adventures of a canoelover

I’m never quite sure why or when or how, but at some point a ganglion is activated in my limbic system*, the reptilian part of my brain over which I have no control.  Once that little cluster of nerves goes ping, I get the itch to sand and varnish paddles.

Before.

I have a fair number of canoe paddles, and all but a few carbon fiber racing paddles are wood.  Most of those are cherry with a few exotics thrown in for good measure.  But they’re all wood, and they all need maintenance.  Some people look at this as a bad thing, which is why they make cheap, plastic paddles, so lazy people can throw the paddles in the corner of the garage until next year’s annual Beerfest and Sunscreenathon.  Not that I’m judging them.  Okay, I’m judging them, the hirsute troglodytes.

Always stare at a paddle before you dig in. Otherwise it’s
not a mindful exercise and you will make mistakes.

True in many aspects of Person/Thing interactions, I believe that the maintenance process gives a person a connection to the thing. I loved changing the oil in my 1957 VW.  It was fun, and I felt a certain kinship with that car.  I don’t look at my paddle maintenance as a chore, I look at it as a pleasure.

One of my favorite authors, Thich Nhat Hahn, writes about the activity being a fairly neutral thing; it is our intention and approach that make something pleasant or unpleasant.  For example, when washing the dishes, Nhat Hahn imagines each dish or cup to be a baby, and he washes the dish with the same care.  It transforms the mundane activity to a meditation, except my meditation ends with a rack of varnished paddles.

I started prepping paddles a few days ago, and I thought I’d get a jump-start on them by using a palm sander.  Through my clumsy and inattentive sanding, I almost ruined a perfectly good paddle because of my haste to “get them done.”  After a brief self-chastisement, I put away the palm sander.  It’s a good tool for picnic tables, but for paddles, I’ll never use it again.

So now it’s back to hand sanding, and a little rasp work with a file.  A pattern maker’s rasp is great for shaping new paddles, but for this sort of work I’d rather use a nice flat file with some beefy teeth.  That’s especially true after almost butchering a paddle with the palm sander.  Not taking too much off, just trying to get to some clean wood so the varnish will take and the old varnish won’t flake off taking the new varnish with it.

This part is fairly tedious, but for me it’s the best part.  This is where you can improve a paddle or ruin it for anything but decorating the walls of your cabin (or in our case, our home).  A finer blade slices in and out of the water with a silence that preserves the feeling of solitude.  A heavier tip is nice sometimes, just to give the paddle a little more durability, but too much and you get a chunky, inelegant tip that turns a sweet paddle into a war club.

Once the paddle is shaped and cleaned up, it’s sanding time.  I like this less than the shaping, but it’s still satisfying, especially if the last person who varnished did a poor job and there are sags in the varnish that need cleaning up.  Usually, the last person who varnished the paddle and did a poor job is me.  That’s fine, I can deal with a critic.

Most people these days do not work with their hands, they work with their brains (at least in theory). To work with your hands is so rare that many are unaware of just how satisfying it is to create, repair or restore something.  It is especially satisfying if what you are repairing or restoring is destined for a landfill.

In the case of one particular paddle, it was given up for dead. It was a Turtle Paddle Ottertail, and since the handmade Turtle Paddle is history, I couldn’t let one die in the back of the test paddle shed, where it was languishing in disrepair.  A large gouge out of once of the edges of the paddle would not bear fixing, so I decided to reshape the paddle, filing away the section with the gouge in it and then doing so on the other side of the paddle blade so it wouldn’t twist in the water and drive me nuts.

I managed to get it mostly correct and now, where bad paddle existed, now there’s a fine one ready for action, as soon as I stitch up a nice leather grip for it.  I will give it away, since it cost me nothing and I already have a nice quiver of paddles, so I need another one like I need another…well…canoe paddle.

