Beware Of Cow Duck

Blogging On Sunshine

' "Howdy, lem," my grandpa said
With his eyes closed
Wiping the eastbound dust
From his sunburned brow

A life before doubt.
I smell the engine grease
And mint the wind is blending
Under the moan of rotting elm
In the silo floor.

Down a hill
Of pine tree quills
We made our way
To the bottom and the ferns
Where thick moss grows
Beside a stream.

Under the rocks are snails
And we can fills our pockets
And let them go one by one all day
In a brand new place.

You were no ordinary drain on her defenses
And she was no ordinary girl
Oh, Inverted World
If every moment of our lives were cradled softly
In the hands of some strange and gentle child
I'd not roll my eyes so.'

~~ The Shins, 'One By One All Day'



"I find that ducks' opinions of me are very much influenced over whether or not I have bread."

~~ Mitch Hedberg



Hello, inverted world.

I feel damn fine today. It's Nov. 16 and I wore a short-sleeved shirt to work today. Say what you will about D.C. -- and I say a lot -- at least it's warm here. Sweet, cherished warmth.

And speaking of warm, I've got a "gag me" gross dose of warm and fuzzy coming your way, about a very cherished, very insane friend, and the value of living out your dreams.

But first, a fond memory:



So I have this very cherished, very insane friend. My favorite type.

We share a deep bond, constructed of many finer, more shallow bonds banded together like fibers in a juicy, creative muscle.

And when we're together, and that muscle flexes, the creative tension tears furiously through the air, a haywire laser aimed with the utmost lack of precision, burning haphazard holes in reality.

A setting:

A man-made lake. Carved for beauty, polluted with indifference. But wet and shiny and appealing to us.

Fuck studying. It's sunny and cool and lunchtime. What better place to eat than this lake? It has ducks.

Oh, those ducks. So funny, with their feathers and flapping, wading and waddling, quacking and snacking.

And so damn fat! Imagine! So fat, so gloriously happy! No exams, just wings and water and webbed-feet and waistlines.

My friend and I have no wings, no webbed feet. But we do have food and a lake and sunshine and a cool breeze and fat, quack-happy ducks to feed.

There is joy in bringing joy to others, and ducks are easy to please.

As are we, really. We entertain the ducks and the ducks entertain us. They quack, we giggle. If they had any, I'm sure they'd feed us chocolate in return for our bread -- ducks seem the generous type.

But the ducks are ducks. Brown, some with green heads, most not. Plain. Hard for us to indentify with something so ordinary as a brown duck. We can't tell if they are insane, but aside from our insatiable appetite for bread, we have little in common.

And then our discovery: the crazed duck, the mutant, the genetic freak with a beak -- this we understand. This duck is different. It is special. It is one of us.

It is colored like a cow: black and white in a meandering pattern down the length of its body. As if it fell into a pool of God's cow-paint palette, and God said, "Fuck it, let's see what happens" and blasted the creature down to earth, to live as an oddity to be celebrated or feared.

We chose celebrity.

It's fat as could be, and eats like a pig.

We dubbed it "cow duck," for obvious reasons, though it seems fucking hilarious even now.

The cow duck!

The cow duck, that eats like a pig.

"What sort of sound do you suppose a cow duck makes?" I ask.

"Oh! Oh! It's like ... a quack ... with a moo ... and sort of ... an oink!"

We look at each other with a brief pause -- a moment of discovery and enlightenment -- eureka!

"QUOOOOOOIIINNKKK!!!" we both shout simultaneously, then nearly fall off our seats, because we are laughing so hard.

This is not hyperbole. We really almost fell over, onto the concrete path that wraps around the lake. We probably would have been hospitalized.

But we recovered in time, and the cow duck became the stuff legends are made of.



Meanwhile, back at the ranch:

In a completely unrelated series of events, my friend and I consistently dine at a seedy pub known as the Blue Danube, or more affectionately, The 'Dube.

The 'Dube is a special place: there is artwork everywhere. The walls are filled with paintings and old Guinness advertisements, and the ceiling is spattered with brilliant tiles.

Allow me to explain. In an effort to replace the sagging, musty, yellowed ceiling tiles, the management of the pub created a phenomenon: they encouraged patrons to bring in a tile of their own, painted with any design they wished, to replace the aging tiles. As an added incentive, they offered a $5 gift certificate for each tile received.

It was slow catching on. The restaurant had only a handful of tiles at first, but gradually, over a period of three or four years, the ceiling began to fill. Tiles of every imaginable type and talent. Distorted faces, 3D renderings, undiscernable shapes and figures, paintings that were exact replicas of famous works of art or even the Guinness ads on the walls.

It gives the bar a unique and nearly irresistable ambience. So many colors! So much talent!

For years, every time my friend and I went to the Dube, we'd say we would paint a tile.

