So we first went to the backside of Big Island, which was relatively tame except for a boat that had its bow pointed directly at us and some dude’s tallywacker was offensively strung in its banana hammock. Yeah, that’s right, dear reader, some people STILL WEAR SPEEDOS!!! If anyone is reading this and wears—or has ever considered wearing a Speedo—I highly suggest you cease and desist as I am currently forming a band of rogue water patrolmen (you could probably say Waterwear Etiquette Pirates) who will work for the good of the human race armed with only wetted towels primed for the snapping and water balloon launchers primed for the winging of rotten fruit. If it’s not immediately obvious what offense we are righting and how we will right it, you are probably reading the wrong blog (or I forgot to proof read; it happens) and you may actually be in danger of offending!! Don’t go down that road!

Okay, winding back down…so we went to the other side of Big Island after picking up a few more people and started in on the booze in a big way. Now, don’t get me wrong, we kicked this thing off quite well too: within ten minutes of boarding the vessel we were all given a jello shot and told to scurry along to the cooler. We abided. But anyway, we got to the front side of BI and there were probably 150 boats in a quarter mile stretch and they were all tied up together in an armada fashion so that one brave/drunk lad could consider himself commodore of the whole goddamn thing and just mosey from boat to boat drinking and carrying on. I abided.

So after a short stint of “taking it all in,” I finally reached my friend Erin on her celley and we tried to locate each other. I said we were in the big white boat. I’m an idiot.

It turned out that we were no more than 20 feet apart and it took only a short drunken doggy paddle on your faithful narrator’s part to close the distance. Matt and Steve were also there chillin’ on the beautiful “Lightning” made by our friends at Centurion. Nice job boys, keep up the good work.

After a short scare involving Matt’s girlfriend and a couple gallons of beer (like I said, excess), we headed off to Maynard’s at about 10:00 for a bit of drinking and carrying on (I am trying to keep the story fresh, but really, if you look up about four paragraphs, we were doing exactly this about five hours ago as well).

This is where my job gets a little tricky, my dear friends, because apparently alcohol has a hazing effect on the memory, and many of the heroic deeds of the night have been lost in the cheap swill of Bud Light and MGD that were ingested (mostly internally) in copious amounts. As I can no longer faithfully relate my story to you, I must sign off in the interest of accuracy and general posterity with respect to the great field of journalism. I hope for the best of times in the future for you, amigos, and wish me luck when, this Wednesday, Chris has a birthday and the whole scene will probably be repeated…but I forgot to mention that this time my PARENTS WILL BE ON THE BOAT!!!! This presents unique bonding opportunities the likes of which I dare not speculate in this work, but you can expect the full details to be related in Expanding Horizons in the coming days (or weeks, depending on how excessive Wednesday actually is).

Summary of KC daytrip

2006-07-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

(This was originally drafted as a query letter to Alliance Wakeboard magazine.)

My name is Craig Kotilinek and I am a 23-year-old intern at Northwest Airlines and I am obsessed with wakeboarding. I get one free flight per month through N Dub and had to use it up this last weekend before it expired. I jumped on the internet and searched through the cable parks, found KC, and flew out there at the butt crack of dawn yesterday.

I was flying solo on this one, so after renting the steeziest car with the biggest back seat and trunk: A 2006 Monte Carlo (it was also going to be my bed for the night to cut costs), I classed it up at the Waffle House and was on my way south to KC. After turning off the paved road and finally making it through downtown KC (I seriously recommend the 635 bypass; the metro smells like meat packing), I rolled dirty into the cable park in my Ice-Blue- Raspberry-Lemonade-KOOL-AID-colored Monte and proceeded to ride with all the local boys for a good six hours.