Now it’s time for the varnishing.  Cheap varnish is like cheap perfume.  If you’re not going to use the good stuff, better off to do nothing.  I spent two hours plus doing all work, and if I billed $180 an hour (the last legal bill I paid was just that), that means I’m spending $360 worth of time.  A $10 can of varnish is incrementally the smallest expenditure, and a $40 can of varnish is worth every penny.  Actually, a $40 can on sale (2 for $50) is a great deal.

The varnishing takes very little time compared to the rest of the work.  Even moving slowly and methodically, there’s just not much surface area so the work goes quickly.  Just long, even strokes, keeping a wet edge and trying to keep the brush load to a minimum.  I use foam bushes, not because their cheap and disposable, it’s because I like the control I have over how much varnish goes down.  Sure, long bristle brushes are great, but for my uses, foam works better.

There’s one paddle  for which I was taking special care.  My Shaw and Tenney Grand Lake Stream paddle.  Designed by a Maine guide, it’s a great paddle for deeper waters, but if you need to stand to scout a rapid (as many Maine guides did), you can keep the paddle in the water.  Its pizza paddle blade gives incredible control.

It had an oil finish before, but I found that the blade cupped after being exposed to water for a period of time.  Paddles are made to get wet, ergo, I needed to seal up the grain and stabilize things a bit.

I gave her a nice coat of varnish a couple of days ago, and it was dry but not completely cured, which is a perfect time for a second coat.  Again, the wonders of a high-quality varnish showed through and the ash grain is intense and beautified.

After all this varnishing, the only way to dry them is to hang them.  Little permanent hooks are fastened into the lintel of the garage door, so with a little string we’re hanging in a nice, sunny, breezy area.  Unfortunately, yesterday was a little too breezy, and the paddlers started banging into each other.  That part sucks.  So I had to rig up a few more little guy wires to keep the paddles from twisting in the wind.  In the end and that was needed was a little cleanup.

So that was my Saturday afternoon.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

*The limbic system is the part of the brain that makes guys like the Porsche 911, deep-fried cheese curds and Scarlett Johannson without knowing exactly why. It’s the lizard brain, the one that doesn’t think, it just does stuff.

Jeeves is a wonder.  A marvel. What a brain.
Size nine-and-a-quarter, I should say.
He eats a lot of fish.

– Bertie Wooster, in P.G. Wodehouse’s Thank You, Jeeves.

Last year I was elected to the Outdoor Industry Association Board of Directors. It was an honor and a privilege to be selected to work with such a great group of leaders.  I was also appointed to the Outdoor Foundation BOD, because of my interest in and passion for getting youth involved in the outdoors.

I’ve since attended three or four board meetings.  It is no question that I am the dumbest guy in the room.

This is not false modesty, and I admit to having more than my share of brain cells that all work in unison on a semi-regular basis.  In other words, yeah, I’m pretty smart, and I’m pretty creative.  That said, I am still the dumbest guy in the room.

I ran for the board for a few reasons, one philanthropic (I want to help our industry), and one selfish (I like to be around effective leaders). The best way to learn about being a good, nay, great executive is to surround yourself with them.

Executives.  You think Enron or Goldman Sachs.  The very word conjures up images of guys in dark suits and ruthless board room politics.  In fact, the root of executive is a person who executes, who gets things done (or facilitates them getting done).  These men and women get stuff done.  That’s why there are where they are.

So here’s what I’ve learned this week.

From Jay: You can be super effective and still be a goof.  Jay’s a senior level executive at Timberland.

From Beaver: Better to be a great person skilled at business than a great businessman. Beaver founded prAna.

From Steve: Only say something when you can improve upon the silence. Steve’s a Global Brand Manager at GoreText.

From Frank: Be serious when you have to, but other than that, laugh a lot.  Frank’s the OIA Executive Director.

From Fred: Watch the quiet ones, often they’re the deepest thinkers.  Fred’s CEO of Thule USA.

From David: Starting a business in your garage can be a great idea. Founder and owner of All Terrain.

