Hunger, a Story from the Archives

           

            

            I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, there are very few things more American than an all-you-can-eat buffet. They are the freedom factory of food. Americans like things cheap, simple, flavorful, and in abundance. At an all-you-can-eat buffet, that’s exactly what you get. One price with an assortment of choices: if you’re a health nut, you’ve got the salad bar, if you’re a gluttonous ball of chub, you can have fried chicken covered in hot fudge, or better yet, hot fudge covered in fried chicken. Just like the American dream, the possibilities are endless.

            I’ll be the first to admit that there are very few things I love more than an all-you-can-eat buffet. But as I was powering my bicycle across the United States I did my best to steer clear of them. It was not easy, cruising by, with my stomach starved, growling for endless grub. But I know myself all too well, and I know that if I sit down at an all-you-can-eat buffet, there is no stopping me—I will eat, and eat, and eat, until I cannot eat anymore. I will pack my gut with every last morsel of food that can possibly fit in it. And when it is finally full, I will continue eating to see just how far my stomach can stretch.

            I did well in resisting the temptation, making it through the east coast, the Midwest and the Rocky Mountains without giving in to my cravings. But when I saw a Golden Corral in Vernal, Utah, I just had to stop. I had tried them all in the past: Ponderosa, China King, Pizza Hut, Old Country, Home-Style Family, and Sizzler. But I had never been to a Golden Corral, and the curiosity of a new buffet triggered a mechanism in my brain that lured me in like a raccoon to steaming garbage.

            It takes a certain kind of person to visit an all-you-can-eat buffet. There is the elderly, who will sit at a table for three hours working on a single scoop of cottage cheese, because they know that there is no time limit and the room is nicely air-conditioned. There is the large family with a handful of kids, whose parents are smiling because not a single child can complain that they didn’t get what they want. There is the obese, who, well, need little explanation of why they frequent such a restaurant. And then there is the worse of them all, people such as myself, who are poor and hungry and have a pocket full of plastic bags because nowhere does it say that you can’t take food away with you.

            So on a Tuesday morning, at a Golden Corral in Utah, I ate as much food as I possibly could, and then attempted to take the place for as much as I could eat later. Stealing food in a busy restaurant is no easy task. It is not like a teenage girl in a shopping mall who drops mascara in her purse and walks out the door. It is a much more sophisticated business. It takes the expert knowledge of which foods are the easiest to remove, and the skillful art of swiping them without being spotted.

            It’s sad to say but this was not the first time I tried to steal food from a buffet. My experience told me that the best things to take were fried chicken and rolls. So I loaded up a plate and sat down in my booth. With a plastic grocery bag opened up on my lap I attempted a single dump, trying to get the entire plate of chicken in one move. One of the pieces missed, hit my upper leg, and rolled onto the carpet where anybody could see. I did not panic. With the nerves of a burglar I simply stood up, walked in the direction of the bathroom, and kicked the chicken breast under a nearby table. Nobody saw a thing.

            On the way back to my booth I filled another plate. I sat down, but this time attempted a different strategy. Again I opened the plastic bag on my lap and started dropping the chicken one piece at a time. I thought I was being sly but must have miscalculated my approach, because as I scanned the room I immediately spotted a woman at a nearby table staring directly at me with a face full of disgust. I had been caught and I could see it in her eyes that she was not at all impressed. But what was I to do? After all, I was hungry.

            I was always hungry. It started my very first day on the road. Not ten miles into my ride and I needed to eat, and then again ten miles later. I had brought with me about five pounds of trail mix consisting of peanuts, raisins, and M&M’s. I thought it would be a simple thing to snack on, but after ingesting the first two pounds I quickly realized that I hated peanuts, raisins, and M&M’s. I also realized that five pounds was a lot more than I thought it was, because it took me nearly 600 miles to finish the bag, and by the time it was gone I would have been happy to never see trail mix for the remainder of my life.

            I was burning more calories than ever before in my life. There was no way to know exactly how many, but I would guess well over 5,000 a day. There was a constant hunger that would not subside and my body desperately craved nourishment. By the time I reached Denver I had lost 35 pounds and had not an ounce of fat on my body. On a positive note, I could eat whatever I damn well pleased and never worry about gaining any weight. And that’s precisely what I did.

            At the start of the trip I told myself that I would not eat any fast-food. That personal agreement did not last long. With my body burning such a large amount of calories, eating became very expensive very fast. I had a choice between running out of money or eating cheap, and there is nothing cheaper than fast-food restaurants. By the time I reached Tennessee I was a fast-food junkie. I tried every item on every value menu at every restaurant. There were grease stains on my clothes and my saddlebags smelled like cheeseburgers. I started out with the belief that fast-food was disgusting and after 6000 miles, dozens upon dozens of restaurants, and hundreds of thousands of calories, my belief slightly changed: fast-food was really disgusting.