Everyone was like family. After I told my story and where I was staying that night, I had no less than five offers of couches for the night (I'm pretty sure they were a little bit jealous of the Monte though). After the cable closed and I couldn't possibly hit another slider, Mike took me back to downtown KC (the only part that doesn't smell like meat packing) where they were having a rail jam by the Mighty Mo. After some local riders proceeded to kill it, I went out with one of my new buddies and hit the town. After six hours of riding, six hours of partying, and three hourse of sleep, I caught my flight back to Minnesota. It turned out to be one of the best days of the summer and I thought the readers of Alliance might like to hear about it. Let me know what you think.

Your guide to surviving corporation life

2006-06-29T11:57:00.001-07:00

How do I explain my work situation in a way you will all understand. Here’s the thing, I am nothing like these people. Like 90% of them anyway. They have homes and cars and boats and kids and…well, it pains me to say this, but they have real jobs as well. I am still an intern, and somehow am stuck beneath these rooted Minnesotans who—for the most part—only care about the Building A gossip. And gossip the do. I think that is the part that annoys me most about a large corporation: the tendency for people to sit on their thumbs and whistle Dixie about everything under the sun that’s not even close to their business. The majority remind me of a family friend we have who does not work, is morbidly obese, a staunch Republican (this, we will find out, makes about as much sense as being morbidly obese and living on a lake), and is spiraling into the firm clutches of debt at an alarming rate (that's the part that doesn't make sense: why would you be a Poor Republican? It's like a meowing dog; it just doesn't add up) . That’s not to say that the people here are all those things, but the connection is made with the fact that most of the people here have time to sit around and gossip (as I sit around and type on my blog) like they are an overweight, unemployed, debtor who doesn’t have time to work, but somehow has time to sit around and bitch about everything that might be troubling her that day (the equivalent to the troubles a small, Eastern European country accumulates on any given day—you know, foreign defense, food distribution, male v. female national beard growth—that sort of thing).

With this melancholy introduction, my friends (or maybe just Caliber. You said I had to make reference to something that no one else will understand, so there’s your inside joke, bucko), I give you the Gonzo Guide to Surviving Blood-sucking Corporation/Cubicle Life. (applause.)

The first thing you need to do (signified by the number one off the left) is to keep to yourself in workload distribution situations. This means, for our less literate and jargon-savvy readers, that you need to avoid work whenever possible. It will only get you noticed, and if you are truly working for a Blood Sucker, this will only aggravate a bad situation. You need to head for the hills whenever duties are being dolled out, or you may just find it your last day before you’re ready to stop receiving paychecks.
The second thing is to make sure you are as tech-savvy as possible. This will confuse the stodgy old-timers who will probably be the ones threatened by your youth and vitality. These swine will try to get you in trouble whenever possible, but if you leverage your birth date (which equates to tech-savviness in their minds) as much as possible and speak very quickly while using various key commands that don’t necessarily have to mean anything as long as they look flashy, you will probably keep yourself out of stodgy hot water.
Another very important point is to look like you know what you are doing at all times. I know you’ve heard these a million times: “don’t fall asleep at the wheel,” “Don’t cook naked with anything that splatters,” but this time it really means something. For example, as I so eloquently find my steezy communication zone to you, Dear Reader, I have my back to the entrance of my cubicle and fully intend to keep writing on this manual for a full 30 seconds after someone attempts to get my attention. This shows that (A) I am doing something really important that I don’t have to be ashamed about (which I am, of course, they just might not understand it), (B) that I don’t give a flying fish what they think and (C) that I am my own boss and will not take any guff from anyone. Utilizing these three points, I could probably escape from any real company work for a good fortnight before people might start to wonder why I have been typing on the same document that is now 1,577 pages long for over two weeks. Even then, I’m pretty sure I could ward off evil-doers by simply getting older. That’s right, I would wait until I had a few crow’s feet, maybe a few wrinkles about the face (distinguished ones, of course), and then I would simply reemploy the three techniques and be guaranteed that my seniority would sail me through this cubicle hell hole for as long as I wanted to keep receiving paychecks.

