The Avett Brothers - Good Guys Finish First

“So you want to be in love like the movies/ But in the movies they’re not in love at all/ And with a twinkle in their eyes (ohh ahh ohh)/ They’re just saying their lines/ And so we can’t be in love like the movies.” This song was my first introduction to the Avett Brothers. A friend was visiting me in New Zealand and while road tripping around the South Island she played me this comical and catchy number. We were driving through Marlborough’s vineyards - drinking Sauvignon Blanc, eating olives and conspicuously dancing both in, out and on top the car. Needless to say, I became an instant fan after only hearing one song (admittedly, this new found love might have been attributed to the alcohol). But just as soon as I was introduced to the music, my friend and her iPod returned to the states and it was back to Neil Finn and Flying Nun bands for me.

Fortunately, upon returning home I was reunited with the band on coincidently, another road trip. I had two full weeks of cross-country driving to become versed in the Avett Brothers music and as each day passed my fondness for the band grew. From their early albums (Live at the Double Door and A Carolina Jubilee) to the more recent (Four Thieves Gone: the Robbinsville Sessions), the songs had staying (and driving) power. I was quite impressed that three men could make such intoxicating music with simply a standup bass, acoustic guitar, harmonica and banjo. Expressed in the Avett Brothers music are the sentiments and emotions we all feel but have difficulty articulating. It is the saccharine combination of words and instrumentation that makes the music so convincing. As many fans will attest, this North Carolina band is not to be categorized. Their mix of bluegrass, old-time, honky-tonk, Americana, folk and rock make for one hell of a musical cocktail!

I’ve heard nothing but praise about their live shows and recently had a chance to witness not one, but two performances in one week. The first took place in Philadelphia at the Trocadero and the second at the Chameleon Club in Lancaster. Since I only made it for half of the Philly show I can’t elaborate too much. But I distinctly recall a single Air Jordan sneaker being passed among the crowd. Now that’s punk rock! I entered the venue on what I think was the song “Pretty Girl from Chile.” I had to do a double take as I thought maybe I walked in on a hardcore show. The guys were electrically plugged in flailing erratically on the guitars and drums. I was unaware that the Avett Brothers even owned electric guitars and for a second it felt like I was witnessing Bob Dylan at Newport…minus all the disdain. The crowd loved the new amplified sound and the energy was contagious. It was a great, if brief, introduction for me.

After the foretaste, I was pleasantly surprised (and a little shocked) to learn they would be playing Lancaster. It takes an adventurous band to play an out-of-session college town on a Sunday night. Thanks to a friend (cheers - Caroline and Dane), my buddy, Janelle, and I were added to the guest list. Upon arrival I was skeptical that a significant number of people would even show. I think the last band I saw there was Boy Sets Fire back in 2002 and even though Lancaster has an affinity for hard-core music I recall the turnout to be most disappointing. But the opener, Jersey-born Nicole Atkins and her band, the Sea, helped draw a semi-local audience. While schmoozing, I learned that the tri-state crowd was well represented with hippies, punks, farmers and professionals of all ages. I knew I’d enjoy Nicole the second she sauntered on stage. Her onyx black baby doll dress was PJ Harvey meets Joanie Mitchell, accented with hot pink tights and knee high boots. Her music oscillates from catchy pop ditties to depressing pensive ballads – a definite treat for all the manics in the crowd.

Then the Avett Brothers took the stage. They were dressed in their characteristic suits, ties and sweaters. The first thing I noticed was Seth had shaved his chest length Civil War beard, making him appear a few years younger. They opened with the song “The Weight of Lies” from their newly released album Emotionalism. As a transient individual the lyrics of this song really strike a chord with me: “The weight of lies will bring you down/ And follow you to every town/ ‘Cause nothing happens here that doesn’t happen there/ So when you run make sure you run/ To something and not away from/ ‘Cause lies don’t need an airplane to chase you down.” The song has a gentle folksy feel complete with fluent guitar and tender humming. The night continued with classics intermittent with new songs. Janelle was excited to hear her old favorites: "Distraction #74, Traveling Song, and When I Drink" and I was eager to experience their latest material. Janelle informs me the addition of Joe Kwon on cello is fairly new direction for the band. Since the cello is one of my favorite instruments (next to the mandolin – which Scott, I think would nicely add to your repertoire), I was immediately excited to see Joe take the stage. It really complimented "If It’s the Beaches," making it an even more moving number. The combination of the cello and Nicole Atkin’s voice on "Swept Away" also proved a success.

As the title would suggest, the new songs are full of vulnerability, passion, and conviction. The crowd was treated to "Go To Sleep, Will You Return?" and "Paranoia in Bb;" as well as Scott tearing up the drums on "Die Die Die." I was a little disappointed in the absence of the allegorical "The Ballad of Love and Hate," but they had enough quality material that I quickly forgot. However, don’t let their boyish charm and gracious demeanor fool you. These boys can rock with the best of them! You know it’s an Avett Brothers show when throughout the set Scott breaks half dozen banjo strings and Seth ends up on his knees and back while shredding it up on the guitar. Add a little head sweat wiping and Elvis-esque gyrating and you’ve got a show to remember. With the exception of the rare NAPs (Non-Active Participants), the crowd was fully immersed in the music. I especially enjoyed watching a few couples contra dance in the middle of the floor.

If it’s not obvious enough, I’ve developed a real penchant for the Avett Brothers. They are the kind of charming country boys the girls want to date and the guys want to be. The music simply speaks for itself. The brothers produce rich harmonies and Bob strums the bass like it’s nobody’s business. They are the quintessential “good guys finish first” story. They’ve put out an album every year for the past six years with each one expanding on the talents of its predecessor. With an exhausting touring schedule, they continue to produce high energy shows without getting piss-ass drunk and always stick around to acknowledge their fans. Heck, their t-shirts are even American Apparel! Therefore, I strongly urge you to immediately start listening to their music and attend a show. They will be on tour all summer (www.theavettbrothers.com) and chances are they will be returning to a stage near you. But be sure to bring your dancing feet because once this machine gets rolling it is full speed ahead until the very end.

"You Can't Outsmart the Fox"

My Mother’s Day was celebrated with a family cookout and fishing along the creek. As Mom and I stood casting for trout she cheekily reminded me of an embarrassing situation that occurred when I was 16 years old. “Tell me again about the time you were arrested at Pinchot. That story amuses me.” My brother immediately interjected in his all-too-familiar mocking tone, “Ha ha. I remember that. Didn’t that warden want to send you to jail? I would have sent you to jail. PA’s lakes and rivers are no joking matter!” To which I annoyingly replied, “No, I did not go to jail… nor was I arrested…but I did have to pay a fine… and worst of all our High Life was confiscated.” Of all the stupid illegal things I did as a teenager, my friends and family will always remember me as the kid who got busted for fishing without a license.

