Saturday, January 19, 2013
It's Game Day. Unlike really diehard basketball fans, I don't know a lot about Game Day, but I know it commands a lot of attention for the teams involved. I know that Gonzaga is one of the stars of today's ESPN feature.
Sadly, I also remember, all too vividly, how Gonzaga lost miserably the last time they were involved in a Game Day. That one was in Spokane a few years ago. Bad memory.
I hope the tide turns today as Gonzaga (No. 8) meets Butler (No. 11) at the court in Indiana where Hoosiers was filmed.
We'll have a family get together for this all-important game. I think pulled pork sandwiches on kaiser buns are on tonight's menu. I also think I'll whip up a blueberry cobbler too.
During the game, pups will roll around on the floor chewing on each other and stealing socks or boots while the crazies in chairs and couches yell and scream and eat. It's a fun time. Let's hope for a happy ending.
Speaking of eating, I tried the bacon cheeseburger with peanut butter last night at Mick Duffs. I probably won't order another.
Nothing wrong with the quality of the sandwich---it's just that I'm learning through experience that I'm not a peanut-butter sort of person during evening meals.
Last time I had peanut butter at night, it was in the salad at the local Thai restaurant. Again, no offense to Thai food or even peanut butter. Peanut butter and lettuce don't match up for me.
Now, in the morning or at lunch (if I'm eating lunch) or out a trail ride in the mountains, nothing tastes better than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a strip of bacon smothered in peanut butter.
For some reason peanut butter dabbed on bacon and a hamburger, even with a big slice of dill pickle, just didn't pack it for me last night.
I think some foods just do better during certain times of the day. Plus, I missed my usual Irish pub burger from Mick Duffs. Now, there's a sandwich!
Sounds like our Annie had an I-5 experience last night somewhat similar to the one I chronicled in my second book. "Of Spud, the Lugs and the Fuzz" occurred in the 1990s.
My sister Laurie and our friend Alia were with me as I drove on a very rainy night to our motel in Federal Way from a horse show (Spud was the horse's nickname) in Puyallup.
At 60-plus mph, I realized we had a flat tire and pulled to the side of the freeway. The following hour or so was spent trying to remove the lug nuts from the tire rim and, in the midst of that struggle, insulting a Washington State patrolman (the Fuzz).
In Annie's case, she was driving back from a geocaching event in McMinnville, Ore., when her tire went flat near Tumwater.
Of course, the world---except her mom---knew of the incident within seconds via Facebook.
Her mom happened to be in a deep sleep at the time, having dozed off during "Undercover Boss."
In the meantime, her uncle (twenty minutes away) learned of Annie's predicament on Facebook and called Annie's mom from her deep sleep. He wanted to help out and needed Annie's cell phone number.
By the time he called Annie, the situation had been worked out through Triple A, a wrecker and another mom's hotel credits.
Annie's situation---just like ours back in the 1990s---involved some stubborn lug nuts, which, in this case, requires a key to open. The key was absent, I'm told. I'm guessing that no fuzz suffered any insults.
Anyway, it sounds like things will get worked out this morning at the local Les Schwab, and that she and her friend will be on their way.
Now, for an update on banjo plucking. I must create an image in readers' minds of what Fiddlin' Red sees when he's watching Marianne struggle to practice what he's preached during each lesson.
I'm told that everyone has an idiosyncrasy. Mine is most apparent and, I believe, genetic.
Mine is very apparent when I try to finger my way through the plucking, the strumming, the hammering, the pull aways and the slides.
It's called my tongue, and it's truly amazing that I still have a tongue.
Maybe it's calloused after all those years of wear and tear while I do anything requiring dexterity----writing on the board, taking pictures, peeling apples and now, playing the banjo.
On Thursday, Fiddlin' Red noted my tongue action for the second time in as many lessons. This time I informed him that Michael Jordan chewed his tongue too, so it must not be all that bad.
Fiddlin' Red was pretty understanding. He confided in me that he unconsciously sings while playing his fiddle. He has no idea he's singing until someone points it out.
So, we came to agreement there----it's okay to chew and pluck at the same time.
My instructor also said that I had improved dramatically this past week.
After he said that, I asked, "How long will it be before 'Old Joe Clark' sounds like a song?"
He said, "Maybe a week."
In the meantime, he did teach me about hammering and pulling away and sliding.
Then, he gave me a few bars of "Cripple Creek" to practice. Again, there's no hint of "Cripple Creek" in what I'm playing, but I'm learning to hammer harder, slide faster and pull away that finger.
As for this banjo journey, I'm still loving it. And, the dogs don't even howl.
Happy Saturday. GO ZAGS!