I must tell you, of course, to use this information wisely and never disseminate it to the “wrong” people (stodgies, geezers, double-crossers, evil-doers and the like) or there could be dire consequences. But don’t worry too much about that, because they probably wouldn’t believe you anyway. So until next time, my cherished friends, keep your back to the enemy and continue typing for as long as you care to receive paychecks. As always, comments are welcomed.

Riding this one out...

2006-06-13T19:20:00.000-07:00

So my friend just broke up with her girlfriend and I asked her what she was going to do next and she said "well, like my Salvadorian friends would say, 'no tengo ni PUTA idea que hacer.'" Now, for my second-languagelly-challenged friends, I have gone to freetranslation.com to take care of this one for you, it quite literally means: I do not have neither PROSTITUTE idea that to do. Now, of course, that is not the exact phrase she meant when she said it, nor the exact message the Salvadorian gentlemen were trying to communicate as it were, but you get the idea. Why tell you all this humorous-but-useless information, you ask, Dear Reader? Well, it has mucho to do with my posting tonight as I sit in a drool-infested cubicle on what was a beautiful Tuesday night, wasting my life away as I wait for an overly-thin woman (who has probably gone to bed) to give me the green light to upload a pukey newsletter that no one really cares about anyway (well, they do, but they shouldn't because it is pukey). Soooooooo, Craig has been working--well, getting paid--since 7:00 a.m. and it is now 9:30 p.m. with no end in sight.

Now, most people would freak out right about now. I'm not going to lie, I've been there and back at least twice in the 14.5 hours I have been on duty. I laughed, I cried, I fell asleep and drooled on a cubicle that's not even mine!!! It's been a roller coaster of emotions, and while I won't be sad when it's...hold that thought, it JUST GOT WEIRDER!! My boss just called and told me to get a hotel room so I will be close to work in case this thing goes down. More to come, for now I am looking forward to HBO and business expensing anything I can get my mits on!!! Mwah ha ha!!

!Bio from Reno!

2006-05-08T14:43:00.000-07:00

This is the bio I submitted to be paraphrased on national TV. They didn't end up using it--or showing anything in general about me, but that doesn't change the fact that it was submitted with the assumption that everyone would see it! That is the important part!

Craig Kotilinek is an avid wakeboarder, snowboarder, dollar-margarita-drinker, and David Hasselhoff fan. He is many things to many people, but he means very little to most. He enjoys 50 degree water with air temperature just as cold, and he was rumored to have woken up next to someone’s cousin in a very socially unacceptable position on his recent trip to cloudy Reno. His favorite beer is not Natty Ice, nor will he ever drink such a vile concoction. Before this contest, he had wakeskated a grand total of about 10 times and that was 2 years ago. He gives his all to the team. His nicknames for the weekend were Johnny, Deusch, Chevy Chase, Dad, and Greg. He didn’t meet his teammate Mike Bush until they had flown in to Sacramento and were getting the rental car. He has been wakeboarding since Eric Perez was a pro and would like to get more consistent at his fashion airs.

The quality girls...

2006-04-03T22:21:00.000-07:00

I would like to explore for a little while the elements that make up the "quality girls." These, contrary to possible misinterpretations, are not the girls of perfect moral fiber and chastity. Instead, they are the girls with a real head on their shoulders who realize what exactly this life we live is about. They are not concerned about the trivial pursuits of a 9-5er or holding themselves to a myth that society likes to perpetuate. For posterity's sake, I will not name said myth directly in this essay, but I will suttly hint at it with clever inuendos and well-laid double entendres.

These girls of a true worldy quality have no thoughts of marriage at 20 or a suburban life with 2.5 kids and an SUV. They think of life on the open road with a dog and a van. They accomoplish the things that they must to make themselves happy and to meet ends, but then they dream about bigger things than the average sorostitute on a binge-drinking, slut rampage through frat row. They have ideas and thoughts that are coherently and cleverly spilled out to any man lucky enough to be on the receiving end of such consciousness. They are open to new ideas and philosophies about a world they know to be changing on a second-to-second basis.