This is how my crime went down: Every year, a group of kids from my high school rent cabins at the local state park. It is one of those quintessential high school weekends with copious amounts of alcohol, drugs and stupidity. A few of us arrived early Friday to claim our positions in the cabin. We still had plenty of sunlight so decided to head to the lake for some fishing. Ali, Mike and I were of the age requiring a fishing license. Mike had a legitimate license and three poles. Ali had never been fishing and was eager to learn so Mike grabbed the rods and I snatched up the tackle box and we all raced for the shoreline. Kendra fetched the stereo, dope and a beer and sauntered behind. She was more interested in dancing to David Bowie than in capturing innocent fish.

Ali took to the casting like monkeys take to trees and within five minutes she had actually caught herself a nice 10-inch sunfish. To many that would be grounds for laughing, but what was most impressive was how she caught it. There was no lure on that line, only an empty hook. Unfortunately, Ali ‘Who needs bait?’ K.’s celebration was short-lived due to the arrival of a dwarf-sized, overweight and bald PA Fish and Game warden. Boss Hogg accusingly interrogated us, “Just what do you kids think you’re doing?” Mike insolently replied, “Well, I think it’s pretty obvious. We’re fishing and she’s dancing,” pointing towards Kendra. She gave a sarcastic wave and belted out the chorus to China Girl, throwing in a few pirouettes for effect.

The game warden demanded to know our ages. Mike curtly told him 16. In unison, Ali and I coyly answered 15 while batting our eyelashes (knowing full well we were at risk of being fined). He then asked to see Mike’s fishing license. “Jesus didn’t need a fishing license!” he shouted in his best Mr. T. voice, before cooperating. The fish police saw Ali’s car and inquired as to who owned it. Mike claimed the vehicle. He ordered us to stay put and returned to his truck. A few minutes later a state trooper with flashing lights arrived on the scene. “Oh my god. Did this guy really just call for backup?” Ali laughed. The warden waved in the car and turned to face us. In the most menacing voice a short fat man can conjure, he growled,“You little weasels better not lie to me because I’m the fox. And guess what? You can’t outsmart the fox!” He then demanded that Mike follow him towards a tree 20 yards away, thus preventing any collaboration of stories between the culprits.

This entire time I am thinking why is Boss being such a royal dick and I wish I was high because this scenario would be even more hilarious! I mean this guy called for backup on three fishing teenagers. The other trooper informed us he called in the plate numbers and discovered the vehicle belonged to Ali. She was told to identify herself. By this time, Kendra’s DB dance party had rudely been interrupted and she grudgingly joined the rest of the girls for the investigation. This scene of demanding honesty, respect and IDs continued for another few minutes until the officer spotted our visible case of Miller in the vehicle. Damn! I knew we shouldn’t have driven the hatchback.

Meanwhile, a quick thunderstorm passed thru and Mike was left to endure it under a tree with the fox. The poor guy was soaked…and totally innocent. In the end, our beer was seized, our car searched for marijuana and Ali and I each were slapped with a $50 fine for fishing without a license. I tried to convince the trooper that I thought it was a Fish for Free Day but since it wasn’t, he didn’t bite. The fox kept reminding us that we were getting off easy since he could have fined us more for lying to an officer.

In retrospect (and by that, I mean a half-hour later) we knew we were stupid. Of all the places to fish without a license, we chose a highly patrolled state park. It was also foolish not to hide our beer. Although, we were lucky the corrupt trooper was thirsty because he just took the alcohol and gave us the obligatory “you shouldn’t drink underage” lecture. That day I did learn a valuable lesson. When it comes to fishing and having blatantly visible alcohol in your car, “you can’t outsmart the fox.” But when it comes to illegal drugs, the weasel wins (our dope was hardly hidden, resting in the middle of the car consul with only a Johnny Cash cd covering it).

After recapping the story to my mother, she simply sighed and smirked. “Oh the joys of adolescence.” Indeed Mom, indeed.

Book Review: Miracle in the Andes

Miracle in the Andes by Nando Parrado

Many of you might recall that god-awful movie, Alive, in which a young Ethan Hawke stars as a rugby playing cannibal who eats his team after his plane crashes in the mountains of Chile. Okay, so I don’t entirely remember the specifics, but I do recollect the standard Hollywood sensationalization and crappy ending so many of these “based on a true story” movies are known for. I also recall one redeeming quality in the form of a small cameo by John Malkovich…surely the film’s shining moment.

Anyway, the character that Hawke portrayed is named Nando Parrado and is no more fictional than present-day rugby star, Dan Carter. Parrado had the misfortune of boarding the plane destined for disaster on October 12, 1972. This book, Miracle in the Andes, is a first hand account of the 72 day ordeal this young Uruguayan rugby player experienced while being trapped deep in the Andes Mountains. As is the case with most books, this one is much better than the movie (even though the movie was actually based on the 1973 novel with the same title).

In the beginning, the reader learns that there are 45 passengers on board the Fairchild F-227. This includes family, friends and players of the Montevideo-based Old Christians Rugby Club. The team is on their way to Santiago to play an exhibition match. Although the weather looks ominous, the plane pushes on. Midway through flight, severe turbulence occurs and within seconds the plane crashes down in the mountains, dismembering both wings and tail.

Following the accident, Parrado lay unconscious for three days. When he awakes he learns his best friend and mother are dead and his sister is nearly lifeless. Over a dozen others were killed, including the pilots. With little food and even less medical supplies the remaining survivors band together. Injuries are treated and alcohol is rationed. While the players wait for a search team, moral is high that they will be found. However, as time passes, no rescue is successful and through the eventual repair of a radio the team learns their search has been called of completely. They are trapped at 12,000 feet with no plausible escape route.

As would be expected, the longer the players are stranded, the more lives are lost. But it is through Parrado’s unexpected leadership that so many men do survive. This extraordinary man leads the reader through a first hand account of surviving hypothermia, avalanches and making the ghastly decision of eating human flesh. His miraculous 10-day trek out of the Andes still leaves me baffled. Two months of less-than-minimal nutrition and makeshift alpine gear (his snowshoes were made of airplane seat cushions) are his only defense in the harsh tundra. How he down climbed some of those peaks in his condition with no ropes still confounds professional climbers!

One might think the trite motives such as hope, determination and religion were what kept Parrado alive for so long. While they may have played a small part (barring religion – see chapter ten), Parrado emphasizes love as his impetus for survival. Love for his dead mother and sister. Love for his hardworking father. Love for his unknown future wife. “Death has an opposite, but the opposite is not mere living. It is not courage or faith or human will. The opposite of death is love…only love can turn mere life into a miracle, and draw precious meaning from suffering and fear.”

Miracle in the Andes is a book that every reader can find relevance in. A few of its themes include: death, despair, isolation, religion, maturity, friendship, cooperation, confidence and love. For me, this book simply makes me want to be a better person. It inspires me to work hard at all my relationships, treasure what already exists and strive for what I have yet to achieve. I think that you, too, should give it a chance. Even if you are not the kind of person to allow a book to influence you, at the very least it does have educational value.