From Bill:  Generosity is critical to going business sustainably. Bill’s the head honcho at Red Wing.

From Larry: It’s all about connecting already existing thoughts. Larry’s president and CEO of the Conservation Fund.

From Chris (staff): Persistence doesn’t mean annoying someone to death. Chris is the Executive Director of the Outdoor Foundation.

And lastly, from my friend Skip Yowell:  Authenticity is just a word used by marketing dorks unless you’re absolutely certain that you’re 100% positively authentic. Skip is the co-founder of JanSport.

—

It’s really a privilege to spend time with such powerful and effectual people. The best thing about all of them: zero ego. They don’t need it — they have all worked hard and make a difference in the world.  It’s the upward crawlers who drive everyone nuts.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Kicking around in rural Appalachia is a treat. It requires a different mindset, especially for Yankees. If you’re in a hurry, go to New Jersey. They expect that, and you’ll fit right in.  Sorry, New Jersey.

There are significant problems in rural communities; school systems failing (thank you, No Child Left Behind), crushing poverty, a deep suspicion of outsiders, and lack of decent health care, preventative or otherwise.  Mortality rates are higher, obesity rates are higher, and unemployment hits rural areas hardest, because often a single employer will dominate an area.  When they pull out, it’s like a neutron bomb.

If these problems are so bad, you might ask why it’s a treat for me to explore these little communities.

It’s because of people like Ron.

St. John’s Mill is the oldest continually-running family business in Tennessee, spinning millstones since 1778.  Founder Jeremiah Dungan passed it to his heirs until 1866, when a great-nephew, George W. St. John, purchased the mill and carried on the family tradition.  The mill is now run by Ron and his wife, George’s great-granddaughter. Still in the family.

Anyway…the Mill. Well, if they don’t have it, you don’t need it. The prices for all feed goes on this board. That’s what it costs until something changes (the price of grain, molasses, or what-have-you).  You can get half a dozen different chicken feeds, mixed depending on whether you’re growing meat, feeding hatchlings, laying hens or roosters.  Yes, one just for roosters.  Probably had Cialis in it.

I imagine OSHA would have been dismayed to find a couple of yahoos like us walking around a working mill.  Ron just said, “Watch yer haid out there, okay?” and turned us loose to walk around and take pictures.  They had been making sweet feed for horses (oats, corn and molasses mostly) and there was a big pile of it on the floor in front of the bag filler.  I picked up a handful and gave it a squeeze — it was a granola bar for horses.  Wife 1.1 asked me what it was, I took a mouthful and said “sweet feed.”  It was as good as any granola bar I have ever had.  Ruth (my local friend who took us to the mill) declined an offer for a bit, as did Wife 1.1.

The mill was certified for producing goods for human consumption until just a few years ago.  This bite of horse feed was my protest of civil disobedience against the Bureau of People Who Think They Know Better who, though no one had been sick from anything produced at the mill in the last two centuries, thought it might be best to be cautious. It’s no wonder rural people distrust government. I would too.

The best part of the visit to the mill was John.  He worked at the mill for 27 years, hurt his leg and wasn’t able to work there anymore, but I suppose he doesn’t have much to do, so he shows up to just be around his friends. Ron likes him and allows him to hang around, which I think is massively cool, since his life obviously revolves around being at work, even if he isn’t working there.

When I started taking pictures, John came over and tugged on my sleeve.  Lemmshowyasumpthun. He lead me to an old timberframe joint that used wooden pegs whittled out of hickory. Thatswhatwasusedfernailstwerentnonailsthen. John talked in one long word for each sentence. It took a few sentences to tune my ear to his particular, rural Tennessee dialect.

When I asked John to take his picture, he sat down on a pile of sack of feed.  No smile.  I said, “Hey John, are you happy?”

YessuhIam.

“Do me a favor and tell your face, will ya?

John’s face split into a grin as he chuckled, and I held down the shutter, 9 pictures in just a few seconds.