            When I wasn’t gorging myself with fast-food I tried to keep it simple. Every morning I would stop at the first gas station I came across and have breakfast, usually a large coffee, a muffin or bagel, a box of brownies, and a bag of dried fruit. I almost always ate dinner out of a can, primarily raviolis, always uncooked.

            Lunch was a different story. I would search the small towns for a local diner and always order the cheeseburger. I was on a mission to find the best cheeseburger in America. This proved harder than I imagined. The local diner just doesn’t exist like it used to. Franchises have taken over this country, driving out the mom and pops. I saw more abandoned local restaurants than those in operation. It’s a sad state of affairs when the most popular eatery in a small town is the Dairy Queen. But nevertheless there were the hidden gems and I always stopped.

            I sampled a wide variety of cheeseburgers throughout the United States. In Charlotte, North Carolina I was dared to eat an entire “Full Hemi,” three patties, and over a pound of meat. It was gone within minutes, and though I didn’t attempt it, I still think I could have eaten two. In Kansas I found a small diner with only four seats who hadn’t raised their prices in forty years. Instead, as our currency inflated, they just made their food smaller. So now there half-dollar cheeseburger was the size of a half-dollar. I ate ten of them. With different regions of the country came different names and different toppings. In the Rockies I tasted the “Mountain Man” burger and in Montana I sampled the “Original American.” In Utah I had a burger topped with salami and in Wyoming one with ham and bacon. It was easy to decide which cheeseburger in the United States was the worst: definitely McDonald’s. But which one was the best? It’s impossible to say, because I loved every bite of every one. You should never have a starving man judge a food contest.

            I was always curious to try the local delicacies. In Baltimore I had Baltimore crab. Though the locals strongly encouraged me not to, I ate everything except the shell. “It’s going to make you sick,” they said, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t get sick, but I didn’t take a shit for three days afterward. In North Carolina I tried deep fried pickles for the first time. I didn’t even know you could deep fry a pickle, but boy am I glad that you can, because they were absolutely delicious. I learned that Kentucky Fried Chicken in Kentucky tastes exactly the same as Kentucky Fried Chicken in New York. And as I got west of the Rockies I wasn’t fooled by the “fry sauce.” It’s just ketchup and mayonnaise mixed together.

            In the three months it took me to ride my bicycle across the United States I consumed more food than I would in the other nine months of the year combined. About eighty percent of my money was spent on eating. There were times when I was given food, such as at a Kentucky campground when an old racist man cooked me a couple of hamburgers. And there were times when I traded food, such as at an Appalachian campground when I bartered with a traveling hobo, a half jar of peanut butter for an instant coffee stick. Yes, I got food many ways, but only stole it one time. One time, at a Golden Corral in Vernal Utah. One time, and I was caught doing it.

            So there I was, at the all-you-can-eat buffet, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. So I was stealing food, was it really that big of a deal? It was going to be thrown away anyway. But it was stealing nonetheless and it was wrong. The lady at the table next to me just kept on staring. Mind your own damn business I wanted to yell, but that would have only made things worse. Maybe she wouldn’t care. But then I saw the waitress come to her table, and I saw her say something, and I saw them both look in my direction. The waitress walked over to the manager and then he looked my way, but I was gone.

            With my belly expanded I waddled out the front doors and frantically unlocked my bike. I high-tailed it down the road, the whole time feeling like I was going to throw up. I made it less than a mile before I had to stop, my breathing heavy, and my stomach about to burst. I found a covered picnic table and laid down on it. I didn’t move for the next two hours, my body lethargic, my mind filled with paranoia. I would have a bag of fried chicken for dinner that evening, but never again would I stop at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

                  

Everything You Never Wanted to Know about Mustaches

"A good mustache makes a man for many reasons." -John Oates

Since the time I was able to grow it, I've always been a fan of sporting facial hair--the beard, in particular--but when a new job had a policy of "nothing more than a mustache," I figured, what the hell, why not? So, as many men are growing hair on their upper lip for "Movember," I've been having more of a "Mo-year," which got me thinking: What is it that makes the mustache so darn appealing? After hours of research, I came to the realization that the answer to that question is far too complex for a single blog post, though I did find out several interesting tidbits concerning the mustache. For your pleasure, I give you, "Everything You Never Wanted to Know about Mustaches."