Be Forewarned - This One is Serious

How do you start a piece that involves the death of a friend? Maybe with a brief memory: “I still laugh recalling the time we each had to do four extra suicides for sassing our basketball coach. In our defense, he was wrong. We never should have run the full-court press.” Or how about a personal description: “She was a beautiful 25-year-old who loved people, sports, and animals and just had a real zest for life.” Or maybe with the newspaper’s headline: “Young Couple Dies in Tragic Accident.” As my shaking fingers enter these words, my heart palpitates and I endure my third day of stress headaches, I know I have a message I must send. I’m just not sure of the most effective way to deliver it…

A couple of days ago, my lifelong friend, Lindsay, and her boyfriend, Christian, were killed in an auto accident. The fatal accident is disaster enough, but upon learning the specifics, I become more upset. Lindsay and Christian were traveling to South Carolina to vacation for the week. While on I-270, around Frederick, MD, they encountered an aggressive driver. Witnesses reported obscene gestures being exchanged by the occupants of both Lindsay’s car and the larger pickup truck next to them. Suddenly, the driver of the truck sped in front of them and slammed his brakes. Christian swerved to avoid the collision and their vehicle ended up airborne, then the side of the road before hitting several trees and rolling the car. Lindsay and Christian were pronounced dead at the scene. The driver of the pickup truck never even stopped.

While I can sympathize with anyone who has lost a loved one in a car accident or one involving a DUI, road rage has never personally affected me…until now. We all know it exists; many of us have actively participated. It can be as simple as an excessive horn or flashing the bird, to tailgating or even following a car until it stops. But in this case, common ego-driven acts of road rage escalated into road violence and the death of two wonderful people. Therefore, I am using this week’s spot to remind everyone that our driving actions have consequences.

We are living in a world that appears to grow more impatient everyday. It's as if everyone has a destination they must get to NOW. Some people take egocentricity to the extreme and their disregard for those around them is disturbing. Tolerance is diminishing and anger management is becoming a lost skill. It seems that aggressive behavior is simply an accepted part of everyday living. All of these characteristics translate into inappropriate, and even belligerent, conduct on our roadways - especially the major highways.

I beg, plead, and implore you to think twice about your actions behind the wheel. Please do not reciprocate childish behavior, and certainly don’t provoke it. I don’t have the answer as to what calming method you should use, but if you begin to feel yourself losing patience, please take a deep breath, count to ten, put on some music, find your happy place. Do whatever it takes to compose yourself and be the more mature person. Not only might you be saving your own life, but also those of the people around you.

It frustrates me to no end to know this tragedy was the result of a senseless act that could have been avoided but was not. I am now without a friend. Lindsay's parents are without a daughter. Her sisters are without a sibling. All for what? To retaliate to a stranger’s highway aggressiveness, territoriality, and self-centeredness with more of the same? In two minutes that stranger has passed by and is out of your life anyway. Better to be the adult and act responsibly rather than possibly be the catalyst for road rage. Especially as one never knows when road rage will result in road violence and even death.

Roasted Garlic and Rosemary Hummus

Spring is just around the corner…or at least that’s what they keep telling me. And just as the flowers, robins and bunnies begin to emerge, so does barbecue season. While steak doesn’t particularly excite me, I do love making the side dishes that compliment a stomach-stuffing buffet. So here is my quick and easy recipe for hummus. This dip is great served with raw vegetables, pitas or even spread on a burger (truthfully, I have a close carnivorous friend who enjoys lathering up his burger with all things chickpeas). As with all recipes, the fresher the ingredients, the tastier the final product. Feel free to modify as you wish. I enjoy the combo of garlic and rosemary, but substituting parsley, thyme, sun-dried tomatoes, etc. works just as well.


Ingredients:
2 cups chickpeas
1/4 cup tahini
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon tamari
3 large cloves of chopped or pressed garlic
1 1/2 tablespoons of finely chopped rosemary
Dash of cumin, cayenne pepper and fresh ground black pepper


Preparation:
First, roast the garlic and rosemary in a drop of olive oil in the oven (8 mins at 350 or until slightly brown). Stir every couple minutes.

After chickpeas have soaked overnight (use canned if so desired) drain and set in food processor. If you're feeling especially patient and meticulous, pop off the skins. It makes the hummus extra creamy.

Add the tahini, lemon juice, olive oil, tamari and mix. After about a minute, add the garlic, rosemary, cumin, and peppers. Mix again and proceed until smooth. Upon tasting, continue to add cumin or pepper at your discretion. Garnish with a sprinkle of cayenne pepper and a small branch of rosemary.

Lucinda Williams shows how to "Get Right with God"

If you simply saw photos and listened to her albums, you’d get the sense that Lucinda Williams is a tough, edgy, “kick ass now - take names later” sort of chick. After all, she usually emits the rogue cowgirl look - donning t-shirts, black jeans, boots, dyed hair, heavy eyeshadow and tattoos. But watch and listen to her in person, and you’ll gain a different perspective: a cute, sensitive, shy songwriter who just wants to deliver a good time to her audience. Earlier this week, I was fortunate enough to witness the later at the Forum in Harrisburg.

My experience with this venue has been limited to a few performances by the Harrisburg Symphony Orchestra and one hilarious visit by NPR's Michael Feldman, so I wasn’t sure what to expect from a rock concert. With over 1700 seats, this rotunda is wider than most theaters and offers comfortable and surprisingly spacious seating. The building is most noted for its intricately painted ceiling. It is no Sistine Chapel, but the depictions of the night sky, complete with constellations and incandescent stars, make for a beautiful room. This sold out venue offered an intimate and supportive environment for our beloved Lucinda Williams.

My friend and I started the evening at a downtown Spanish tapas and wine bar (If you are ever in Harrisburg I strongly suggest visiting Suba and Manga Qui on North Street. The gourmet Mediterranean cuisine is delectable and the atmosphere is warm and welcoming). We fully intended to catch Alejandro Escovedo as the opening act, but instead ordered a generously-poured pitcher of homemade Sangria and began talking. Since we hadn’t seen each other in a while, neither of us wears a watch, and daylight savings came early this year, all concept of time was lost! By the time we walked to the theater, people were congregating outside, smoking cigarettes and energetically discussing Escovedo’s virtuoso guitar playing. We missed him by 45 minutes. Next time, only order Sangria by the glass. Lesson learned.

Lucinda Williams is a veteran in the music industry. She’s been performing for over thirty years and released her first album, Ramblin’, of blues covers in 1978. Her music is an impressive combination of blues, country, folk and rock instrumentation accompanied by well constructed song writing. Time Magazine even named her “America’s Best Songwriter” in 2002, four years after her best selling Car Wheels on a Gravel Road was released. Her resume includes collaborations with Willie Nelson, Emmylou Harris, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Roseanne Cash, Tom Petty, and Elvis Costello.

With our fourth row center seats, I had a great view of Lucinda and her three-deep backing band. The show started off on a rocky note when a coughing fit paralyzed her mid-way thru one of my favorites, “Drunken Angel.” After chugging some cough syrup (or more likely whiskey) she was back on track…only to be derailed at the start of the next song. She abruptly pulled the brakes on “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” to request adjustments be made on her microphone. Both of these stops, in addition to the unbalanced levels on the snare drum resulting in a distracting echo, did not bode well for the evening. Then, unleashing her southern charm, coy smile, and sweet Louisiana twang, she laughed it off with a self-deprecating remark, “I can see the reviews now.” The crowd chuckled and immediately all was forgiven.

