What a crummy night for television. No Family Guy, no good Monster Quest and Top Chef sucked donkey balls.
The elimination challenge was to make your own hot dog. You grind some meat, put it in cow intestine, throw some mustard and relish on it and wa la. How hard can that be? Some Indian chick (from India, not Fort Belknap) won the quick fire. She was immune from the challenge which was to prepare a meal at Tom the judge's restaurant.
Jill was your loser tonight. I'm not going to lie. If they keep booting all the hot cooks off this season's show and keep the lesbian and uggos on, the only thing that will be worth watching will be Padma. Or as I like to call her, the next Mrs. Gibbs.
Jill's mistake was trying to make a quiche with an ostrich egg. If I've said it once, I've said it a million times and that is don't make quiche and use an egg from a bird that's taller than you.
They are down to fourteen. Its late. I'm tired so I'm going to pack up my knives for the night.
Tomorrow though. I'll try to bring my "A" game. Its Cat/griz baby.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Rerun #2
INTRODUCTION
At the LBOH this year, Delmer reminded me of an all time classic story. It’s probably one of the best one’s in my arsenal and I can’t believe I haven’t told it more often. I also decided not to try to hurry this story after drinking Crown at my neighbor’s house. I’m going to take my time this week and try to increase the entertainment value ever so slightly.
This story is about a typical night at the Center of the Universe, Malta. Now, some of my dear readers aren’t quite familiar with my entire background, but most of these stories involve the same guys. “The Guys” are my life long best friends. We’ve been hanging out and getting into trouble since we were 4 or 5 years old. We still call each other and stay in very close contact. The LBOH, Lonely Bachelors and Oppressed Husbands weekend, was founded on the sole premise to get us all together at least once a year. We’ve been in each other’s weddings and helped bury each other’s parents. In between and on both ends of all that, we’ve had a whole helluva lot of fun. The best part is that we’re all only 44 so that’s barely half way to death. If any of these guys have a draw back, its that some of them went to EMC or as it was known back in the day, Eastern Montana College and Country Club. No grizzlies though.
Anyway, I’ll try to take you back in time to one of our adventures. Let me just say this, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
This story is rated R for strong language and sexual content. More for the language and the sexual thing isn’t of the graphic nature so you can almost let your kids read it. Except for the drinking and driving part.
TALES FROM THE HI-LINE:
THE TOAD
I graduated from MHS in 1981 and stayed in Malta a couple of years before winding up in Bozeman. In the spring of 1982, I bought my first car. It was a 1971 or 1972 Datsun B210. A little tiny thing that had been owned previously by Evey (eh-VEE) Perry, who happened to teach bookkeeping and typing and all those type of classes at MHS. Delmer and I were in her business machines class together when we were seniors, Ralph dropped it because Evey taught you to run an adding machine with the opposite hand you wrote with. Ralph is very dominantly left-handed and his right hand basically has no use other than holding a softball glove and a watch, so he went to study hall. BTW, Delmer is left-handed as is Adrian and James Stanley the Third. That’s a lot of lefties.
I paid Bill Pray $800.00 for the car. Now what’s the first thing you do when you buy an $800.00 car? You put a $500.00 stereo system in it. A Pioneer cassette player with music seek that switches sides without taking the tape out? It must be magic. I’d better buy one before the price goes up. Throw in a pair of TX6 speakers and now we were ready to cruise.
The stereo system was a bitch to install. My knowledge of electricity is quite limited. The switch goes up, the lights come on, it goes down, they go off. Don’t take a bath with your toaster. That about sums it up. I had successfully removed the old radio, but was having trouble installing the new one.
I don’t know why Bruce Knudsen was in town that night but I do remember him basically pushing every one aside and installing the super cassette player in about twenty minutes.
I’m not quite sure but I think the first tape was George Thourougood “Move it on over”. It was freaking awesome. Let’s get a twelve pack and go cruise the drag. NO! There is no time to put the cover back on the steering wheel column! Lets hit main baby. A little George, then some Billy Squire. A cold Rainier between my legs. Summer was going to be great.
I put the steering column back on a couple of days later. I kept shocking my self every time I started the car. Fucking Knudsen.
The B200 wasn’t a hatchback but had a little trunk. It’s a small car, kind of squatty looking. It was this hideous lime green color. But it was mine.
I don’t remember who it was but I think it was Ralph who started calling my car Toad. It wasn’t just that the car had a name, it was it’s own entity.
“Hey Gibbs, why don’t you and Toad get some beer and come over”
“We saw you and Toad at Goliks last night”
“Who were you and Toad cruising with the other night?”
Whenever Toad and I went anywhere I always picked up the tab. On the other hand, Toad was doing all the work so it was a good trade.
With the pioneer stereo and speakers that you could set on the roof, we were invited to almost every kegger at the rifle range that summer. When you put Aldo Nova “Fantasy” in that cassette player, the choppers on the intro sounded like you were in The Nam. It was just plain old loud.
Toad topped out at about 65 mph. Not a lot of speed but I wasn’t walking anywhere.
At the LBOH this year, Delmer reminded me of an all time classic story. It’s probably one of the best one’s in my arsenal and I can’t believe I haven’t told it more often. I also decided not to try to hurry this story after drinking Crown at my neighbor’s house. I’m going to take my time this week and try to increase the entertainment value ever so slightly.