• The earliest known depiction of a mustache is from an Iranian portrait dating back to 300 BC

• In the UK it is spelled "moustache"
• In many Arab countries, the mustache is associated with power
• The mustache can be broken into six sub-categories: Natural, Hungarian, Dali, English, Imperial, and Freestyle
• These sub-categories can be further broken down into types: Chevron, Fu Manchu, Pancho Villa, Handlebar, Horseshoe, Pencil, Toothbrush, and Walrus
• The longest mustache on record in that of Ram Singh Chauhan, measuring 14 feet (4.29 m) on   March 4, 2010

• Pittsburgh is home to the American Mustache Institute (AMI), which advocates for greater acceptance of mustaches in the workplace and throughout modern culture
• Four U.S. Presidents have worn just mustaches: Chester A. Arthur, Grover Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Howard Taft. Could Obama make it five?

• The 1972 Oakland Athletics were encouraged to grow mustaches by their eccentric owner, Charlie Finley. When they played the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series, the championship was referred to as "the hairs vs. the squares." The hairs won in seven games.

• It's a cold-hard fact: Men simply look better with mustaches

Man Against Machine: Thoughts on the Return of Garth Brooks

 

         

           I’m going to do something today that I haven’t done for a long while—I’m going to purchase a compact disc. I used to buy music all the time, in various forms—CD’s, cassettes, records, even 8-tracks (thanks to the 1983 Cadillac Coup de Ville I owned as a teenager)—but with the ability to obtain free music via the library and the Internet, paying for it just seems like a waste of money these days. So, what makes today different? Why have I decided to throw away my hard-earned money on a round piece of plastic that holds about a dozen songs?

            It seems that every decade a recording artist emerges that redefines the way we think about popular music. Elvis started it all in the 1950’s; then, of course, we had The Beatles in the 60’s; Led Zeppelin in the 70’s (or was it the Bee Gees—I guess that’s the one decade that could be debated); and Michael Jackson in the 80’s. The 1990’s may have seen the emergence of grunge-rock and the ever-growing popularity of hip-hop and rap music, but it was one man from a much unexpected genre that would take the music world by storm. That genre was country, and that man—a chubby, balding guitar player from Oklahoma—was Garth Brooks.

            Before Garth Brooks, country music was something folks from the country listened to. Because of Garth Brooks, country music has become an important part of our popular culture. In this day and age, country albums often top the Billboard 200, but before Garth Brooks, that had never been done before. By fusing country and western with rock and roll, along with electrifying audiences with high-energy live performances, Garth singlehandedly turned the country music world upside down. He wasn’t afraid to tackle topics that had previously been taboo in the genre—domestic abuse, racial divide, adultery and even homosexuality—while still remaining true to tradition, with sentimental ballads and hard-drinking anthems. And nobody was a better salesman. Though many country acts have had more hit singles—George Strait, Tim McGraw, and Toby Keith, to name a few—nobody has come close to selling more albums. Five of Garth’s albums have sold over ten million copies, while his Double Live album has surpassed the twenty million mark. Yes, that’s right—twenty million hard copies. Even his crossover Chris Gaines experiment sold two million copies, which was considered a disappointment. (How many other artists could call two million copies a “disappointment?”) With over 134 million total albums sold, only The Beatles and Elvis have sold more. Pretty good company, if you ask me. So, what does a musical phenom do when he’s at the top of his game; when he’s sold more records than Michael Jackson; when he’s redefined an entire genre of music? What did Garth Brooks do? He quit—no more touring, no more albums—and as fast as he exploded on to the music scene, he was gone.

            Flash forward thirteen years, to today—the day Garth Brooks releases his first studio album since 2001. I woke up excited this morning—excited over a record-album (I haven’t felt this way since Guns N’ Roses released Chinese Democracy in 2008, and for very similar reasons). As a child of the 90’s—one who grew up in a rural setting, nonetheless—Garth Brooks was my Elvis Presley, my Beatles, my Michael Jackson. I don’t even remember caring much about music before I heard “Friends in Low Places,” and “The Thunder Rolls.” My bedroom was a legitimate Garth Brooks shrine. I knew every song by heart. But then I grew up, and Garth disappeared, not only from my own life, but from just about everyone else’s too. Every once in awhile he would play a show, or release a single, but the unstoppable force that we had all been mesmerized by, was gone. But deep down, I believe that all of his fans knew that he would someday return; that his “retirement” wouldn’t last forever. After all, how does an artist just stop making art? But the question remains: after thirteen years, can a musician simply come back in stride? Will his fans welcome him with open arms? Can he fulfill over a decade’s worth of expectations? But most importantly, will his music still be great? Because, after all, it’s always been about the music. Or—like Guns N’ Roses in 2008—can he only disappoint? We’re about to find out.