You may be thinking, "Why now, after such a brilliant start, has Craig digressed to petty ramblings about phylosophical females who don't truly exist in today's world?" Well, I am--as always--here to respond to your queries, Dear Reader, and I will tell you that they do not exist in today's world any more than your faithful and vocabularically chaste narrator does (yes, I was being ironical just there). And the reason I can relate with any confidence the things I convey to you now is because I have met such a girl. In point of fact, she is actually quite smitten with your fearless scribbler. Her feelings are reciprocated and personally, I think this is a great thing. Coming from a man who won't even truly commit to grooming himself on a daily basis, this is quite the monument and warrants a blog entry. So, my faithful and verbally-stimulated friends, it is with sky high hopes that I leave you to ponder a future that I hope can be as bright as mine.

Broken jaw email

2006-03-11T10:53:00.000-08:00

After receiving some compliments about this email, I finally decided to dig it up from dust-covered ciber archives. Everyone was quite kind, and some people even forwarded this to other friends who didn't even know me--all of whom were laughing with me, not at, of course.
So here is the entire, unabridged, percocet-induced email:

All right, so here is the deal. I broke my jaw and it hurts to talk, or I would call y'all individually, but here is the story.

I was riding my bicycle at exceedingly break-neck speeds coming off of the Washington Avenue bridge when some Russian doofer (who I later found out had a really hot mom - neither here nor there) pulled out in front of me on his two-wheeler - I'm pretty sure he got his training wheels off the week before - going perpendicular to me and completley cutting me off. So, the combination of a side rail to my left and right, biking at mach chico, and duder's bonehead move left yours truly with truly limited options. I decided that it was inevitable that I hit him, so I braced for impact and tried to roll like James Bond. When I got up I discovered that his head and the pavement prohibited me from rolling exactly like James Bond, and this kid was bleeding everywhere; literally spraying blood from his head. I felt like my back right molars were about an inch closer together than they should have been. I gallantly took no concern of my malocclusion and immediately tended to my scalp-wounded, bad-biking, Kosik comrade who was very shook up. AFter he was secured and in the ambulance, the police said I could either walk the mile to Fairview Hospital, or pay $800-1000 dollars to take the short trip in style with all the flashy lights. I decided to take the walk—really just to clear my thoughts and enjoy the beautiful weather more than anything else. So, I get there, get checked in by a large skin-head who I now know has done blow off of a hooker's ass (again, neither here nor there), and got into the radiology department to have them tell me what I told them two hours earlier: my jaw is probably broken just below my chin on the left side, and in the middle of the condyle (the sticky-uppy part that points at your ear) on the right side. Super. Even more super was the Percocet they put me on. I then took a nice, leasurely, leave of reality for about 12 hours and got picked up by my mother to go shopping for cheeseburgers (the kind you can drink through a straw), and then it was off to surgery where there was the possibility of missing teeth, severed facial nerves, and awfully tight wires. Turns out the team of three incredibly talented women surgeons opted for three titanium plates and avoided all that, and after 3 hours of marathon surgery (the procedure usually takes about 1), I was sick from the anesthesia, but nearly good as new. After a little "Walker, Texas Ranger" and "Cops" recovery time, I sit in Wisconsin typing to you, dear reader, citing a broken jaw for broken engagements and communications. So, I just wanted to let you all know what happened without having to repeat this 20 times through a rubber-banded, still-broken-in-two-places jaw. I love you all, and seriously, if anyone can figure out how to make cheeseburgers and frozen pizza part of a "liquid diet," I would be forever in your debt, and would probably give you some Percocet for your trouble.

Sincerely,

-Craigo Roto

p.s. The jaw bra goes around my chin and applies ice. Clever name. and yeah, I've gotten more than enough crap between that, those stupid tights they make you wear, and the ass-exposing hospital gown (it's not a dress, thank you very much).