This story is about a typical night at the Center of the Universe, Malta. Now, some of my dear readers aren’t quite familiar with my entire background, but most of these stories involve the same guys. “The Guys” are my life long best friends. We’ve been hanging out and getting into trouble since we were 4 or 5 years old. We still call each other and stay in very close contact. The LBOH, Lonely Bachelors and Oppressed Husbands weekend, was founded on the sole premise to get us all together at least once a year. We’ve been in each other’s weddings and helped bury each other’s parents. In between and on both ends of all that, we’ve had a whole helluva lot of fun. The best part is that we’re all only 44 so that’s barely half way to death. If any of these guys have a draw back, its that some of them went to EMC or as it was known back in the day, Eastern Montana College and Country Club. No grizzlies though.
Anyway, I’ll try to take you back in time to one of our adventures. Let me just say this, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
This story is rated R for strong language and sexual content. More for the language and the sexual thing isn’t of the graphic nature so you can almost let your kids read it. Except for the drinking and driving part.
TALES FROM THE HI-LINE:
THE TOAD
I graduated from MHS in 1981 and stayed in Malta a couple of years before winding up in Bozeman. In the spring of 1982, I bought my first car. It was a 1971 or 1972 Datsun B210. A little tiny thing that had been owned previously by Evey (eh-VEE) Perry, who happened to teach bookkeeping and typing and all those type of classes at MHS. Delmer and I were in her business machines class together when we were seniors, Ralph dropped it because Evey taught you to run an adding machine with the opposite hand you wrote with. Ralph is very dominantly left-handed and his right hand basically has no use other than holding a softball glove and a watch, so he went to study hall. BTW, Delmer is left-handed as is Adrian and James Stanley the Third. That’s a lot of lefties.
I paid Bill Pray $800.00 for the car. Now what’s the first thing you do when you buy an $800.00 car? You put a $500.00 stereo system in it. A Pioneer cassette player with music seek that switches sides without taking the tape out? It must be magic. I’d better buy one before the price goes up. Throw in a pair of TX6 speakers and now we were ready to cruise.
The stereo system was a bitch to install. My knowledge of electricity is quite limited. The switch goes up, the lights come on, it goes down, they go off. Don’t take a bath with your toaster. That about sums it up. I had successfully removed the old radio, but was having trouble installing the new one.
I don’t know why Bruce Knudsen was in town that night but I do remember him basically pushing every one aside and installing the super cassette player in about twenty minutes.
I’m not quite sure but I think the first tape was George Thourougood “Move it on over”. It was freaking awesome. Let’s get a twelve pack and go cruise the drag. NO! There is no time to put the cover back on the steering wheel column! Lets hit main baby. A little George, then some Billy Squire. A cold Rainier between my legs. Summer was going to be great.
I put the steering column back on a couple of days later. I kept shocking my self every time I started the car. Fucking Knudsen.
The B200 wasn’t a hatchback but had a little trunk. It’s a small car, kind of squatty looking. It was this hideous lime green color. But it was mine.
I don’t remember who it was but I think it was Ralph who started calling my car Toad. It wasn’t just that the car had a name, it was it’s own entity.
“Hey Gibbs, why don’t you and Toad get some beer and come over”
“We saw you and Toad at Goliks last night”
“Who were you and Toad cruising with the other night?”
Whenever Toad and I went anywhere I always picked up the tab. On the other hand, Toad was doing all the work so it was a good trade.
With the pioneer stereo and speakers that you could set on the roof, we were invited to almost every kegger at the rifle range that summer. When you put Aldo Nova “Fantasy” in that cassette player, the choppers on the intro sounded like you were in The Nam. It was just plain old loud.
Toad topped out at about 65 mph. Not a lot of speed but I wasn’t walking anywhere.
One warm summers evening, we were east of Malta on The Deuce. I can’t remember if we had been to Saco or were at a party at Nelson Reservoir but we were heading west back into town around 10 PM.
I was driving, Ralph “Ghoulies” Golik and Delmer “The Heenster” Henry were in the back seat and Danny “Skeets” Leader was riding shotgun. I honestly can’t remember if Danny was there or if it was Shoey. Chances are it was Danny. Afterall, it was a weekend night and we were having fun. That doesn’t mean we don’t like Shoe, it’s just that his idea of having fun and ours are a little different that’s all. The difference is that, well, we like to have fun.
Sidebar: Jimmy and I went to Billings for Ralph’s 38th birthday. That’s the weekend Ralph and I got our tattoos. Shoey came and played golf with us and then that night we were going to an arena football game at the Metra. Shoey went home and did laundry. That’s what I’m talking about.
Anyway, we were heading west when we came up behind a car that was going kind of slow. It was Red Peterson in his Charger. He had Mark LaFond and Dale Kaasa with him. Those guys always traveled pretty thick together.
I decided to pass him.
Red was only going about 55. In his Charger. My rear bumper was just about even with his front one when he hit the gas and wouldn’t let me by. They were all laughing. Assholes.
He slowed down to about 45, I tried to make a run he stepped on it again and wouldn’t let me around.
Delmer “Chipper, slow down and pull over like we’re stopping.”
Me “Why?”
“Just do it. And turn off your lights”
It was a very bright night out. The Hi-Line is why Montana is called “Big Sky Country” because the sky goes on forever.
I slowed down and started to pull over. I hit the lights.
“Don’t stop. Just keep following with your lights off”.
We went into stealth mode.
Like I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
As I slowly caught up to Red and the boys, Delm informed me of phase two of his plan.
“Pass him now”
I like where this is going.