This was the best one.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

To say that I am a bit of a gear junkie is sort of like an alcoholic saying he likes an occasional nip of brandy. I am incorrigible.  Those who have seem my garage are appalled, while I am simply palled.  I am not, however, an Old Milwaukee beer sort of gear junkie.  I have standards.  I am a good gear junkie.

While I do receive gear samples periodically that are sub-par (at least to my standards), I try to be like the Winged Lion of the Island of Misfit Toys.  I just pass them along, usually to friends who love the outdoors but sometimes are in the unenviable position of being in graduate school, thus taking a Vow of Poverty along with the Vow of Voluntary Advisor Abuse.  Don’t get me started.

A few weeks ago we had this little event called Canoecopia.  While it is a consumer show, the amount of B2B stuff that goes on is increasing, just because there are a lot of industry people in one spot for the weekend.  This includes folks who want to visit me to talk about the possibility of doing business together in the future.

Guy (pronounced ghee, like the clarified butter) Bourassa, the Sales Manager for BorealDesign kayaks stopped in to check out The Big Show and catch a few minutes with yours truly if possible.  Yeah, I was busy, but we sat down Saturday evening at the High Noon Saloon and chatted for a while.  I learned the story of their company (family-founded by a couple of kayakers — a good start) and the growth and development of the business.  Interesting guy (pronounced guy, like the wire).

Anyway, after a nice visit (I am lusting after a Maelströmkayak Vitäl 166), we agreed to continue the conversation over escargots in Quebec City sometime this summer.  And I thought that was it.

When I got back to the shop a few days later, I found a box of stuff.  In the box was gear.  There was the usual t-shirt and hat action, which we promptly distributed to the new staff, who have need of such things. I have enough t-shirts to clothe Congress.  It might not be such a bad idea to get Mitch and Nancy out of their suits and such and into a cool kayaking t-shirt.  But I digress.

Also in the goody box was a nice cockpit cover cum mesh bag so you can keep wet stinky stuff where it belongs, or at least where it doesn’t not belong.  Also…and this was the kicker…a set of canoe pogies.  For canoeists.  You know who you are.

Pogies are basically gloves that wrap around your hands so you can grip the paddle directly, which in a lot of our minds, a better solution than wearing a glove.  It gives you better control and better feedback from the paddle.  It’s like having solid motor mounts for your engine; nothing between the engine and the chassis.  Anyway, suffice it to say I like pogies.

The only problem is that the kayakcentric world has made canoe pogies as rare as hen’s teeth. Pogies are usually thought of as a kayak thing. So imagine my delight to discover a pair of canoe pogies mixed in with the goodies.  There is justice in the world, I thought.  After almost twenty years, I have a good pair of canoe pogies again.  I had a pair once, but thoughtlessly gave them away to find out a few weeks later that the manufacturer had stopped producing canoe pogies due to a lack of a market.  Sure, let a stupid little thing like lack of demand stop you.

These are, bar none, the finest pogies I have ever seen. They were clearly designed by someone who actually uses them, not by a person who once saw them on someone. They are well-constructed, well-designed, and the attention to detail is outstanding. The long red tab so you can use your teeth to pull the pogie on your top hand is ingenious.

I do get excited about gear, but as I am exposed more and more to gear I have become a little jaded. No, that’s not the proper word…cautious, maybe? In a world where some folks want to be everything to everyone, it’s nice seeing a product that isn’t a me-too product.

These pogies are decidedly not a me-too.  They’re a hey-look.

I hope to have some of this gear in the shop this summer, fall at the latest.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

"I'm sorry Dave. I'm dumber than a box of hammers."

So I get this phone call from a guy who says he has this great new technology that can run a live chat during off hours, so no one has to staff the website overnight.   I am skeptical.   I said I would test it, then get back to him.

Here’s the test:  You is really Me.

I send this transcript to the sales guy.