I must admit I tend to have a love/hate relationship with Lucinda Williams’ voice. It is recognizable by its deep alto, husky rasp, and Southern drawl. In most cases, it compliments her emotionally complex songs. I swear I can actually hear her heart breaking when she sings “Those Three Days.” But sometimes it grates on me. She’s sort of the female equivalent to Bob Dylan and Tom Waits. You love the words, but on occasion, just can’t get past the growling delivery. However, tonight everything about her appeared equalized. When seeing her live you begin to appreciate her hardened exterior and inner vulnerability. At this show she sported a straw cowboy hat and hid her tattoos. She accessorized with a songbook the size of a medical dictionary. This I found a bit odd. I’ve never seen a performer of her caliber carry a songbook this massive! I think it displays her painfully shy side and acts as a buffer she can “hide behind” while on stage. My friend frankly suggested otherwise, “She’s lived a hard life. Her memory just isn’t what it used to be.” Whatever the reason, she referenced it a lot.

Even though Lucinda is touring to support her recently released album, West, she played a diverse collection from all of her records. She has a reputation of making her own rules, and while many artists with a new album would only play songs off that, she played what she wanted to. She also encouraged the crowd to holler out requests, which they eagerly did. I was very pleased with her play list. On one of my personal favorites “Righteously” (World Without Tears) she sultrily sings “You don’t have to prove your manhood to me constantly. I know you’re the man can’t you see. I love you righteously.” From Essence (Essence) she compares her relationship to that of heroin addiction. “Baby, sweet baby, you’re my drug. Come on and let me taste your stuff.” And from “Come On” off her latest is a humorous anthem many of the women could appreciate. “All you do is talk the talk. You can’t even back it up with your walk. You can’t light my fire so Fuck Off! You didn’t even make me COME ON!” she passionately bellows.

The Song of the Night Award though, goes to “Get Right with God” (Essence). What an explosive experience! Escovedo came out to assist on this tale of a woman’s quest to find God. “I would risk the serpents bite. I would dance around with seven. I would kiss the diamondback. If I knew it would get me to heaven. Cause I want to get right with God. Yes, you know you got to get right with God.” It was a regular hootenanny filled with feverish clapping and hectic chanting. I really felt like I was smack dab in the middle of an Appalachian Pentecostal revival meeting. I think I might have even been saved, or at least Baptized, by that fanatical song. The dueling roadhouse guitars that Escovedo and Doug Pettibone executed sounded awesome. I only wish it hadn’t taken all night to gather this energy from the crowd. It’s times like these that remind me why I hate the confines of seats a theater show provides. Her momentum continued with “Joy” (Car Wheels on a Gravel Road), but came 2 hours too late. I’m not sure if it was the theater setting or simply the people in it (Harrisburg can be a pretty uptight place), but I would’ve liked to see a little more spirit and intensity from both the singer and the audience. She mentioned she had recently performed at SXSW and I’ve known musicians who need at least a week to recover from all that excitement. Therefore, I imagine a better place to see a Lucinda Williams show is outside, on the festival circuit. Being surrounded by the sun, open spaces, and other like-minded roots artists and fans, I’m sure would make for a great show. Meanwhile, Harrisburg will just have to settle for a good one.

Book Review: In the Name of Honor - A Memoir

In the Name of Honor: A Memoir by Mukhtar Mai

The first time I was introduced to an honor crime was in an anthropology class my freshman year of college. The crime took place in Iran and involved a girl in her mid-teens. She was accused of raising her head and making eye contact with a man. Less than 24 hours later, she was dead; stoned to death by over thirty villagers. I was shocked and appalled! How in the 21st century could these medieval practices still be tolerated? Little did I know, that was only the beginning. Over the next two hours, dozens of more brutalities were described. These women were beaten, tortured, disfigured, raped, and killed for crimes which included dressing “inappropriately”, partaking in “forbidden” relationships, and looking at someone the “wrong” way. I saw pictures, watched videos, and listened to personal accounts. I felt nauseous… disgusted…and powerless.

In the Name of Honor: A Memoir rekindled those disturbed feelings. This narrative is a reminder that these atrocities continue throughout the world on a daily basis. This is the story of a single event so gruesome, it should have killed its victim. But instead of succumbing to societal expectations, this author fought back. Her story is one of suffering and despair, but also courage, dignity and hope. Thankfully, in the spirit of a happy ending, it proves that one person really is capable of impacting this world.

In 2002, Mukhtar Mai was a 28-year-old woman living in the Meerwala village in the Punjab providence of Pakistan. Like most Muslim women in this feudal farming community, Mukhtar never learned to read or write. Although divorced, Mukhtar was a peaceful, honorable woman who taught the Koran (through memory and recitation) to the village children. She was as respected as a woman in her position could be.

On a late June day, Mukhtar’s 12-year-old brother was falsely accused of talking to a daughter from a powerful caste. In a matter of hours, the accusations against the young boy progressed from talking, to stealing the family’s sugar cane, to raping the woman. Mukhtar’s family begged her (her tribal justice council orders her) to visit the neighboring Mastoi clan and ask for forgiveness. Her brother has been in jail for nearly 12 hours, and she is his only hope. She faithfully agrees and travels to her neighbors. Instead of understanding, she is met with pistols, rifles, and men filled with hatred and contempt in their eyes. In front of hundreds of bystanders she is dragged through the street and locked in a stable. She is repeatedly gang-raped by four men (all Mastois) and then tossed out on the street, naked, alone, and shamed.

These men did not kill her. They did not have to. In rural Pakistan, women so defiled are expected to commit suicide. They are no longer pure in the eyes of men, and are a source of shame to their family. For days, Mukhtar contemplates how she will kill herself. Only the watchful eye of her caring mother prevents her suicide. Then, as anger for what has been done to her and her younger brother begins to consume her, Mukhtar becomes empowered. She no longer feels shame for what has been done to her, only hatred for her attackers. Although it has never been attempted before in her village, she decides to seek justice by pressing charges. This is an extreme decision for a woman in her village, where as Mukhtar says:

“A woman is nothing more than an object of exchange from birth to marriage… Men have the monopoly on vengeance, which passes through violence inflicted on women… Before I lived in absolute submission; now, my rebellion will be equally relentless.”

With no education and little support from her village, she battles corrupt officers, lying testimonies, and endless threats on her life. After numerous setbacks, she finally is victorious and her government begins to change its “blind eye” acceptance of local clan tribal justice, which has meted harsh punishments without any type of judicial protection on women for so-called honor crimes. Her case gained international notoriety and NGOs from all over the world pledge their support.