I think it was Dan who then became the voice of reason. “Better go around him on the right side in case we meet a car.”
I don’t care who you are, that’s just good thinking.
For those of you who have never been on Highway 2 between Malta and Saco, it’s a really nice stretch of highway, very wide. I mean, I didn’t even think twice about going to the right.
Toad was sounding like a blender on puree, we had the stereo turned down low and we slowly went to the right. It was the battle of muscle cars. Dodge Charger with American skill and know-how versus the Japanese Machine.
My Suzuki 500 four wheeler has more acceleration than Toad and will go about as fast. On the other hand, Beth J would never have been able to ask me into the back seat of my four-wheeler. Aaaaaaaaaaah, Beth. You little smoke show. I had no idea of the lure of a lime green import. A six-pack of beer, Tuma Road, The Motels singing “Only the Lonely” softly on the Pioneer, knowing the names of enough constellations. Sigh. She wanted to make her boyfriend mad and I was willing to do anything to help her. I miss the ‘80’s.
So, we’re door to door and these guys don’t have a clue where we are. We look over at their car, they’re bullshitting away laughing and talking. Well sir, it was about to get even funnier.
I try to stay as far to the right as possible. Toad is buzzing like a saw. It’s bumper to bumper and they haven’t picked us up yet. I’m about 10 feet in front of Red, then 15.
Lights, camera, action. BRAAAAAAAAKE CHECK!!!!!!!!
I turned on my lights and moved to the left. Red’s Charger faded from view through the smoke of him standing on the brakes.
It didn’t last long.
When he passed us a few moments later, he must have been doing a 100. It didn’t matter anymore. One of the greatest maneuvers in party history had just occurred and we were the ones who did it. We were so busy laughing our asses of still that we could have cared less. I think we even stopped so that we could get out and high five. Good times.
I’m not a tough guy. The last person I hit in anger was my brother Bill at least 20 years ago. The time before that was Bill as well. Most of the time if I hit someone it was Bill.
Ralph was in a couple of scrapes. He beat up Chuck Spoonheim in 8th grade. Got a bloody nose from Kip Young when we were juniors. He hit Danny in the neck in P.E. which is Dan’s only fight to my knowledge.
Sidebar: We’re playing floor hockey in P.E. and Danny’s team is scoring at will against Ralph’s team. Danny is way taller than Ralph. Hell, I can eat soup off of Ralph’s head. So Danny is taunting Ralph and Ralph takes a big ol haymaker at Danny and hits him in the side of the neck. To this day if Ralph and Skeets are arguing about baseball or basketball or anything else Danny will say “what you gonna do about it? Hit me in the neck?” Everyone laughs. Except Ralph.
So none of us are tough guys. Except maybe Delmer. Delmer was a boxer. State champion, national Golden Glove semi-finalist a couple of times. I think he beat up some Canadian when we were in high school which is kind of like beating up your sister. Hell, Ralph backed down this guy from Canada by just pretending he knew karate. Canadians. God bless em. But Delmer knew how to throw a punch and no one really wanted to see if he was tough or not. A good reputation like that isn’t a bad thing.
We get back to Malta and are cruising the drag. Basking in glow of our foolishness. Not for one moment did we think it was a stupid thing to do. Somehow, we ended up being right behind Red and the boys driving down Main (which is really named Central Avenue but who gives a shit at this point) when Red hits the brakes and jumps out of his car. I hit the brakes and jump out. Danny bails out, then Ralph and then Delmer.
Red stops in his tracks.
“I didn’t know you were in there Henry. Gibbs, don’t do that again.”
He jumped back in his car and left. Another fight won without throwing a punch.
Well that’s it. Toad went on a couple of more adventures and I traded it the next year on a 1983 GMC S-15. They had a promotion where if you bought a new truck, the now-defunct Eastern Airlines would fly you anywhere in the western hemisphere. I took my two tickets and friend Ralph and headed to St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. We were 20 years young, in prime drinking shape, on our first jet ride and in a foreign land (sort of). Now that’s a story I’ve told often and it never gets tired of being funny. Next time dear readers. Next time. Sorry in advance Ralph.
Rerun #1
Alright, so I haven't posted anything for a couple of days. Its not like I've been busy. I did have company this weekend and yesterday was kinda hectic so I'm reposting a couple of stories I wrote in 2006.
Here's the first one. Enjoy.
(If I miss any typos in the following story it’s because I’m batching it and I’m a little on the Crown. It makes me clairvoyant. Also, this story contains foul language. I know that I keep it real, but I do apologize).
Last week everyone received an email from Lambert about Harlem. Jim’s remarks were unfounded and capricious (I don’t even know what that means but it sounds good). It really got me thinking about Harlem. Now, I’m a storyteller, as most of you well know. I can tell a story or have a story about most anything, it’s a gift that I’m thankful and I’ve also bored most of you to tears with my stories and what follows is sure to be another.
I was blessed to grow up in Malta, the Capitol of the Hi-Line, the pinnacle of sports for northern Montana and most of class B sports. If you lived on the Hi-Line, Malta is always good at everything, especially football, girls and boys basketball, wrestling, track etc. etc.
But Jim’s response made me think. I’ve had a drink in almost every bar in every town on the Deuce (Highway 2) from Wolf Point to Cut Bank. But Harlem, hmm, I’ve never had a drink in a bar there. I mean, if you’re from the Malta, when you pass Harlem it just means you’re half way to Havre. Harlem is just a geographical reference point. I never partied there. But wait, I do have a story.