I never heard back.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S.  If an artificial intelligence uses text smileys, run the other way screaming.

grat·i·tude

[grat-i-tood, -tyood]  – noun.

The quality or feeling of being grateful or thankful: He expressed his gratitude to everyone on the staff.

When I opened the doors to the main hall on the Friday afternoon of Canoecopia, this is what I saw.

When I asked to take a picture for my blog, they cheered.

The Buddhists call their community Sangha.  It’s Sanskrit for “community” and “together.”  Might seem redundant to Western eyes, but I love the redundancy.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Oh, sure, the Society of Uncreative Sticklers for Exact Equinoxes will dispute my claim.  “It’s Winter,” they say.  “It won’t be Spring until March 20th.” At which point, a second, less creative person will say, “Exactly.  March 20th.  At 17:32 GMT.”

Hey, sticklers, lighten up and listen up.  It’s not about the facts, it’s about the truth.

All of us upper Midwesterners have a different sense of Spring.  We don’t use the astronomical definitions since they’re largely irrelevant.

Spring is when you see bare spots on the  backyard.  Spring is when we wear shorts when it’s 42 and sunny because we can.  Spring is driving with the window rolled down, elbow out, with the heater on high keeping our feet warm. Spring is when a winter’s blanket of snow is pulled back to reveal a minefield of dog poop.  Spring is when you take the ski rack off the car, and even if it snowed, you’d still leave it off.  Because skiing, irrespective of snow cover, is over.  Spring is when you start to smell life in the air, and sun casts both light and warmth on your face.  Or in my case, on my head—my forehead extends back farther than most.  My head is a solar collector.

Spring is when sleeping buds start to stir.  Some of them are locked up tight until there’s no chance of a killing frost, but most plants are a little more daring and want to get a jump start on getting some chlorophyll action going.  They’re cold, they’re hungry, and they want it to be Spring.  Like me.

For us paddlers, Spring is when the water is paddle-able. Not necessarily warm, mind you, but it’s mostly fluid (except for the ice chunks) and it’s lovely, even if wading is not advised.

For me, Spring stated March 1st because I saw two nuthatches (Sitta carolinensis) working over the shaggy bark of one of our Silver Maples (Acer saccharinum) looking for bits of food. They have an unmistakable, nasally honk, and a pair of them sound a lot like my grandfather (Homo sapiens var. Utahensis) blowing his nose, but a block or so away.

Sure, it looks inhospitable.  Well, maybe it’s a little less welcoming than warm sands and bright sunshine, but it’s wet and it’ll float a canoe.  Physically it might be a little hostile, but Winter early Spring paddling has its own beauty.  The light plays off the melting ice like crystals in the window of a new age bookstore, and the breakup of the ice shelfs create sounds that can vary from a sharp crack like the report of a rifle to a soft, rippling music like a giant wind chime.

Then there’s the guilty feeling that this is just, well, wrong.  It’s a harmless cheat, where no one loses but you win, and Nature just sits there and scratches her head, like a teacher catching a pupil doing something, only there’s no proof of any actual mischief.  But everyone knows that somewhere, in some way, somehow someone got away with something.  I love it when that someone is me.

As I drive around Southern Wisconsin, the changes are subtle, but unmistakable. Rivers are opening up and willows show tinges of yellow.  Cardinals sing to each other constantly, flashes of red in a monochrome copse of cottonwoods.  And woodpeckers…that was the kicker.

A pair of Red-Bellied Woodpeckers have been clattering in the big maple, spending a lot of time there.  Normally they spend a few minutes in a tree and flit off to another, but they seemed particularly attached to this one.

I like Red-Bellies.  Melanerpes carolinus are fairly common in our woods, as well as Hairys and cute little Downys.  We get some Northern Flickers here and there, but the Red-Bellies seem to be the most common.