In a matter of months, Mukhtar transformed from a submissive Islamic peasant woman to an outspoken women’s activist. With money from her settlement, she opens the first school in her village, the Mukhtar Mai School for Girls (Mukhtar means “respected big sister”). After the first year, over 300 children, both boys and girls are enrolled. Children from the Mastoi clan are even invited to attend. Her goal is to teach literacy to young girls so they are not powerless and develop tolerance and respect in young boys. Five years later, her school is still growing. She has employed more teachers and purchased livestock in an attempt to make the school self-sustaining. She travels the world, acting as an ambassador for human rights, but always returns back to her village in Meerwala.

This book is translated first from Mukhtar’s native language into French, and then into English. It is written in casual speaking style, and at first I was concerned that its message might be lost in the translation. But that is not the case with this 170 page narrative. The simplicity of the writing makes it all that more accessible for people of all walks of life. Hatred is Hatred, Violence is Violence, Strength is Strength, and Love is Love...no matter how you word it. All of which strongly resonate with the reader. I highly recommend committing a few hours to reading, In the Name of Honor: A Memoir. Mukhtar Mai’s story, both heartbreaking and inspirational, deserves to be heard.

Twenty-seven

This past week I reached a milestone in my life. No, I did not get married, purchase a house, or adopt a llama. It was an event of greater magnitude. On Wednesday, March 7th, I celebrated my twenty-seventh birthday. Twenty-seven. There I said it. And damn did it feel good! While this may seem trivial to some, I think it’s quite an accomplishment. Not because I’ve overcome a rare terminal childhood illness or am celebrating five years sobriety (sorry but my life doesn’t exactly constitute a Lifetime movie), but because more than ever before, I am content with who I am.

“Who is that, B?” Why, I’m glad you asked. I am a woman with no career, no house, no husband, no children, and no consistent flow of income. I’ll pause for a second, allow you to absorb the initial shock, and give you time to shut your gaping mouth. Some in their late-twenties may view this as a travesty. I on the other hand think it is a blessing! My aunt calls it the Peter Pan syndrome, but I just don’t think I am ready for the commitments and obligations involved in the above rites of passage.

I can’t pinpoint exactly who it was that told women that in order to succeed in life you should, “find a nice man, settle down, and raise a family.” Wait, that might have been my 7th grade home-ec teacher…and that was only fifteen years ago! But in my modern world this mentality does not apply. As I talk to more people, I’m learning they too are skirting society’s traditional standards.

I don’t feel I have to justify my life so much to my friends. They get it. By “it,” I mean my choice to live an independent and carefree lifestyle. Thankfully, even my parents get it. They are surprisingly supportive of my rather laidback philosophy on life. But it is older generations and other associates that have “special expectations” for me (let’s face it, in some cultures I could be a grandmother by now).

For example: Two weeks ago, I ran into an old classmate’s mother. She talked ad nauseam about her daughter, who is now a fifth-grade school teacher, is married, and has two kids. “Oh that’s great,” I lied, thinking I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather not be. The mother beamed. Then she surreptitiously glanced at my left hand, paused, and as if by obligation asked if I had any children yet. “No,” I replied, knowing she was secretly relieved I had not conceived a child out of wedlock. I offered no additional information. “Oh, well then, you’re seeing someone?” “Nope,” was my nonchalant response. “How old are you (she knows how old I am – the same age as her daughter)? Oh you’ve got a few more years. But you better not dawdle…Good luck with that,” she yelled back as she headed off to her AA meeting. Okay, that last part I’m making up, but I speculate that’s where she was headed. Can you believe people still used the word dawdle? And good luck with what, my reproductive organs or my quest to find a man who will marry me before it’s too late? Not once, did this woman inquire into what other things were going on in my life. Her one track mind said BABY and HUSBAND. See the idiots I am subject to as a single woman approaching (dare I say it) thirty.


But back to feeling good about myself…back to turning twenty-seven. In my nine years since leaving high school, I think I’ve got a lot to be proud of. I’ve graduated from college. I’ve pursued three (albeit short lived) careers. I’ve volunteered countless hours to worthy organizations. My debts consist of little more than a few thousand dollars in college loans. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve made some amazing lifelong friends. But most importantly, I’ve spent this time discovering WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, not what others expect out of my life. So now, after acquiring twenty-seven years of infinite wisdom (and at the risk of sounding like a self-help book), I’m going to share some important lessons I’ve learned about myself and the world around me:

1. I don’t want to sit in an office for 8 hours a day, no matter what the pay.
2. Money sucks. Don’t allow it to control you. At the end of the day it’s only paper.
3. Marriage is a completely overrated and unnecessary archaic institution (unless of course your goal is citizenship, in which case it is perfectly acceptable). Although I haven’t experienced it, I’ve witnessed that taking that vow does not guarantee you will not cheat on, abandon, or fall out of love with your spouse. It only means you will be given some kitchen appliances that for the next eight years will collect dust in your basement. Living in sin is the way to go!
4. Families are important. Absolutely. But sometimes you will meet people who you feel so undeniably close to you cannot help but consider them relatives. Thus, defying the phrase, “blood is thicker than water.”
5. Mother nature has created some astounding works of art. Take time to relish her canvasses.
6. Don’t waste time and energy in a job or relationship just for the sake of comfort. People die every second. Wouldn’t you like to know your final moments were not in vain?
7. I am a dog person…who likes other dog people.
8. Challenge yourself physically, mentally, and emotionally.
9. Don’t underestimate the power of a warm smile, sincere laugh, or gentle touch.
10. Solitude is a special thing. Know when to take it and when to give it.
11. Secret is not a dirty word. No one is entitled to know everything about you.
12. People don’t have to agree with you. It is different individuals with contradicting opinions that make life so interesting. How boring would the world be if everyone thought like you?
    

Don’t misunderstand me, by no means am I claiming to have all the answers. In fact, I invite you to enlighten me with what you’ve discovered about life. My goal is only to convey that I think it is completely natural not to know what the future holds, or to even want to predict it. So be comfortable with who you are in the present, be that a father, wife, home owner, accountant, harpist, nomad, etc. If you are not, you might spend the rest of your life searching for the perfect destination only to learn there is no such thing.

Cause You Can’t See Tits On The Radio

So sings the bedazzling Ana Matronic. Which, I found out at the Electric Factory on Friday night, is all the more reason to attend a Scissor Sisters concert. Cause you can see tits at their show…lots of them. In what seems to be a decade of never ending insipid pretentious cooler-than-thou indie rock music, this band offers a refreshing combination of sex appeal, sass, glamour and talent. With a performance that proved to be half burlesque/half soft-core porn, I came out feeling I had experienced something truly phenomenal.

If you've never heard of the Scissor Sisters, they are a five piece band from New York City who sound like a combination of David Bowie (circa ‘72), Village People, The Darkness, and !!!. Not surprisingly, they proclaim Elton John as their godfather of soul. Surprisingly, they are not English. You’ve probably heard the catchy Take Your Momma Out single (from their 2004 eponymous album) and the ironic anti-dance song I Don’t Feel Like Dancing (from the more recent Ta-Dah) on various radio or muzak stations. The music is full of pulsing drumbeats, sexy bass lines, cheesy keyboards and salacious lyrics. Singer/bootyshaker, Jake Shears, is a flamboyant falsetto who would give Elvis a run for his money in any hip shaking contest. As the only female in the band, alluring singer Ana Matronic defines the word sex pot. She is both charismatic and raunchy in a way I only wish I could emulate.