Not that we ever did. It's just ... one of those things. Sometimes bland expressions sum it up so well. It's just one of those things you always say you'll do and never do.

Like, "Oh man, one day we gotta take that trip to the llama farm" or "Man, someday I'm gonna drink 24 Guinnesses in a day to see if I really do get my recommended daily allowance of vitamins and minerals."

We say these things, but never DO these things.

We said we'd paint the tile, knowing we never would. And the ceiling began to fill up.



So, years later, my very cherished, very insane friend graduated from college. I'd say that's lame, but I made the same mistake the year before.

And what do you get a very cherished, very insane friend for a graduation present? If you've never had a very cherished, very insane friend, you're

a) missing out on a lot of fun and

b) spared the anguish of trying to find the perfect gift for such a friend.

SO

I thought, and thought, and thought, and thought and thought and thought.

And then I thought,

"I've got it! The perfect gift!"



I know, you already know what I thought of, you clever bastard.



But those assholes at NASA wouldn't part with one of their precious rocket ships -- at least, not for $2.50, which was all I had, so I got her a ceiling tile instead (sorry I'm such a cheapass, HH).



I wrapped it up beautifully -- it took a whole roll of wrapping paper -- and presented it to her while her roommates eyed the package with great suspicion (they know me well enough to know I could have given her a really flat puppy). She opened the package, and her reaction was perfect.

Puzzlement.

Realization.

Wild whoops of delight.



Her roomies were still puzzled, as they were unaware of our years-long pact.



I told her to pick anything she wanted, and I'd buy the paint and supplies and we would make it together and then take it to the Dube.

She thought long and hard -- she wanted it to be perfect. And finally, after much deliberation, she opted for ...



COW DUCK! QUUOOOOOOIIINKKK!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA



We went crazy. She drew a beautiful, perfectly cartoony design (as evidenced above) -- and we painted it, decorated it with feathers and ribbons and puffy paint and they hung it up at the Dube.



And you know, this would be a great end to our story. We lived out a dream, years in the making. Made good on our pact. Our promise. Our friendship.

But there's a terrific epilogue to this tale.



A few weeks ago -- months after the Dube proudly displayed our cow duck in the ceiling -- my friend called me, barely able to speak.

"Bloobledy blanga mananga ganoe!" she babbled.

Now, usually we're able to communicate quite well with very few sensicle syllables, much to the amazement of mutual freinds. But I was utterly mystified by that statement, which prompted my next question:

"What?"

"Bloobledy cow duck mananga page-amaphone!" she said.

"Ok this time in very simple English phrases please," I said.

She breathed, which I imagine was the first breath she'd taken in at least five minutes.

"OUR COW DUCK IS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE PAPER!"

Indeed, a photo of our tile appeared on the front page of the student paper, the Lantern, teasing a business profile of the Dube in the Arts section.

Well, shit. That paper has a circulation over 50,000 strong, so a hell of a lot of people were seeing our artwork. But the cow duck luvin' didn't stop there.

The article itself talked about the tile phenomenon of the Dube, and how attractive the place looked with so much color, and all the social functions the tiles play -- people eat there to look at their own tiles, they spend time critiquing other tiles, they stare at the tiles when conversation lags . . .

The author went on to describe a few tiles ... including ours, which they described as a "fan favorite."

Fan favorite!

We had no idea. We were just damn proud it was up there, damn proud to see it in the paper. And though the article mysteriously referred to it as "lamenting duck" (we pictured him being quite happy), we knew it was ours -- it's the only duck tile on the ceiling.



So there you have it. We lived a dream, and now we're ready to make millions on the Columbus art scene, because we've struck the fickle vein of social popularity. And you know what? It's a great feeling.

But at the risk of dripping with sap, I have to say, the greatest feeling was just making the damn thing in the first place. You can't imagine how fun it was, arguing arbitrarily over the design, getting messy with paints, and laughing uncontrollably -- living the dream.

So my challenge to you, my very cherished, very insane readers: take the time over Thanksgiving break to think, long and hard, about something you always said you'd do but never did -- preferably with a friend. Pick a day (Christmas break?), make a plan, and do it. Take some pictures for me.

You'll value it forever.

And if you're really lucky, others will appreciate it, too.




Peace and love,

Sketch E.

London Blog

'I can't look at the rocket launch;
The trophy wives of the astronauts;
And I won't listen to their words;
'cause I like ... birds.

I don't care for walkin' downtown;
Crazy auto-car gonna mow me down;
Look at all the people like cows in a herd;
Well, I like ... birds.'
~~ Eels

Alright you squishy bucket of worms. I'm tired of being threatened. And you're absolutely right to kick me in the butternuts. It's been far too long -- a whole month! -- and I have a series of blogs ready to post. So let's get this steam engine boilin'.

This particular blog is cheating a bit. It comes from an essay I wrote for a newsletter for a very dear friend, and so, with pemission from the Diva herself, I reprint the essay in its entirety, to stave off the threats while I prepare my next blog. May you all be appeased.

Also note, blogger has allowed me to add 'word verification' to the comment section. This should prevent all the ads for penis enlargers, hair replacements and breast enhancers I've had automatically posted to my blog lately.

In theory you just have to type in a word to verify you're a person and not a computer. Let me know if this isn't working for you. The only other option is for me to moderate each and every comment posted to my blog, and I'd just as soon not censor anyone who has a real opinion.

Now, on with the show:

In the bloggie-style spirit of indulgent self-revelation, I thought I’d share with you the moment that gave me my philosophy on life. This isn’t gospel; I’m not a preacher. It’s just advice, words of wisdom from an unwise man. And like all advice, you can evaluate it, and follow it to whatever degree you choose. All I know is this philosophy, my philosophy, has made me a happy man.

My senior year of high school, I took a trip to England and Ireland.

How does a poor boy from West Virginia pay for such an adventure? By putting two dollars a week in a jar every week from the time he is 10 years old until he is ready to graduate.

I had actually been saving for a trip to Australia -- a dream I eventually realized. But at the time, I didn’t have enough money.
But never fear, my loved ones. I opted without hesitation to empty that jar -- it was quite heavy by that point -- and traveled with classmates on a 10-day frolic through Great Britain. We had a solid itinerary: Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, Stratford-on-Avon, Dublin and the sweet green pastures of Ireland. Christians, countryside, castles and clocks.

The plane ride was long, and by the time we got to our London hotel, our adult chaperones were exhausted. They wanted a nap before dinner and argued over whether or not to let us leave the hotel. I was frustrated: we were in London, England, on our first night, and these people wanted to shut us in a hotel for hours. Eventually, they realized attempting to keep an intelligent group of high school students in a hotel in London would be approximately as successful as Freddy Got Fingered. So they let us go – on the stipulation that we stay within a six block radius of the hotel.

Right.

By sheer chance, two of my best friends from elementary school were on that trip. We’d lost touch over the years, but were still fond of each other. Not in a creepy Hobbit pillow-fight-in-bed sense, just a dudes-who-grew-up-together-and-lost-touch sense.

So that evening, my friends and I made a pact. We were going to walk until we got to the end of the city.

We set out admiring the view; London feels every bit as old as the ornate Victorian homes and gothic churches that line its streets. The buildings are weather-worn but have managed to age gracefully. They look almost wise, and it’s odd to think that most of them have been around for generations of humans, and will see many more generations than any passersby.

We walked and talked and laughed at old times and recounted tales of girls and booze and cars and jobs. We randomly turned street corners, until we were convinced we were lost. We had no concept of time, and only the ache in our feet to suggest how far we'd gone. Finally, our stomachs overcame our willpower, and we somehow found our way back to the hotel in time to catch the group dinner. We were well over an hour late, but managed to avoid the lecture.

When I returned from London, it seemed odd to me that our walk that first night was the most vivid and important memory of that trip. We saw some truly awesome sights, many of which I may never see again. And yet my favorite memory is a long walk with my friends, something I’d done a thousand times before with those very same people.

It honestly took me years to figure out why that particular moment was so special to me. Not that I spent all those years thinking about that one subject; I became distracted by girls and booze and cars and jobs. But once in awhile, perhaps talking to my friends on IM or some other technological narcotic, I would remember that trip, that night on the town.

And on one spectacularly unspecial day, I figured it out.

Despite the tight schedules and group pictures and shared meals, my friends and I had shared something that distinguished our trip from everyone else. We were different.

There were similar moments, if less profound. But the collection of those incidents created an utterly unique experience.
Many have gone to London, before and after me. But their experiences are different from mine, because I did something utterly insane: I walked to the edge of the city.
Not that we ever made it. But that's missing the point. We set out on a fantastic and whimsical detour, and maybe our goal all along wasn't the one we spoke aloud. Perhaps our spoken pact was an impossible mission, but our unspoken agreement was that we would see and experience London in a fashion entirely separate from any other tourist, from any of our companions. This was our moment. Subtle, impossible, unique. And I've reveled in it ever since.

We all have the ability to follow a set path, to follow life’s itinerary. And that path is wonderful. We’re bound to learn and experience and see marvelous things.

But for me, it’s the random side trips that give life it’s flavor. I’ve never been afraid to drop what I’ve been doing and take a trip somewhere I’d never planned on going. I’ve made some wild decisions – changed majors on a whim, or asked out girls I’ve barely known.

But those random moments don't have to be life-altering. They can be something as simple as taking a walk with old pals on a warm spring evening.

Those are the moments that define us. Those are the moments that make us diverse. And sure, sometimes I'm terrified that I’ll be lost, that I'll never make it back to my intend ed path.

But a truer realization drives me onward. For as many times as I've been lost, I've never had a single regret.

Peace and love,
Sketch E.