Okay. I just went down to the store and bought the album. First thing first: I’ve seen Garth on TV lately and he doesn’t look anything like the man on the cover, unless he lost thirty pounds for the photo shoot and then immediately gained it back. But then again, it was never Garth’s good looks that brought in the adoring fans—it always came down to the music. And, after a first listen, I have to say, Man Against Machine does not disappoint. Unfortunately, unlike most of his previous albums, this one might be missing a mega-hit single, but on the other hand, unlike most of his previous albums, there are no duds. If anything, it’s a refreshing throwback to the kind of country music that made me a fan of the genre in the first place (unlike most of that binge-drinking garbage-pop that masquerades as “country” on the airwaves today. Oh my God! Am I getting old?). It might not be Garth’s best album, and it probably won’t sell 20 million copies, but it’s far from the worse thing he’s ever put out, and more than anything, after thirteen years, it’s just great to hear that unmistakable voice once again. Welcome back!

            

The Petersen Rock Garden

The sky is grey and the wind makes a cold day feel colder. It’s Halloween, which might be the creepiest day of the year, and we’re exploring what might be the creepiest tourist attraction in Central Oregon. Katelin and I are the only ones on the property. The only humans, that is. Dozens of large peacocks roam the area, lazily climbing the miniature stone structures. The air is saturated with the sounds of dogs barking and chickens yelping. A black cat crosses our path. A black cat on Halloween. “What do you think they feed all of these animals?” Katelin asks me.

            “You mean, who do they feed to all of these animals?” I answer.

            “Probably tourists,” she says.

            “And unfortunately, we’re the only ones here today,” I say. Of course, we’re both only joking, but deep down, we’re thinking the same thing: This is exactly how horror movies begin.

            On Route 97, between the towns of Redmond and Bend, there are large homemade signs for “Petersen Rock Garden”—signs that left me absolutely intrigued every time I drove past them. What could that possibly be? I always asked myself. I know what a rock garden is—my parents had a small one when I was growing up—but what could be so special about Petersen’s that they felt the need to advertise to strangers? I had to find out.

            We followed the signs—a right, a left, another right—three miles off the main highway, until we found ourselves in what many would refer to as “the middle of nowhere.” The gate was open, but there didn’t appear to be a single soul on the grounds. I parked the car in a large lot that was empty except for a small, unattended fire, which was sending dark smoke into the air. We got out of the vehicle, I put the “suggested donation” into the drop box, and we slowly walked around a small city, crossing bridges suspended between miniature houses, churches, towers, palaces, and statues. Moats and ponds were scattered around the structures, all of them dry and empty, which gave the area an added sense of eeriness. A sign caught my attention. It said “ENJOY YOURSELF—IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK.” What the hell is this place? The phrase repeatedly ran through my mind. And, who could have been crazy enough to build it?

            The crazy man’s name was Rasmus Petersen, a Danish immigrant who settled in the region in 1906. In 1935, he began to build structures from the many different kinds of rock that had been strewn about the area from volcanic activity that occurred thousands of years ago. For the next seventeen years, until his death in 1952, Rasmus continued to arrange a variety of different rocks: obsidian, agate, malachite, and thunder eggs, among others. Because of its oddity, the site quickly became a popular roadside attraction.

            At the peak of its popularity, the garden saw about 150,000 visitors a year, but today, Katelin and I are the only ones here. But then, as we’re just about to leave, a van pulls into the lot and stops. Nobody gets out. A woman sits in the driver’s seat, talking into a cell phone. Is she looking at us?

            “What do you think she’s doing?” Katelin asks after a few minutes.

            “Calling her redneck relatives,” I answer, “to let them know a couple of “victims” are here all by themselves.”

            “Do you think the gate will be locked when we try to leave?”

            “Most likely,” I say with a smile.

            We pull out of the lot and down the drive, where we find the gate wide open. We continue on to Bend, where we enjoy a wonderful weekend getaway—eating and drinking and racing bicycles. But I know that years from now, when I think back upon our short vacation, it’ll be the Petersen Rock Garden that I’ll remember the most. So, the next time you’re driving down the road and notice an intriguing sign that has always left you curious—take the time, stop, explore. What’s the worst that could happen? You could get murdered by rednecks and fed to a flock of peacocks, but that seems like the kind of thing that would only happen in a horror movie.