Side bar: My friend Tim Barnes once said to me “ do all of your stories begin with ‘this one time Ralph and I grabbed a twelve-pack ….’”. Then Phillip Henderson came to Bozeman and said “ Gibbs, do you remember the time we grabbed a twelve pack…” and Tim went “ yeah this is how the stories start”.
It was around 1983 or 1984. The guys were ready to head back to college. I was still in Malta working my ASS off. Malta was playing Harlem in football that night in Harlem. We decided to make a road trip. The players are as follows: Ralph, Delmer, Jimmy, Rick Robinson and myself. So we grabbed a twelve-pack, in this case a couple of twelve packs.
Now Rick is a fine man. This is in the days where a designated driver was still in the think tank, but Rick volunteered to drive the way because we would take his mom’s new Buick Riviera. Sweet! A sober drive, lots of beer, alpine mix and we headed west 45 miles.
With Toto rocking us on the cassette player, we left the Capitol with a Mustang victory and partying in play. I’ll make a note here that the drinking age was 19 at the time and we were all legal, willing and able.
Upon arriving in Harlem, we pulled into the football field. Now, this was back in the day where you could actually drive into the stadium. Hell, in Malta, the East End Zone had so much booze in it that you almost needed a liquor license just to get you car into it.
We parked in the field. We were making alpines in the car and decided that we should put the beer in the trunk. After all we were in Harlem and didn’t want the windows smashed so someone could take our beer.
About this time, a lady approached our car. I don’t know her name, she could have been Lambert’s mom for all we know. Let’s just call her Harlem Booster Jacket Lady, HBJL, for short.
“ You guys better not be partying in here!”
“ We won’t be, we’re putting our beer in the trunk for later” As we grab three thermoses of alpines.
“ Don’t let me catch you boys back here during the game.”
“ Oh no. You won’t. We’re here to watch football.”
It was a chilly evening in Harlem. Now, all of us were well known at the time to have a drink on occasion. When we hit the stands with those alpines, well, let’s just say that by the end of the first quarter, we were dry.
Now, I’m kind of a ‘boys will be boys” guy. When you’re 20 or so and you run out of hooch and you know where there is more then that’s where you go.
To the Riviera!
At this time in history, Delmer wasn’t quite at the height of his powers in getting chicks to follow the party, but he had honed his skills remarkably to have some high school girls to c’mon along and have some beers. They were so invited and happened to join us in the Riv.
It was a rainy evening in September. Not by any means hot. I guess this is where I should say that Rick had been recruited by the Phillips County News to take pictures of the game. They would pay him something like $2 a photo so he bolted to make some cash. Meanwhile the rest of us, and our escorts, made it back to the car.
Call me old-fashioned but I believe in pouring a couple of beers down a young girl’s throat before trying to take advantage of her. As did my com padres. With a little Kool and the Gang in the player and a case of Oly in the front seat, things were looking good.
The names of the girls have escaped me through time, but trust me when I say they were digging us. We had just talked the girls into shotgunning an Oly with us when a rap, no a hard knock, lingered at the driver’s side door. I couldn't tell who was knocking. The windows were fogged, because there were eight of us in the car (get you minds out of the gutter). It must be Rick.
It wasn’t. It was HBJL. I was in the driver’s seat (literally not figuratively, wink, wink). I hit the down window button and there she was in all her glory.
“I told you boys no partying!”
“It’s half-time” I responded. “C’mon, we aren’t bothering anyone.”
“Get this car out of here right now!”
“Well, we have a friend we have to go and get”
“He can find a ride home. GET OUT!”
The girls de-planed. We were looking to soil some doves but all we got were ruffled feather. We situated ourselves and were ready to leave per her instructions.
“By the way, I called the cops and they will be on the lookout for this car.”
Well, that’s just fucking great. Not only do we have to tell Robinson we got booted, we have to tell him that he is probably going to be pulled over on the way home. This is shaping up to be one hell of an evening.
The girls bail. Who can blame them? We put the beer in the trunk, beg for forgiveness but there is none forthcoming. By the way, we still have to get Rick. After all, it’s his mom’s car and he’s sober.
“Don’t try to come back in here. I’ll be watching the gate.”
This is where we pull the old Halloween trick on her. You know how at Halloween, you find a house with great candy and want to hit it again so you go around the corner and trade costumes and ring the bell and yell “Trick or Treat”. The lady at the door says “weren’t you all just here?” Nope. That must be some other trick or treaters. Snickers around! Unless you’re Charlie Brown and you just get a rock twice.
We drive down a couple of blocks from the field, Jimmy puts on Delmer’s sweatshirt and says he just pulled in from Malta and the HBJL says “Oh OK go right in.”
Jimmy finds Rick and tells him what happened .
I’ve known Rick Robinson for over thirty years. He’s a great man. Extremely successful. Never, I mean never, have I seen him mad. Except for this night. He was pissed off.
Jim brings him back to the car.
“You motherfuckers! I was getting paid by the PCN to take pictures and you guys get kicked out of the game. We told her we wouldn’t be back. Gibbs, you said you needed the keys to get your coat!”
This is where it’s gets funny (yeah I know you’ve been waiting for funny but like all of my stories it’s a long drawn out process. Deal with it.)
So, Rick is at the car, we’re all waiting for him because he’s the DD.
Did I mention it was raining? I think I did. Our shoes our covered with mud.
“Alright. Everyone take their shoes off and put’em in the trunk.