Although the concert was not sold out, the place was chockablock. It took two songs before my friend and I managed to purchase a drink and acquire a semi-spacious dance spot upstairs. We settled on a step near the wet bar which allowed full view of the stage and a close up on one of the large screens. We were finally ready to cut a rug. As one might expect from a band whose name comes from a lesbian sex act, the crowd had a myriad of: homo, bi and asexuals, drag queens, transvestites and even the odd heterosexual (they can usually be spotted by their meek apparel). People of all ages and races were represented. WARNING: One should be completely comfortable with their sexuality when attending one of these gigs. If you are not, it can be a potentially over stimulating and downright shocking environment. But if you are “gay friendly,” you will almost always be welcomed with open arms. I find these sorts of shows the most fun because everyone seems to check their inhibitions at the door allowing for a carpe diem sort of experience. The booze, boobs, and blow were out in full force this night. My friend and I were discussing how it must be an unspoken rule that if you are successful at sneaking narcotics into the club, then you most certainly are permitted to partake in them…even if it is in a conspicuous spot two feet on my left. Surrounding me was a man with a giant red light-up cowboy hat, another with disco ball bling that would put Flavor Flav to shame, a woman wearing a most fabulous hot pink bustier that appeared to be quite a breathing inhibitor and lastly, a man wearing a pair of leopard-print cowboy chaps…and little else. Throw in a few more feathers, leather, lace and sequence, and that completes the fashion menagerie. With the exception of some cleavage, my outfit of a miniskirt, fishnets, and silver knee-high boots was pretty tame in comparison.

Between stretches of vivacious dance songs, we were treated to verbal accounts of their most recent tour in Australia. One of which involved a mother complaining of profanity used at a show. I couldn’t help wonder if that expletive took place before or after Jake and Ana’s five minute pseudo-copulation performance and where it fell in relation to the pro clubdrugs chant. “If you see some little pink pills on the floor, feel free to pick them up and put them in your mouth. I seem to have misplaced a few tonight” were Ana’s exact words. The multiple and elaborate costume changes also added to the atmosphere. They usually took place on stage, hence the tits. My personal favorite was Jake’s gaudy silver and gold sequence hot pants suit, complete with tube socks and carpenter boots. Bassist, Babydaddy, described him as “the gay lovechild of Liberace and the Crocodile Hunter.” Amen! The infectious dance songs included She’s My Man, Kiss You Off, Filthy Gorgeous, Tits on the Radio, Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb and more. There were even a few sappy ballads thrown in for good measure (and potty breaks) like Might Tell You Tonight and Land of a Thousand Words.

My only complaint of the evening was that their set was too short, just shy of 2 hours. I easily had another 3 hours of energy to expel! But this performance was enough to convert any doubters of the Scissor Sisters abilities. Not only can they produce trashy and boisterous butt-shaking albums; but they can also deliver one hell of a live dance party. So for anyone suffering from the winter doldrums, this doctor highly recommends a strong dose of the SS. It is just the remedy needed to make you feel alive again! So the next time they come to Philly be sure to attend. I guarantee it will be a night to remember!

Calling all Pigs

The Chinese New Year is one of those holidays when for a day we borrow the identity of another culture (unless of course you are Chinese). St. Patrick’s Day and Cinco de Mayo are other examples of when we mask our true heritage and honor others by imbibing in copious amounts of whiskey and tequila (or maybe that’s just me). But just as one should know that St. Patrick cast the snakes out of Ireland, or that Mexico defeated the French at Puebla, one should also know what Chinese New Year is (before drinking too much tea). As one might suspect, it is celebrating the start of a new year according to the Chinese calendar, as opposed to the Gregorian one most of us use. It begins with the second new moon (this is why it typically falls in February) and ends 15 days later when the second full moon has risen. This 2 week period is known in China as the Spring Festival. It begins with the New Year and ends with the Lantern Festival (also called Little New Year). It is a time for people to honor their ancestors and celebrate with family. This is accomplished through eating auspicious foods, such as dumplings and rice cakes, lighting firecrackers, giving money wrapped in red, and watching the dragon/lion dance.

According to the Chinese calendar, the current year is 4705 – the year of the Pig, or Boar. If you were born in 1935, 1947, 1959, 1971, 1983, 1995, or 2007, then you are a Pig. Guys, when used in this context, this is not a bad thing. Characteristically speaking, pigs tend to be chivalrous, pure, and selfless. You are honest, tolerant, loyal, and tend to keep friends for life. You are non-confrontational and stubbornly optimistic. Therefore, you are also naïve and easily taken advantage of. You have a voracious appetite for reading, and although are a bit reserved, will talk ad neauseum if the subject is of great interest. You are also polite and always aim to please.

In addition to the pig there are 11 other animals that help complete the Chinese zodiac. You are probably familiar with these if you have ever perused the place mat at your local Chinese restaurant. There are numerous stories as to how the 12 animals were selected for the circle. One tells of a tournament held to determine all the animals’ skills and abilities. The top finishers were chosen for the zodiac. Another recounts how all the animals were asked to cross the river. The rat finished first. The pig last. Yet another talks of the emperor asking his advisor’s to show him the 12 greatest animals on the planet. After showing him only 11, the emperor became enraged and ordered the men to immediately find a twelfth. The first animal spotted just happened to be a farmer's pig. Whatever story you have heard, below are the animals listed in order. I have also added the birth year and some personal characteristics of these animals, or rather people. By now you’re probably thinking this information is good for little more than cocktail parties. But let me share a little secret with you. It also comes in handy with the ladies. After all, chicks love astrology. Example: Have you ever asked a girl her birthday, and in turn she asks yours? Then she comments that you must be an Aries and she too is a fire sign. Adding that you two would totally get along because you are both creative and caring and blah blah blah etc. You can thank me later. In the meantime, read on and see if you discover anything new about yourself. If you’re lucky, next time I’ll explain how to identify your compatible Chinese sign.

Rat (’60,’72, ’84) hardworking, ambitious, perfectionists, loving
Ox (’61, ‘73’ ’85) calm, patient, eloquent speakers, hot-tempered
Tiger (’62, ’74, ’86) free-spirited, indecisive, authoritative, suspicious of others
Rabbit (’63, ’75, ’87) cautious, reserved, gentle, fashionable
Dragon (’64, ’76) energetic, confident, sensitive, honest
Snake (’65, ’77) quiet, pensive, passionate, attractive
Horse (’66, ’78) charismatic, cheerful, self-reliant, adventurous
Sheep (’67, ’79) creative, shy, charming, practical
Monkey (’68, ’80) clever, care-free, diplomatic, fickle
Rooster (’69, ’81) eccentric, trustworthy, sociable, outspoken
Dog (’70, ’82) faithful, honest, judgmental, stubborn

It's A Dog Eat Dog World

Last week, while the snow fell and the wind howled, I nestled up on the couch to read a good book. I intended to turn the tube on for only a minute to locate the consistently inaccurate weather forecast, but quickly became transfixed with another storm. It was the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Now I’m not usually impressed with beauty pageants, but I happened to catch the Sporting Group which presented a most gorgeous vizsla (I would choose him any day over Miss New Jersey). I had to watch and see if he won. Sadly, he placed 2nd in his group. Before I knew it, two hours had elapsed and it was time for Best in Show. So in honor of Christopher Guest I thought it best to indulge.

Here were the finalists, complete with supercilious show titles:
Working Group – Akita Redwitch Reason to Believe
Terrier Group – Dandie Dinmont Terrier Hobergays Fineus Fogg (co-owned by Bill Cosby)
Toy Group – Toy Poodle Smash JP Win a Victory
Non-Sporting Group – Standard Poodle Brighton Minimoto
Working Group – English Springer Spaniel Felicity’s Diamond Jim
Hound Group – Petits Bassets Griffons Vendeen Celestial CJ’s Jolly Fairchild
Herding Group – Bouviers des Flandres Aces Indelible Mark HT (I’m thinking of naming my first-born after this one)

Before I continue with Best in Show (I’m sure you are all bursting with anticipation), I thought I’d provide a few interesting facts about this prestigious 130 year tradition. Just to put it into perspective, this predates the invention of the light bulb and the World Series. There are over 2,500 dogs entered spanning 165 breeds and varieties from all over the world. Pennsylvania ranks third in the number of entries. With 50, the Rhodesian Ridgeback is the most entered breed at Westminster. The Labrador retriever is the #1 registered dog in the AKC, closely followed by the Yorkshire Terrier. The Basenji is the only breed that cannot bark. The Basset Hound has the largest bone structure in relation to its size. The Sussex Spaniels takes its first steps backwards. General George Custer had two Staghounds entered in the dog show in the 1880s. Last year’s winner was a bull terrier named Rufus.

Although this show and its participants are worth millions, it is not without a philanthropic side. I was very pleased to see its viewers and participants raise $1.5 million for the Humane Society. In addition, the Westminster Kennel Club sponsors the Angels on a Leash program which offers therapy dogs to pediatric patients in New York. I also must comment on the number of Humane Society commercials encouraging viewers to visit their local shelters and take home a dog-in-need instead of a purebred. These advertisements distracted me just enough so as not to view this particular dog show as a contributing factor to the puppy mill atrocities plaguing America...but we’ll save that for another blog.

Back to Best in Show. Talk about a fierce competition! The crowd seemed to overwhelmingly favor the PBGV. Despite their best attempt to sound indifferent, a slight favoritism was detected for the Akita from the announcers. After learning the toy poodle came from central PA, I abandoned my aversion of little dogs and silently rooted for her. In the end though, it was sequestered judge Dr. Robert A. Indeglia who held the pooches’ fate in his hands. The 7 dogs each had a total of 1 minute to impress him. Teeth, bone structure, and coat were inspected, followed by a 20 second trot around the arena. Gait and movement are allotted equal points. Using my untrained eye, I noticed the PVGB stalled a bit in his lap and the Dandie Dinmont appeared to nip his trainer. But the rest was a free-for-all! After a long suspense-induced pause, the English Springer Spaniel was crowned winner. What a beautiful moment. James (his nickname) truly basked in the limelight! When asked why he chose this dog over all others, the doctor boasted, “It was his personality, heart, and confirmation. He is a fabulous dog…he just had that look in his eye.” I suspect it had more to do with his trainer’s exquisite taste in fashion. After all, her cocoa-colored shimmering pleatheresque top matched James’ shiny coat perfectly.

No matter what the reason, there you have it. To all who doubt that dog shows are a sport or the participants are athletes, there is your spoken truth. A look in the eye is all is takes to make a world champion.

Can You Handle It?

That is the slogan for the 52nd Annual Eastern Sports and Outdoor Show in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It is the largest show of its kind in the US, and it is estimated that over a million people were in attendance throughout the 9 day period. This past week I had the special privilege of working the event. What an educational experience it’s been for me! I have seen more than my quota-for-the-year of mullets, missing teeth, smokeless tobacco products, and camouflage. For lack of a better description the “redneck male” was out in full force. And trust me, he CAN HANDLE IT!
My initial job was to sell beverages in the Wild West Hall, but after the umpteenth objection to the $4 frozen lemonade (a beer was only a buck more), my role quickly changed to silent observer. I’ve found this to be one of my favorite pastimes, especially when the subjects are people I know very little about. In this case, it is America’s predator – the hunter.

I should state that I grew up in a house of guns and I am not opposed to hunting. My dad is a hunter and everyone in my family likes to fish. On a scale of hard-core "redneck" hunters though, my dad falls around a 6, while most I’d place at a 9 or 10. These men wear shirts like: will hunt for food, there’s a place for all gods creatures…right next to the potatoes and gravy, whitetail deer hunting – feel the power, and my personal favorite welcome to America – now speak English! Yes, I saw that one on more than a couple bearded fellows. These men wear skunk-skinned caps and drink Miller Lite at 10am. Wait a minute, I drink Miller Lite at 10am…maybe I am a hunter after all! They have debates over which chew is better (I think the general consensus was Coppenhagen) and eat jerky the size of a turkey leg! They worship the NRA like it's their job, and I'd go so far as to say Charlton Heston might rank slightly higher on their totem pole than Jesus Christ. Yes, I was totally out of my comfort zone on this one, but loved every second of it.

The Outdoor Show showcases the latest and greatest equipment for archery, rifles, fishing, etc. and hosts over 500 outfitters that will take you hunting as close as Dauphin County or as faraway as Botswana. How shocked was I to hear how expensive a hobby (or rather, way of life) hunting can be? While proudly displaying his new crossbow and coyote caller (it makes 36 different sounds, my favorite being distressed fox pup) one man tells me these two items cost him over $1000. As if attempting to outdo him, another gentleman brags about the deal he just got for his Namibian safari - $7,900 for 1 week, excluding hunting license and trophy fees. The waterbuck or zebra will be an additional $1,500, but a baboon will run you only $100. Yet another boasts of his dream trip to Russia to bag a thousand pound brown bear. He was going to have to sell his wife’s Harley to finance the trip, but he assured me it would be worth it. I sure hope she feels the same. Meanwhile, I can't help wondering how many firearms (both legal and illegal) are in the show's parking lot.

There was no shortage of interesting sites at this show. One of my favorites was the All Things Camo booth (tuxedos, baby dresses, thongs…you name it, they’ve got it). The Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation was there, protecting elk…I think so they could shoot bigger ones in a few years. There was also a bass pond for the children to practice casting. Crossbow maintenance, fly fishing, deer butchering and archery demonstrations were a daily occurrence. The art of catching monster cats was supposedly a very informative presentation, and the geese calling contest in the main arena was not to be missed. I heard the winner was 16 and from Blair County. Go PA!

So what have I learned from this festive week of testosterone-filled, tobacco-chewing, beer drinking manly men convention? 1) Mossy oak is a type of camo brand. 2) Not all tree stands are of equal quality. 3) Larry the Cable Guy is a comedian. 4) Men do love to shop. They just have to be in the right environment. 5) I can handle it…well, most of it. 6) Lastly, there is a little bit of redneck in all of us! I’m going to try a little harder to embrace this new-found side of me.

Book Review: Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Between a Rock and a Hard Place by Aron Ralston

Imagine being stranded alone in a remote desert canyon for 6 days with limited water, little food and no cold-weather gear. Sound unnerving? Now imagine the same scenario, except with one more obstacle: your arm has been ensnared by a boulder, leaving you trapped and in a very serious predicament. This is exactly what happened to 27- year old mountaineer, Aron Ralston, in April 2003. Between a Rock and a Hard Place provides a first-hand, detailed account of the living hell this author experienced in that week and the drastic action he was forced to take to save himself.

Although this book was published 3 years ago, it took me that long to discover it. Once I did - I read it voraciously. I found myself reading it at home and at work and politely declining social invitations because I had a date with Aron. Be warned: this book could run your life for 2 whole days!

As an outdoor enthusiast and wannabe climber, I can relate to Aron’s choice of isolated Blue Johns Canyon in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. It is a gorgeous park with amazing scenery and terrain for all levels of rock climbers, canyoneers and mountain bikers. Unfortunately, I can also relate to his ignorance of Hiking Rule #1: always tell someone where you are going. Lucky for me, I was never harmed as a result of the violation. I can further relate to some of the foolish decisions he made throughout his life (which repeatedly brought him a little too close to the edge). Just like Icarus tempted the sun, Aron tempted destiny, and on that dreaded spring day, fate decided to take control.

The book tells of Aron's venture into the park and his unfortunate landing on a loose boulder. The heavy stone went rolling, causing Aron to fall and end up with his right arm pinned between the boulder and the canyon wall. It relives the agonizing six days he spent trying to free himself from the weight of the boulder and the amputation he finally performed on his arm to get free - with just a measly multi-tool as his sole surgical instrument. If that isn’t incredible enough, Aron then made a 150 foot rappel out of the canyon (one-handed and in shock) and hiked 8 miles to safety! His epic story is interlaced with vignettes of past near-death experiences involving rivers, icy mountains and avalanches. Oh, and did I mention that with no access to water, he had to drink his own urine? I am stowing that away for future survival usage.

It is a story of bravery and determination; idiocy and ego. But as Alexander Pope said, “To err is human…”, and that is why everyone should read this book. Whether it is in the wild or in the office, at home or out on the town, we have all made mistakes. Some more severe than others (especially in this case)! Some of us have escaped responsibility, others have not - even the experts muck up. When they do, sometimes they can make a pretty penny by writing books about it, becoming inspirational speakers, or starring in beer commercials. Apparently, Miller Lite doesn’t think it gets more manly than cutting off your own appendage!

So You Wanna Be A Nurse...

I thought I did too… until this past weekend when I had the opportunity to “shadow” one of my friends at a hospital in Pittsburgh. The hospital and my friend shall remain unnamed, since I’m pretty sure my being there violated more than a few state laws (HIPAA will be happy to know I did sign a confidentiality form).

My friend arrived at the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) with “potential nurse (i.e., me)” in tow a few minutes before 7pm. I was dressed for success with my navy scrubs and white Dansko shoes (apparently, Danskos are the unofficial footwear for nurses). Since the shift is 12 hours, it was also recommended that I bring some reading material. So here I am: scrubs, Danskos, book, magazine, obnoxiously large coffee…ready to save the world! Or so I thought. Nobody questioned my legitimacy and before I know it I am being briefed on patient conditions and the two-sizes-too small pants that Dr. Ray wears. “Seriously, you will not believe it! What is he thinking!?” the exiting nurse chided.

In this ICU there are 10 patients and 6 nurses. The patient to nurse ratio is either 2:1 or 1:1 depending on the severity of the injury. On this day, my friend has 2 invalids. The first was an elderly man who fell down the basement steps and was being treated for a broken hip and hypothermia. If not for his bartender paying a visit, he probably would not be alive. He was discovered missing 2 days after the accident because he did not show up at his local VFW, where he typically drinks 7 Iron City beers, 3 times a day - that bartender deserves a big tip! The other patient was a 17 year old boy who shot himself in the head via the chin. While it didn’t kill him, it did leave him permantantly brain dead - it will only be a matter of days before his body quits on him. Other patients included: a stab victim, 3 car accidents, a hit and run, 2 more gun shot wounds and a girl who tried to commit suicide by mixing Drano, various painkillers and grapefruit juice. It is a common misconception that Drano will kill you. It will not. It will only burn your trachea and esophagus, making breathing and swallowing a living hell for the rest of your life.

Here is a run down of my 12 hours in the hospital: drink copious amounts of crystal light and crappy coffee, witness the ebb and flow of visitation, bathe and redress 6 of the 10 patients, read my book, help stock the supply room (and no, this is not the medication room – it really is difficult to steal drugs from there), update vital condition reports every 2 hours (every patient has their own computer - this is the checks and balances system that is in place to prevent mistakes), read my book, discuss the new HPV vaccine, tour the emergency room, take a nap in the on-call doctor’s office, read my book, watch the insertion of a feeding tube, go for an AM bagel run, and watch the admittance of a new patient. This was most interesting. He was a 30 year old male who was shot once in the stomach and once in the head. The staff assembled around him like ants to a crumb of bread. In truth, he had been sent to the ICU to die. The ER does this quite frequently – rushing hopeless causes out of their area into others - to keep their casualty numbers down. This affects their funding and national ranking. It doesn’t look good to the financial donors if excessive amounts of patients die in the ER every year. All hospitals do it.

The ICU floor is its own ward. Every wall is toilet paper white. There are no tranquil Impressionist paintings hanging in the rooms or fake dusty roses sitting at the nurse station. Mixed aromas of alcohol and filth permeate the already stale air, having a dizzying affect on me. The florescent lighting is dim and the constant beeping of drips is enough to put you in a trance [except for the venalators - they frequently go off like clown car horns announcing their arrival]. It takes me 2 hours before I realize I really don’t like it here. I can feel claustrophobia encroaching at an alarming rate and it doesn’t get any better when I have to dress myself in additional gown, gloves and mask to protect myself from MRSA (a hospital born infection that 1 out of 20 patients contract or carry in). This is not an ideal working environment for me!

Fortunately, others thrive on the sanitary appearance and for this I am grateful. I watch this team of nurses unite and provide excellent care for their patients. They are both cautious and compassionate and they perform even the most mundane task with incredible precision. They buy the patients soaps, shampoos and baby powder out of their own money because the hospital will not. They make mixed CDs and bring them in to brighten their spirits. They sit bedside and read the newspaper or a trashing magazine. I came into this unit expecting to see incompetence, cockiness and indifference from our medical system. While that might be the case with higher up management, it was not on the front line. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but I wouldn’t think twice about checking into this unit. That said, at $20 an hour, you couldn’t convince me to take this job. So while it was fun playing nurse in a real hospital, I think I’ll just stick to playing nurse in the bedroom!