David Hasselhoff

2006-03-05T18:49:00.000-08:00

Joe Lang and I were listening to The Hoff's opus, Looking for Freedom, when a truly life-changing event ocurred. Joe wanted me to look up the Hoff's discography on Allmusic.com and instead of going directly to the page, I went to google and typed in "david hasselhoff all music" and hit "I'm feeling lucky." Because I was, and I wanted to listen to that. Well, Joe immediately went on a rant about how it would have been "so much quicker to go to the site" and "he would've already been there by now" and he "really thinks The Hoff is man-pretty (by the way, the proper term, Joe, is bonito)." So anyway, we ceremoniously arrived at a site with a headshot of THe Hoffster staring us in the face, so far so good, then, we made the discovery. Now, my dear friends, this video may shock you (as I said, it changed my life), but I urge you to watch it and get back to me with any comments. It is simply to much to charge one man with the cinematic and musical critique of such genius. I will tell you, however, that my favorite part so far is Hoff in a yeti suit. A close second is when he bites the salmon. WIthout further comment, I give you the opus to end all opi.

http://www.ifilm.com/ifilmdetail/2433520?htv=12&htv=12

My dear friends, I just realized that the title of the first review is similar to words I may have spoken in this review/post/love-letter-to-The-Hoff. I in no way intended to plagiarize this gentleman and cna assure you that even if I did unconsciously "steal" this d bag's concept, I wrote it better than him, and I am pretty sure that holds up in court. Booya.

The Relentless Pursuit of Happiness

2006-03-05T18:30:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone (no one actually reads this yet, but we're hoping this will make sense in the archives), last night--continuing into today--I had a revelation. I was talking with a buddy at the Snowboard Club party last night and we were discussing life after graduation and what kind of dog to get. Jesse was saying that directly after he graduates, he will buy a pickup and travel the states or South America in search of that elusive "self" that we felt so many people were missing. I thought this was a great idea, but never really consider it for myself. I always think, "I really need to get a job right after school and start making money and get a house and get a wife and have some kids and..." And blah blah blah, it always turns into a choice between a life of freedom on the open road and a more stable life in a cubicle. This is always the way it gets distilled.

Then there are the questions of the things you supposedly need that a stable life provides: health insurance, lots of money, a house, etc. I guess we reached the conclusion on Saturday, though, that these material things aren't really what's needed, and the only real things that are needed have to do with the relentless pursuit of happiness. I think this means something different to every person, and the purpose of life is to figure out what it means to you. This has nothing to do with a culture or a family or anything else, it is just you own pursuit, and too often it is influenced to a great degree with the aforementioned to the point that the individual's pursuit of happiness gets lost in the scuffle. I believe every time you meet someone and every conversation you have has a purpose, this one was reinforcing what I already believe: happiness isn't a yacht or a fat wallet; you can be just as happy in a trailor park as in a mansion if you are surrounded by the right people.

2006-03-04T09:35:00.000-08:00

So we had a party last night. It was a good time; not exactly what I expected, but it ended up being really fun. The issue I had, however, was with my speech. It felt the entire night that I was searching for the right words where just a week ago I felt like I had conquered the problem. It felt last night like a lot of my conversations, although topically interesting, felt plasticky and boring to me, and I couldn't figure out why.

So, through incredible scientific reasoning and methoding (you may not find that word in the dictionary, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist, it just hasn't been widely discovered yet), I am trying to deduce the change that has occured in such a short amount of time. I know that something is missing/added that shouldn't be there, and I am starting to wonder if it is writing. Last week I was pouring out copy whenever anybody needed it--what? you need 500 words about the modern hippopatomus? I can do that. You say you would like a two-column profile on a yeti? You've come to the right man. I could write anything last week, and I did it fairly quickly as well. Possibly as a result, I felt like I could also communicate my sentiments concisely and quickly. There was no searching for words or awkward conversation moments (okay, it was just to a lesser degree).

So anyway, I am writing to you today, dear reader, in an attempt to prostitute myself out to writing and see what kind of results I can get. This, in other words, is the most selfish thing I could be doing right now, but I hope you will get at least a bit of insight from it and I will keep you posted.

What can I say?

2006-03-04T09:27:00.000-08:00

So I couldn't decide if I should post this or not, it is a bit vulgar, but hey, it's fun, good writing. I guess I should also say that this was inspired by a true conversation, although the names have been changed to protect the innocent and any relation to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Joe: Man, can you imagine being a vanity plastic surgeon? Wow. It absolutely goes against everything I believe in about America and consumerism and frivolous fucking spending.

Craig: I believe in big breasts.

Joe: Well, yeah, there’s that, but not much else.

Craig: But people have to make a living somehow, I mean, they will find someone to do it. My issue is that I don’t know how you could possibly make beautiful women more beautiful by enhancing or flattening or whatever and then never see the benefits. Cuz when they leave you, the last you see of your painstaking time spent creating artificial attraction swaggers her ass out of the door with a bunch of bandages on.

Joe: And plus…

Craig: I know! It’s the fact that you would marry a girl—and obviously do some work on her—and then you would just think about forceps and stitches and number 3 silicone in reinforced bags when you looked at her.

Joe: I’m pretty sure I could get over it.

Craig: Well, yeah, but it would be tough.

2006-03-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

Adding to the 2.13.06 post on Justin Roth's blog, Driving With Rope, I must say, dating can really, really blow. Trying to find that special someone who can take your breath with her littler finger can be some of the most heart-wrenching, ego-crushing, munkey doo. That specific, exact, completely-original-female you would want to wake up next to for an undetermined amount of time.

On the other hand, however, it can be a serious thrill, and you can have some of the craziest times of your life while being single--that is--as long as you aren't constantly concentrating on being double. The key (as if I have had a successful date in the last...we won't get into that) is to enjoy the place you're in, get really comfortable with yourself, and most of all, recognize that there isn't that perfect person out there. The double-d heiress to a brewery just isn't bouncing along (did I say bouncing? I meant walking...), holding a couple of sixers and waiting for you to stumble through the introductions. There is, however, some nice girl you might meet at the gym or the movies or at class or at work, or really wherever (except the strip club: all instances I've heard of have ended badly), who will be just tickled at your particular brand of humor--mine has lots of corn.

Dating is kind of like punctuation (insert dorky, bachelor-of-journalism jokes here), it takes a lot of time to learn the rules, even more trial and error to put the rules to use, and a lot of courage at times. The upside of this is that when you learn the rules (I am still looking for the manual), things just fall into place and flow like they were meant to be. Also, people are fucking amazed when you can correctly utilize a semicolon or an em dash here or there; this is a general rule that applies to both dating and punctuation. So, my solitary souls, continue to head the call of the opposite sex, and when the time comes, have the courage to bang a semicolon or two in there once in a while.

2006-03-01T21:35:00.000-08:00

Hello all, yes, this is Valentine's day (with apostraphe, bitches) and I am in a somewhat less inhibited state. I have been drinking shots of Jack alternated with talls of Guinness and Sam's Club lasagna. Who are we kidding, I am fucked up. And loving it for the moment. Who is this, you say? This man who can pour an uninhibited stream of consciousness onto the page with minimal spelling and grammatical errors while his roommate researches the dangers of Percocet and Jack Daniels and Guiness and lasagna while John Butler and his Trio belt out in the background? Well, dear reader, the world is still figuring that out. More to come. Roommate has found out he is good-to-go with 6 325 mg pills and we will be back to attempting a viewing of Hide and Seek because it is on HBO on Demand and we already FUCKING PAY FOR IT!!!!!!