A few days ago I heard one of the resident Red-Bellies singing her lungs out. I could not for the life of me see where she was.  Ian spotted a flash of red, and I ran for my camera and stuck the big lens on.  A nesting pair built a nest in a dead limb.  I guess Silver Maples are good for something besides dropping limbs on unsuspecting passersby.

We feel honored to have such lovely new neighbors.  They’re the best indicator of all that Spring, despite the lack of a Vernal Equinox, is here.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

P.S.  I know that picture up above is not a nuthatch.  It’s a chickadee, working over a cluster of bittersweet berries.  If you want to see a picture of a nuthatch, go here.

Spring is coming soon, but winter does have one last hurrah.

Last weekend was Winter Fest, an amazing event wherein Yuriy Gusev, an amazing event planner and promoter, turns the Capitol Square into a nordic ski course.

Over 20,000 people come to Winter Fest, to race, to watch, and to celebrate the idea of winter.

There were children everywhere…and of course, the mascot, Gentle Ben, who I believe, in a previous incarnation, was the Hamm’s Bear.  From the land of sky blue waters, I suppose.  I outfitter Mr. Ben in a pair of Alaskan snowshoes.  It works.

I spent some time demonstrating traditional snowshoe building, and one young lady in particular was transfixed.  She didn’t take her eyes off the snowshoes for quite a while, and I could see gears turning in her head.  I asked her if she wanted to do some weaving.  She nodded silently and I got her started.

Sophie picked up the idea quickly. She didn’t speak much; she was focused on the task at hand, and with an occasional correction, she finished a tail section.  There was obvious pride.

I love teaching kids, especially ones as bright and curious as Sophie. Her parents had the foresight to name her wisdom. Her father watched her, smiled, shook his head and said, “She’s always like this.”  Like this, meaning she loves to learn new things.

I am thankful for children like Sophie, and in her hands the future of the world is safe.

Now, everyone; join hands, close your eyes and repeat after me:

Spring is coming.

[Spring is coming.]

Snow is banished.

[Snow is banished.]

It’s time for paddling.

[It’s time for paddling.]

That should do it.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of pages have been written about the horrors of the Nazi party’s concentration camps.  I feel like adding words to the tens of millions already written is a waste of your time.  But I must write them anyway.

I extended my business trip to Munich by a day, just so I would have the opportunity to walk around and enjoy the city without worrying about keeping up with a group.  Alone, I am the slowest walker I know, and the ever-efficient Germans pass me often, apologizing with an entschuldigung as they pass. I can make a kilometer last an hour, and I often do.

The first order of business was to go to Dachau concentration camp.  It was something that I wasn’t wanting to do, in some sense, but I felt an obligation to go, being so close, and never having seen a prison camp, it was my duty.

The S-bahn ride through the outskirts of Munich was uneventful.  We passed suburbs, looking like most suburbs, but cleaner and better planned. Gotta love the Germans.  Then it was announced…Dachau Station.  Please exit on the left.

I exited into a quaint little village.  There were the usual near-the-station tacky food stands (“Englisch Menu!”) but walking a few hundred meters in any direction revealed a lovely town, most likely a bedroom community of Munich, 40 minutes away by train.

I jumped on a bus to catch a ride to the actual site, a national historical site.  If the Germans are ashamed of their past, you wouldn’t know from this.  There is a sense that the Germans are trying to educate.  I was the only one there who wasn’t from a giggly middle school group, and I timed it so that I was always between groups.  My plan worked perfectly.

Dachau was the first concentration camp, and it has a terrifying back story.  Six weeks before Dachau opened, the Nazi leadership suspended parts of the German constitution, namely:

“Articles 114, 115, 117, 118, 123, 124 and 153 of the Constitution are invalid until further notice. Restrictions on the freedom of the individual, the right to free speech, including freedom of the press and the right of assembly and the right to form groups, infringements on the secrecy of post, telegraph and telephone communications, house searches, confiscation and limitation in property ownership over and above the previously legally specified limitations are now permissible.”

Sounds a lot like the Patriot Act, doesn’t it?