Now, here’s where it gets funny, at least to me.
We’ve all been the sober one at some point where everyone else is drunk. It’s a tough deal. Well when you’ve known each other as long as we have it’s even tougher.
“Hey Rick! Do you want us to take our socks off too?”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey Rick, my pants have some mud on them.”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey Rick, I don’t know how it happened, but I have some mud on my shorts. Do you want me to get naked?”
At this point, Rick has obviously lost his sense of humor.
We load up and head for the Deuce and Malta.
Once we’re on the highway, we tell Rick that the cops are on the lookout for his vehicle. If I thought he was mad before, he was even madder ( if that’s a word) then.
He pulls over and makes us put the beer in the trunk. Not only that, he wouldn’t let us have the open ones we were drinking in the car. We cannonball those and head east.
Did I mention how non-fun it is to be sober when everyone else is drunk? I think I did.
There’s no music. No Toto, no Kool, no Journey, not even KMMR (Kelb’s Malta Mustang Radio) nothing. He was punishing us. Or so he thought.
Being the only sober person when everyone else is drunk is a hard deal. As I’ve said, it’s even harder when you’ve know each other as long as we have.
The hum of car is almost deafening. Rick is way, I mean way pissed off. But we’re giggling like a bunch of seventh grade girls.
“Hey Rick. What’s the speed limit?”
No response.
Churlish giggling.
“Rick. How fast are we going?”
No response.
Not quite out right laughter.
“Rick. C’mon, can we have a beer?”
“Listen to me assholes. You cost me a bunch of money, my mom is going to be pissed about her car being so dirty. I’m going to get pulled over and I haven’t done a god dam thing. You guys can just fuckoff and leave me alone, I’m driving.”
At this point we can’t contain ourselves any longer. We are just plain laughing our asses off.
“C’mon Rick, we still love you. Lighten up, nothing gonna happen. Pull over and let us get some beer.”
“Nope.”
“Pussy.”
At some point, when you’re the DD you have to relent. I mean, it’s better to give the drunks a beer then to listen to them whine. Almost like trying to wean a baby. The first couple of nights you get tired of the crying so you give them a sippy cup full of milk just to shut them the hell up. Rick pulled over, we got beer and sang Rosanna all the way to Malta.
Once we arrived at the Capitol, we pulled into the car wash at Westside, hosed down the Riv, vacuumed her out, washed our shoes and parked it at Mother Robinson’s house. We jumped into Delmer’s car, the Rezwagon, threw beer around in it like we were at the Champagne room at the Crazy Horse ( never been there, just heard about it) and closed down the bars like every other Friday night.
Now, here’s the point of the whole story that you’ve all been waiting for. A tradition is something that’s done annually. Maybe not on the exact date, but every year. An anniversary, the LBOH, a homecoming game etc. etc. A routine is something you do as a habit, like shaving.
Malta had been a class A school through the mid 70’s. A conspiracy by the MHSA to deny us two class B football titles. In the fall of 1980, we were moved back to class B. Our conference was realigned to include Harlem, who we had never played regularly. The tradition began that we played Harlem, the routine is that we always beat them. 46-0 this year and that’s a close game. Hey Lambert, the next time you mock the greatest athletic school in Montana history, remember that. By the way, Malta won that night.
Here's the first one. Enjoy.
(If I miss any typos in the following story it’s because I’m batching it and I’m a little on the Crown. It makes me clairvoyant. Also, this story contains foul language. I know that I keep it real, but I do apologize).
Last week everyone received an email from Lambert about Harlem. Jim’s remarks were unfounded and capricious (I don’t even know what that means but it sounds good). It really got me thinking about Harlem. Now, I’m a storyteller, as most of you well know. I can tell a story or have a story about most anything, it’s a gift that I’m thankful and I’ve also bored most of you to tears with my stories and what follows is sure to be another.
I was blessed to grow up in Malta, the Capitol of the Hi-Line, the pinnacle of sports for northern Montana and most of class B sports. If you lived on the Hi-Line, Malta is always good at everything, especially football, girls and boys basketball, wrestling, track etc. etc.
But Jim’s response made me think. I’ve had a drink in almost every bar in every town on the Deuce (Highway 2) from Wolf Point to Cut Bank. But Harlem, hmm, I’ve never had a drink in a bar there. I mean, if you’re from the Malta, when you pass Harlem it just means you’re half way to Havre. Harlem is just a geographical reference point. I never partied there. But wait, I do have a story.
Side bar: My friend Tim Barnes once said to me “ do all of your stories begin with ‘this one time Ralph and I grabbed a twelve-pack ….’”. Then Phillip Henderson came to Bozeman and said “ Gibbs, do you remember the time we grabbed a twelve pack…” and Tim went “ yeah this is how the stories start”.
It was around 1983 or 1984. The guys were ready to head back to college. I was still in Malta working my ASS off. Malta was playing Harlem in football that night in Harlem. We decided to make a road trip. The players are as follows: Ralph, Delmer, Jimmy, Rick Robinson and myself. So we grabbed a twelve-pack, in this case a couple of twelve packs.
Now Rick is a fine man. This is in the days where a designated driver was still in the think tank, but Rick volunteered to drive the way because we would take his mom’s new Buick Riviera. Sweet! A sober drive, lots of beer, alpine mix and we headed west 45 miles.
With Toto rocking us on the cassette player, we left the Capitol with a Mustang victory and partying in play. I’ll make a note here that the drinking age was 19 at the time and we were all legal, willing and able.
Upon arriving in Harlem, we pulled into the football field. Now, this was back in the day where you could actually drive into the stadium. Hell, in Malta, the East End Zone had so much booze in it that you almost needed a liquor license just to get you car into it.
We parked in the field. We were making alpines in the car and decided that we should put the beer in the trunk. After all we were in Harlem and didn’t want the windows smashed so someone could take our beer.
About this time, a lady approached our car. I don’t know her name, she could have been Lambert’s mom for all we know. Let’s just call her Harlem Booster Jacket Lady, HBJL, for short.
“ You guys better not be partying in here!”
“ We won’t be, we’re putting our beer in the trunk for later” As we grab three thermoses of alpines.
“ Don’t let me catch you boys back here during the game.”
“ Oh no. You won’t. We’re here to watch football.”
It was a chilly evening in Harlem. Now, all of us were well known at the time to have a drink on occasion. When we hit the stands with those alpines, well, let’s just say that by the end of the first quarter, we were dry.
Now, I’m kind of a ‘boys will be boys” guy. When you’re 20 or so and you run out of hooch and you know where there is more then that’s where you go.
To the Riviera!
At this time in history, Delmer wasn’t quite at the height of his powers in getting chicks to follow the party, but he had honed his skills remarkably to have some high school girls to c’mon along and have some beers. They were so invited and happened to join us in the Riv.
It was a rainy evening in September. Not by any means hot. I guess this is where I should say that Rick had been recruited by the Phillips County News to take pictures of the game. They would pay him something like $2 a photo so he bolted to make some cash. Meanwhile the rest of us, and our escorts, made it back to the car.
Call me old-fashioned but I believe in pouring a couple of beers down a young girl’s throat before trying to take advantage of her. As did my com padres. With a little Kool and the Gang in the player and a case of Oly in the front seat, things were looking good.
The names of the girls have escaped me through time, but trust me when I say they were digging us. We had just talked the girls into shotgunning an Oly with us when a rap, no a hard knock, lingered at the driver’s side door. I couldn't tell who was knocking. The windows were fogged, because there were eight of us in the car (get you minds out of the gutter). It must be Rick.
It wasn’t. It was HBJL. I was in the driver’s seat (literally not figuratively, wink, wink). I hit the down window button and there she was in all her glory.
“I told you boys no partying!”
“It’s half-time” I responded. “C’mon, we aren’t bothering anyone.”
“Get this car out of here right now!”
“Well, we have a friend we have to go and get”
“He can find a ride home. GET OUT!”
The girls de-planed. We were looking to soil some doves but all we got were ruffled feather. We situated ourselves and were ready to leave per her instructions.
“By the way, I called the cops and they will be on the lookout for this car.”
Well, that’s just fucking great. Not only do we have to tell Robinson we got booted, we have to tell him that he is probably going to be pulled over on the way home. This is shaping up to be one hell of an evening.
The girls bail. Who can blame them? We put the beer in the trunk, beg for forgiveness but there is none forthcoming. By the way, we still have to get Rick. After all, it’s his mom’s car and he’s sober.
“Don’t try to come back in here. I’ll be watching the gate.”
This is where we pull the old Halloween trick on her. You know how at Halloween, you find a house with great candy and want to hit it again so you go around the corner and trade costumes and ring the bell and yell “Trick or Treat”. The lady at the door says “weren’t you all just here?” Nope. That must be some other trick or treaters. Snickers around! Unless you’re Charlie Brown and you just get a rock twice.
We drive down a couple of blocks from the field, Jimmy puts on Delmer’s sweatshirt and says he just pulled in from Malta and the HBJL says “Oh OK go right in.”
Jimmy finds Rick and tells him what happened .
I’ve known Rick Robinson for over thirty years. He’s a great man. Extremely successful. Never, I mean never, have I seen him mad. Except for this night. He was pissed off.
Jim brings him back to the car.
“You motherfuckers! I was getting paid by the PCN to take pictures and you guys get kicked out of the game. We told her we wouldn’t be back. Gibbs, you said you needed the keys to get your coat!”
This is where it’s gets funny (yeah I know you’ve been waiting for funny but like all of my stories it’s a long drawn out process. Deal with it.)
So, Rick is at the car, we’re all waiting for him because he’s the DD.
Did I mention it was raining? I think I did. Our shoes our covered with mud.
“Alright. Everyone take their shoes off and put’em in the trunk.
Now, here’s where it gets funny, at least to me.
We’ve all been the sober one at some point where everyone else is drunk. It’s a tough deal. Well when you’ve known each other as long as we have it’s even tougher.
“Hey Rick! Do you want us to take our socks off too?”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey Rick, my pants have some mud on them.”
“Fuck you!”
“Hey Rick, I don’t know how it happened, but I have some mud on my shorts. Do you want me to get naked?”
At this point, Rick has obviously lost his sense of humor.
We load up and head for the Deuce and Malta.
Once we’re on the highway, we tell Rick that the cops are on the lookout for his vehicle. If I thought he was mad before, he was even madder ( if that’s a word) then.
He pulls over and makes us put the beer in the trunk. Not only that, he wouldn’t let us have the open ones we were drinking in the car. We cannonball those and head east.
Did I mention how non-fun it is to be sober when everyone else is drunk? I think I did.
There’s no music. No Toto, no Kool, no Journey, not even KMMR (Kelb’s Malta Mustang Radio) nothing. He was punishing us. Or so he thought.
Being the only sober person when everyone else is drunk is a hard deal. As I’ve said, it’s even harder when you’ve know each other as long as we have.
The hum of car is almost deafening. Rick is way, I mean way pissed off. But we’re giggling like a bunch of seventh grade girls.
“Hey Rick. What’s the speed limit?”
No response.
Churlish giggling.
“Rick. How fast are we going?”
No response.
Not quite out right laughter.
“Rick. C’mon, can we have a beer?”
“Listen to me assholes. You cost me a bunch of money, my mom is going to be pissed about her car being so dirty. I’m going to get pulled over and I haven’t done a god dam thing. You guys can just fuckoff and leave me alone, I’m driving.”
At this point we can’t contain ourselves any longer. We are just plain laughing our asses off.
“C’mon Rick, we still love you. Lighten up, nothing gonna happen. Pull over and let us get some beer.”
“Nope.”
“Pussy.”
At some point, when you’re the DD you have to relent. I mean, it’s better to give the drunks a beer then to listen to them whine. Almost like trying to wean a baby. The first couple of nights you get tired of the crying so you give them a sippy cup full of milk just to shut them the hell up. Rick pulled over, we got beer and sang Rosanna all the way to Malta.
Once we arrived at the Capitol, we pulled into the car wash at Westside, hosed down the Riv, vacuumed her out, washed our shoes and parked it at Mother Robinson’s house. We jumped into Delmer’s car, the Rezwagon, threw beer around in it like we were at the Champagne room at the Crazy Horse ( never been there, just heard about it) and closed down the bars like every other Friday night.
Now, here’s the point of the whole story that you’ve all been waiting for. A tradition is something that’s done annually. Maybe not on the exact date, but every year. An anniversary, the LBOH, a homecoming game etc. etc. A routine is something you do as a habit, like shaving.
Malta had been a class A school through the mid 70’s. A conspiracy by the MHSA to deny us two class B football titles. In the fall of 1980, we were moved back to class B. Our conference was realigned to include Harlem, who we had never played regularly. The tradition began that we played Harlem, the routine is that we always beat them. 46-0 this year and that’s a close game. Hey Lambert, the next time you mock the greatest athletic school in Montana history, remember that. By the way, Malta won that night.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Seriously.... Does anyone question Rush now??
I guess it only makes sense, if there is "No Crying in Baseball" how in the world can there be "Tieing" in Football. I'll bet this guy looks at the schedule every year and wonders who's playing for BYE, and if it's a home or away game!
I think the Eagles may have tied with BYE last year!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKr8QzjixJ4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKr8QzjixJ4
I think the Eagles may have tied with BYE last year!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKr8QzjixJ4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKr8QzjixJ4
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Oh How The Mighty Have Fallen!
2007: South Bend Tears
2008: Charlie Weis Gets a Gatorade Bath For Finally Beating NAVY!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Here comes Elvis
Soooooooooo, I've had a couple of drinks with my friend Mike Derzay from Anaconda. It's always good to see Michael. He owes me a ride in his Comanche. I don't care what anyone says, a little Crown never hurt anyone.
The Cats won't make the playoffs. Anyone who thinks so is smoking crack. The loss against EWU was a back breaker. However, they can finish on a high note by pounding Jerry Glanville this Saturday. Hey Jerry, Elvis is dead. Dead like disco. The Cats will run all over PSU this Saturday and I can hardly wait. The boys played their asses off in Flagstaff this weekend. They came from behind, got the lead, gave it back and still came out on top for only the fourth time in the Walk Up Piece of Shitdome. What a hole. No concessions to speak of and there were more fans at any Class C home game. This (NAU) is a good program but absolutely no support. Flagstaff is a cool town. Way up in the mountains. Lots of old brick buildings but no one comes out for the game. Kind of like Missoula before Denny got paid to build their stadium. That is when the griz bandwagon formed and they've always had room for one more person who never even sniffed going to college there to be a "fan".
I'm drinking milk right now.
The other school down the road has been playing great football. I mean really good. Cole Berquist is the best quarterback in the BSC right now. I don't care what anyone says. Weber was lucky. I mean, lucky like like that guy from Havre who won the lottery in '91 picking numbers on his cow ear tags lucky. They will absolutely roll ISU this weekend.
A sign outside of Missoula "Fill up and get three credits. Stay elligible".
However, our defense is stellar. They haven't played against a defense as balanced as ours. But here's the wildcard. Mark Desin. The dark pink homos will only have one game to watch with Desin quarterbacking. Will that be the difference? I don't know, but I do think that gives MSU a bigger advantage than they had last week. I'll be honest though when I say I don't like our chances. Time will tell.
How about those Irish! They managed to squeak one out against Boston College. My bad, ND was SHUTOUT by BC 17-0. They are still not bowl eligible. I'm sure the fighting hackysackers will win against either Syracuse, who sucks, or whatever military academy they play. Lets remember, the Irish played the sixty-seventh easiest schedule in I-A this year. Kudos to them. Its the hardest schedule they've play in at least 20 years. Coach Obese is in jeopardy of losing his job, no one of any worth wants to coach for this overrated shithole of a college football program. Their demise is almost complete. I couldn't be happier.
As I mentioned last week the Class B playoffs are over until next year.
Our Denton Trojans fell to Twin Bridges this past weekend ending their run for their fallen teammates. Hats off to all of the boys from Denton. What might have been if they had not suffered their tremendous tragedy. What a great effort by these young men. To go onto the field every week with this great burden, carrying the memories of their classmates with heavy heavy hearts and playing so well for so long. They are truly THE TRADITION. Godspeed to all of those fine players and their tremendous fans. You have nothing to hang your heads about boys. You did your fallen classmates proud. We all wish we had the heart all of you showed us these past few weeks.
I'll end this on a high note. After Barry won the election last week, I was listening to Opie and Anthony on XM radio. A point was made that President-elect I wontgetanythingdone won the women's vote. One of the guys in the studio said "women can vote now?" the response was "yes they can." The gentleman replied " who drove them"? If you don't think that's funny, you are retarded.
Safe journeys
Go Cats,
Chip
PS I'm gonna have a Crown.
The Cats won't make the playoffs. Anyone who thinks so is smoking crack. The loss against EWU was a back breaker. However, they can finish on a high note by pounding Jerry Glanville this Saturday. Hey Jerry, Elvis is dead. Dead like disco. The Cats will run all over PSU this Saturday and I can hardly wait. The boys played their asses off in Flagstaff this weekend. They came from behind, got the lead, gave it back and still came out on top for only the fourth time in the Walk Up Piece of Shitdome. What a hole. No concessions to speak of and there were more fans at any Class C home game. This (NAU) is a good program but absolutely no support. Flagstaff is a cool town. Way up in the mountains. Lots of old brick buildings but no one comes out for the game. Kind of like Missoula before Denny got paid to build their stadium. That is when the griz bandwagon formed and they've always had room for one more person who never even sniffed going to college there to be a "fan".
I'm drinking milk right now.
The other school down the road has been playing great football. I mean really good. Cole Berquist is the best quarterback in the BSC right now. I don't care what anyone says. Weber was lucky. I mean, lucky like like that guy from Havre who won the lottery in '91 picking numbers on his cow ear tags lucky. They will absolutely roll ISU this weekend.
A sign outside of Missoula "Fill up and get three credits. Stay elligible".
However, our defense is stellar. They haven't played against a defense as balanced as ours. But here's the wildcard. Mark Desin. The dark pink homos will only have one game to watch with Desin quarterbacking. Will that be the difference? I don't know, but I do think that gives MSU a bigger advantage than they had last week. I'll be honest though when I say I don't like our chances. Time will tell.
How about those Irish! They managed to squeak one out against Boston College. My bad, ND was SHUTOUT by BC 17-0. They are still not bowl eligible. I'm sure the fighting hackysackers will win against either Syracuse, who sucks, or whatever military academy they play. Lets remember, the Irish played the sixty-seventh easiest schedule in I-A this year. Kudos to them. Its the hardest schedule they've play in at least 20 years. Coach Obese is in jeopardy of losing his job, no one of any worth wants to coach for this overrated shithole of a college football program. Their demise is almost complete. I couldn't be happier.
As I mentioned last week the Class B playoffs are over until next year.
Our Denton Trojans fell to Twin Bridges this past weekend ending their run for their fallen teammates. Hats off to all of the boys from Denton. What might have been if they had not suffered their tremendous tragedy. What a great effort by these young men. To go onto the field every week with this great burden, carrying the memories of their classmates with heavy heavy hearts and playing so well for so long. They are truly THE TRADITION. Godspeed to all of those fine players and their tremendous fans. You have nothing to hang your heads about boys. You did your fallen classmates proud. We all wish we had the heart all of you showed us these past few weeks.
I'll end this on a high note. After Barry won the election last week, I was listening to Opie and Anthony on XM radio. A point was made that President-elect I wontgetanythingdone won the women's vote. One of the guys in the studio said "women can vote now?" the response was "yes they can." The gentleman replied " who drove them"? If you don't think that's funny, you are retarded.
Safe journeys
Go Cats,
Chip
PS I'm gonna have a Crown.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Remaking the Karate Kid
So I read today on Barstool Sports that Will Smith is going to remake the Karate Kid and have is like five year old son be the star. I'm sorry but the Karate Kid is a classic and no one, not even Will Smith, should be allowed to try to redo it.
What is up with Hollywood? Have they run out of ideas? I could set a camera up at LBOH camp and make a better movie than the crap they are churning out. Barnes and I have better material on a road trip to Sheridan than the shit that they make. Do you need another comparison? Okay, glad you all asked. Here are some more: Me playing pool on Tuesday's, Eric and I golfing, my four year old nephew riding his mini-bike without training wheels, any girls basketball game, well you get the picture.
Here is a great video. It's called Sweep the Leg. Its frikken awesome. Its seven minutes long but well worth it. It has the original cast members and a great ending. Lets keep it that way Will Smith. Enjoy chefs. And by the way, don't drop a challenge in my dojo. Nuff said.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFlQNtL8F9s
What is up with Hollywood? Have they run out of ideas? I could set a camera up at LBOH camp and make a better movie than the crap they are churning out. Barnes and I have better material on a road trip to Sheridan than the shit that they make. Do you need another comparison? Okay, glad you all asked. Here are some more: Me playing pool on Tuesday's, Eric and I golfing, my four year old nephew riding his mini-bike without training wheels, any girls basketball game, well you get the picture.
Here is a great video. It's called Sweep the Leg. Its frikken awesome. Its seven minutes long but well worth it. It has the original cast members and a great ending. Lets keep it that way Will Smith. Enjoy chefs. And by the way, don't drop a challenge in my dojo. Nuff said.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFlQNtL8F9s
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