Dachau was obviously under construction, probably almost finished, so there was no doubt suspension of the constitution was already in the plan.  Dachau first contained about 2000 inmates, a prison for political enemies, Communists, and other miscreants.  It was insisted that this was “protective custody,” an Orwellian euphemism that makes your skin crawl.

"Work makes freedom"

After walking through the main entrance, with its ARBEIT MACHT FREI sign integrated into the gates, you turn right into the main buildings, now a museum.  There, in excruciating detail, the history behind the camp and its many inmates is laid out in great detail.  The idea was to show the people who were there…the individuals.

The scale of death and suffering was so great it makes your brain shut down and lump all those senseless deaths together in one, big tragedy.  But making it personal…showing a man eating a picnic with his wife and kids in one picture, and showing another of the same man, head shaved and half his weight from the first picture…brings it home in a way that is staggering.  That family having a picnic could be my own.  That’s the intent.

The bunker held about 140 prisoners, mostly people who were considered more dangerous or instigators or someone some guard didn’t like.  It was capricious and arbitrary.  Punishment was sadistic and brutal.  Many of the guards were casualties of the front lines and were retired to work at concentration camps.  My guess is quite a few of them were deranged.

I have several pictures of gas chambers and the cremation building (Barrack Ten).  I don’t want to put them up here.  I spent ten minutes sitting in a gas chamber, pondering what an individual thought as they entered that 20 x 20 room with the low ceiling and fake shower heads.  I spent about five minutes sitting in the corner of the crematorium, wondering what the people loading the bodies into the ovens thought about what they were doing…if it bothered them…if they went home to a wife and family…if they went to church Sunday morning and prayed for forgiveness.  I don’t know.  As I sat there in those rooms, the thought that came to me over and over again was “All is blackness and evil.”

In July 1961, Stanley Milgram, a Yale psychologist, created an experiment to determine how so many people could become so callous, unfeeling and brutal. This was during Adolf Eichmann’s war crimes trial in Jerusalem, and Milgram, a Jew, was curious about the relationship between authority and compliance to obey, even when the task was odious and inhumane.  Milgram was searching for a mechanism to see what made the Germans so compliant to authority. But he had to test it here in the States.

What happened shocked Milgram.  He had no need to take his experiment on the road.  People from all walks of life, from graduate students to working class folks from New Haven, Connecticut had no problems administering what they thought were 450 volt electric shocks to a subject in the next room because a man in a white lab coat said “It is absolutely essential that you continue.”  In fact, 65% of participants had no problem administering the highest shock.  Zimbardo’s prison experiment at Stanford was no less frightening. Think Abu Ghraib with upper middle-class college students.  It really happened.

Before we get on our high horses and blame Germans for being so [insert negative adjective here], we’re not exactly lily-white ourselves. What I learned at Dachau is that it could happen anywhere. All you need is a group of people who are perceived as a threat (Jews, gypsies, Communists, people named Mohammed), another group of people who are threatened, and a leader who wants to exploit both groups.  There are days I wonder when we’re going to re-open Manzanar and fill it with Muslim-Americans (of course, for their own protection).

What I came away with is a sense of what can happen when people do nothing.  I understand why they didn’t do anything…even the ones who tried to help by throwing a loaf of bread over the fence  were unceremoniously tossed in the same camp: they were obviously subversive types.

On the train home, I made a promise to myself that I would do what I can to make sure it doesn’t happen here. But I don’t know what that means.  Let’s say I’m living a quiet life as a shopkeeper in Dachau in 1944.  I decide these poor prisoners could use some food, so I toss a load of bread over the fence.  The next day a couple of thugs come into my shop and say, “Hey, Commie-lover, do that again and your wife and kids are taking a one-way trip to Barrack Ten.”

So what would you do?

It was a long train ride home.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover

I received a phone call a few weeks ago from Bill, the Executive Director of the Alliant Energy Center, the campus of buildings where we put on Canoecopia. He calls once a year or so, has tickets for some event, and asks if I’d like a chunk of them.

This year he had tickets to Tim McGraw and Lady Antebellum.  What he didn’t know is that I would rather pull my fingernails off with a Leatherman and dip the raw bleeding stubs in lemon juice, or a similar liquid with a lower pH.  I am not a fan of country music.

Actually, I think country music is an oxymoron.  It’s even more manufactured than pop music.  Give me Patsy Cline.  Give me George Jones. Give me Elvis before he became a puffy caricature of himself. But you can keep Carrie Underwood and her well-marketed and immaculately displayed Osmondesque teeth.

But I digress.  As usual.  But it’s my blog, and you don’t want to read it, it’s not like you paid for a subscription.  Control W will silence me.  Go ahead.  Do it.

ANYWAY…  I told Bill thank you very much, but I would be a day back from Munich and jet-lagged, and therefore unable to really enjoy the performance (true enough).  But I knew that Monsternationals were upon us, and I had never been to see a monster truck show.

Bill came through in spades.  Box seats.  Let me say that again…box seats.  At a monster truck show.  There were no bottles of buttery chardonnay or doilies in the suite, but still…box seats. At a monster truck event.

I did what came naturally after receiving 4 tickets to a monster truck show.  I called three over-educated, cerebral academic types who would otherwise never attend anything of the sort.  Wonderfully, the reception was a universal “Dude, I’m in.”  So much for stuffy academics.  I had my posse.

The suite was overbooked.  Some Bill’s friends brought along a few others and it got crowded.  So we jumped the wall into the next (empty) suite and hung out there.

I always wondered how a monster truck event could last three hours or so.  I mean, jump jump, crush crush, and we’re done, right?  No sir, we make this last.

First, the national anthem.  Fine.  I love the national anthem. The problem was that it has been pre-recorded.  Just before the land of the free high note, the recording skipped and started over.  They quickly cut it off, and the announcer deadpanned, “Well, we all know how it ends…”  I loved it.

Then came a very long introduction for every truck and driver, down to the displacement, horsepower and fuel mixture of each engine and the history of each driver from birth to present day.

Then out came Porkchop.

This was the most painful part of the whole evening.  Porkchop, the Motorsports Clown. Not only not funny, Porkchop is anti-funny. So not funny, I can’t remember a single chuckle-inducing statement.  Sorry, the kids love the t-shirt slingshot…but that’s it.

That was the first hour.  Or so.

Then the crushing started.  Six trucks, all putting out 1500 horsepower and several pounds of carbon monoxide a second, the trucks crushed four cars.  Over and over. The good news is that at least one of them was a Mercury Sable.

Cool.  Lame.  Cool.  My brain could not decide.  There is a certain purity in the destruction of cars that are already destroyed.  The lameness is linked to the X chromosome.  The coolness is linked to the Y chromosome. Hence the ambivalence.  It also explains why Wife 1.1 was not interested in attending, even if paid to do so.

The t-shirt cannons were cool.  Despite the fact that they were responsible for the death of Maude Flanders, they are still cool.  One shot a t-shirt at the booth next to us and it hit the top of the box, teetered, and fell into the seats below.  A mulleted rugrat was there within seconds to grab it and hold it up triumphantly. The kid in the box next to us was crushed.

On the next round, however, they shot two more shirts in the box next to them, locked up with no one in there.  So I monkeyed over two boxes again and grabbed them. The kid got one (I felt like Mean Joe Green) and kept one for Brent’s kid.

We did find a truck to back as a group.  Snakebite.  It was the glowing eyes and fangs that did it. When Snakebite came out to race, we all made the universal sign of Snakebite:

Remember: these are adults.  That is the power of Snakebite’s venom.  The next day at church we flashed the snakebite gang signal to each other during services.

So that was that.  Fun. Lame. Strange. Cool.  Still trying to figure it out.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover