The Trapeze Swinger

Current Location: Sugarcreek, Ohio @ Ted & Sue's house
Required Music (for reading this post): The Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine.

Home. A sweet sigh of relief. The feel of clean sheets and baggy, worn-in sweat pants. The smell of Folgers Coffee in the morning. The warmth of a hug from someone who knows the worst thing about you. The unwavering net below the swinging trapeze artist.
I am home.

Home am I.
I pull into my parents' driveway after driving 7 hours from Chicago with only my thoughts to keep me company. I turn the key, and the car heaves to a rest. My head falls back against the seat, and I let out an audible sigh.

I imagine my sigh must be the same sigh an acrobat lets out after his head falls into the safety net. At first, he is incapable of moving or breathing for what feels like days as the trapeze bar continues to swing above him. Finally, he releases a deep (grinning) sigh of relief, and reflects on how high he flew after his hands left the wooden bar...how he gracefully he soared...and how much he loves that damn net.

I come crashing through the door, dirty cloths in tow, and I fall into the big green chair in our living room. It's 9:30 p.m. and I find my mom snuggled under a blanket on the couch (as she usually is when I get home) and my dad sitting across the room with this feet up and his head titled back..."resting his eyes". They are my net (if you didn't already get the metaphor) and no matter how times I fall after attempting the death-defying, triple somersault through the flaming hoop, they catch me before the ground does and send me climbing up the trapeze again.

I am stupidly, without words, on my knees, face to the ground, grateful for my parents. They are both incredible people, incredible educators, great friends, and the most caring and helpful (sometimes annoyingly so...) parents to have ever raised a child. I love you guys - Thank you, thank you, thank you...I can't say it enough.

A Quick Chicago Recap....before bed.

Food: Fat and Happy.
In a series of gluttonous meals, I have discovered that Chicago is ground zero for America's growing obesity epidemic. Shannon took me (and Two Buck Chuck) out to dinner Wednesday night to an amazing Sushi place in Boy's Town and I ate till I was fat and happy. On Saturday Steve-o decided we should return to Hot Dawgs(Doug's) and I ate till I was fat and happy. Saturday night, I tried Falafel for the first time at this cheap and delicious Mediterranean place, which left me fat and happy. And then on Sunday, I experienced deep dish pizza and (say it with me) ate till I was fat and happy.

There is just too much good food in Chicago. Joining the clean plate club every meal would result in a pair of lovely love-handles and an early (oversized) grave.

Dance Par-tey: Bust-a-move.
On Saturday night, (post fat and happy falafel time) we headed over to Kent and Steve-o's friends house for some Brass Monkey's (40's of Old English and orange juice) and an impromptu dance par-tey for the ages. See pictures... enough said.




In This Week's Episodes...
During the next couple days, I am going to be home in Sugarcreek so call me, and while I am here I am going to write a couple short stories I dreamed up during my drive and post my rough drafts on here...

the teaser...Alcohol's Fables by Me.
Hazy recollections from an enlightening night. I become entangled with a Yoda-like, Hunter S. Thompson-esk drunken philosopher - to be played by Johnny Depp. Together we stumble through a night of fabled-misadventures with mystical characters, dark twists, and perhaps an eventual dawn.

The (Non)Culture of Tourism

As mentioned in my last post, I have some amazing friends here in Chicago. Kent, Steve-o, and Shannon have clued me to the best parts of Chicago. They know the best eats, neighborhoods, records stores, bars, coffee shops, and bookstores. If not for them, I'd probably spend my days going from Starbucks, to the Sears Tower, to Applebees.

Because of places like Doug's Dawgs (see previous post), I have realized that there is no culture in tourism.

The (Non)Culture of Tourism...(how it works, and, oh, how sad it is...)
One generation builds or creates something beautiful, innovative, and personal - thus it becomes culturally significant to a specific group of people at that time. The idea of their creation starts to radiate out to a wider and wider audience until the next generation sucker fishes onto some generalized version of the original idea (by this time, the original creators of the idea have moved on and are horrified at the monster they created). Then, the final stage on the tourism death continuum is corporatization. People in board rooms see dollar signs instead of culture and then it's all over.

For Example (My Nod to Wrigley)...
I drove by Wrigley Field today, easily one of the most famous and recognizable baseball stadiums in the country. With it's familiar, big red sign right on the corner of Addison and Clarke, it's ivy covered center-field wall, and it's classic (undigitized) green score board, Wrigley has become a visual representation of Chicago's soul (maybe America's too).

There is no doubt, that the stadium has cultural significance for the city (they nickenamed the whole neighborhood Wrigley-ville, for cripes sake). However, it is clear that the stadium has easily shifted into the reverence stage for locals and into the corporatization stage for everyone else. When I asked Kent about the Wrigley-ville neighborhood, he quipped, "You mean bro-ville"(aka a frat boy neighborhood). The area around Wrigley-ville has become a murders row of fast food chains and neon signs. Across the street from the famous Wrigley Field sign is a Taco Bell on one corner and a McDonald's on the other. Any space that isn't taken by a chain restaurant is filled by corporate sports bars that try hard to fit the local aesthetic but still feel like Time Square to me. And there right in the middle of the greed fueled, feeding frenzy is Wrigley Field.

Wrigley sits like a proud but sad elder statesman... like the Native America in an PSA that sheds a tear when someone liters...like the aging lion preparing to be torn about by the surrounding hyenas.



Recommended Reading....Philip Roth's The Great America Novel.
The Great American Novel consists of the fictional baseball fables from America's forgotten Patriot league. Roth perfectly and humorously balances the beauty and meaning of baseball with its dark underbelly.

great friends & great hotdawgs

<---These are my generous hosts while in Chicago. 

(left) The lovely and enormously talented Shannon Ulis.

(right) The fearsome twosome of Kent Weaver and Steve Shumaker.

Shannon is one of my good friends from back home. She is a kick-arse interior designer for a very swank firm here in Chicago, and I am endlessly proud of her (even if she would hate me saying that) - check out out her firm Simeone Deary. 

Kent (beard) is a good friend, who ironically went to Kent State. Steve (no beard) is also from Kent, and he might be the most athletic non-athlete I have ever met. If it involves a ball, the kid can play it and play it well. (insert michael scott joke here). Many thanks to these upstanding gentleman for their hospitality...especially for introducing me to Doug's (Dawgs) hot dogs. 

The real topic of this blog....

The BEST hotdog(dawg) you've ever had - Hot Doug's Hotdogs

After hanging out in Wrigley-ville our first night in chicago, Kent takes us for hot dogs for lunch. After a short 5 block drive from this apartment, we find Hot Doug's (or Hot Dawgs if you ask Nate), and a line out the door and around the corner.  

After waiting for an hour in line, we finally reached the counter where Doug himself takes your order (see picture below). Doug greets me with a smile and by the end of my order is referring to me by name. I order a classic Chicago dog and an Italian sausage. To say these hot dogs were good would be like saying the sun is bright. As the first bite makes contact with my taste buds, I am dumbfounded by a wallop of flavor. I am so blitzed by deliciousness that I just stare at Kent for a few seconds before sputtering, "Oh... oh, yeah... that's good". I take my next bite and my next and my next - each time gushing some sound  of approval (mmmm, oh, geesh, wow).

Hot Doug's/Dawgs is a truly local Chicago treat. It is nestled on an unassuming street corner below a plain sign in a mostly residential neighborhood. It is only open 10-4 everyday because the owner actually works the counter - everyday. If he (doug) isn't there the store isn't open. This hotdog/dawg joint is no secret, however. Later Monday night, we were watching No Reservations, a food travel show, and where should celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain go to in Chicago? Yup, that's right, Hot Doug's. 

Watch the clip 0f Doug's from No Reservations (starts at 3:00 min)

Bourdain called Doug's dogs, "Nirvana for lovers of tubed meats". He is right, and I have been enlightened.

How I Ended Lyle Lovett's Music Career

Last Thursday I left Columbus and the euphoria of watching the U.S. National Soccer team beat up on Mexico to head for Athens, Ohio - home to college students, ghosts, and my friend Jill Okey.

Jill works in Admissions at Ohio University, and as I sat in Jill's office watching her give directions, organize, and care for her co-works and students, I realize just how immature I am.

Jill is one of those incredibly strong people that worries too much (but worries for all the right reasons and always worries for others before herself). I am (at times) the type of person who only worries about myself, but I worry about the most inane, useless things. I worry what others think about me - to the point that I'd rather stay in bed than walk upstairs and talk to my roommates. Jill worries out of love (and i love her for it). I worry out of uncertainty and confusion. (and i am uncertain and confused about why).

How I Ended Lyle Lovett's Music Career

Before I visited Jill at her office, I parked on a side street where all of the parking meters had plastic bags over the meter heads. This is one of those things I should have worried about, but my brain figured, "Well, they all must of be out of order! Aren't I luck to have found this great parking spot."

Fast forward to 4:45 p.m. - Jill needed to turn in her grad school application before 5 so I offer to drive. But as I approach my too-good-to-be-true parking spot, I realize that my trusty silver Honda Civic been replaced by a large tour bus. After scratching my head a few times and Jill making a few phone calls, we discover that my car has been towed... because there is a Lyle Lovett concert tonight, and I parked Mr. Lovett's spot.

Now, I realize being momentarily unemployed and losing a 120 dollars for such a stupid reason should really worry me, but it doesn't. Actually, it amuses me.

I picture Lyle Lovett anxiously running his hands through his Brillo pad hair as the tow truck driver hooks the back of my car to the truck. Mr. Lovett's road manager stands next to the aging musician taping his foot and checking his watch over and over. They both look at the driver of the equipment truck, who shrugs at the line of traffic growing behind him.

As the tow truck driver slowly pulls the lever to raise my car off the ground, some 19-year-old frat boy starts honking his horn like an idiot. Lyle cusses under his breath as his annoyed stare meets the annoyed stare of the idiot-frat-boy. In this moment, Lyle realizes his career has hit rock-bottom because he knows this honking-idiot has never listened to a Lyle Lovett song, and doesn't care if he did once sleep with Julia Roberts.

Who wouldn't pay a 120 dollars to incite such a beautiful moment?

Chicago stories start tomorrow... see you then friends.

I am Batman. I am in Chicago.

If you don't know the newest Batman movies were filmed in Chicago and as we drove down Lake Shore drive, I half expected the capped crusader to come smashing down on the hood of my car.

Blogs to Come....

1. Why Lyle Lovett is now my sworn enemy.
2. A length analysis of on the purpose of life and the pursuit of career.
3. My own personal aptitude test (because all other have failed me)
4. My time in Athens with the truest person i know - Jill Okey.
5. Adventures from Nate Johnson and Patrick Gerber's trip to Chicago (Gotham).
6. And eventually THE PLAN.
   

One quick Nate Johnson Story.
In order, to save money Nate decided to bring PB&J (good idea). However, he didn't bring bread...Stead he order 12 bread sticks from Favollios to be used as Garlic PB&J sticks (bad idea). Oh, and he drank the marinara sauce. Yes, drank it...not as a dare.

Quote of the trip thus far...
Shannon: Nate did you bring this knife with you?
Nate: You never know when you're going to have to spread the butter

Words to live by, kids.
Gerbs

Ole, Ole, Ole...

Crew Stadium on Wednesday Feb 11, 2009.
Mexico Verses the US, World Cup Qualifier.



The first leg of my vagabond world tour finally started on Wednesday (after 3 days of packing and cleaning).

First stop:
Columbus, Ohio

Reason for Visit:
US verses Mexico World Cup Qualifier

It was a dark and stormy night (really it was) and the atmosphere outside crew stadium was intoxicating ....because everyone was intoxicated. Groups of Mexico fans chanted and sang "Ole, Ole, Ole" while the US fans marched to snare drums and shouted the typical "U-S-A, U-S-A" chant. My friend Kevin, his friend Nick, and I stood by the gate eating hamburgers and guzzling PBRs preparing to do our part of the Red, White, and Blue.

Random Thought - A soccer coach once told me "If your pee isn't clear before a game then you're not ready to play". He, of coarse, was referring to being hydrated and drinking plenty of water. Ironically, alcohol via the liver will also make your pee clear - and when preparing to cheer your country to victory and a world cup birth... I believe his advice still holds true.

We fought the reported 70 mile-per-hour winds and found our way to our seats (which we never actually sat in).It was a beautiful night for soccer...Not a drop of rain fell after the whistle blew, and the US Men played up to their potential - especially, the hard working midfielder Michael Bradley who scored goals at the conclusion of each half to blaze the way for the USA in front of a rabid crowd of 23,776 fans.

Perhaps more meaningful than the game itself, was the crowd that braved the winds and the rains to attend. The crowd seemed to be split 50/50 between pro-Mexico fans and pro-US fans. The diversity of our section highlighted the best and worst of people, of soccer, and of America. An obvious reflection of America's (once again) changing population, and possible foreshadowing for a conflict to come. I heard incredibly stupid and racist jokes like "With all these Mexican fans here, who is working at Home Depot and in all the Mexican Restaurants." I also heard more than a few "Chupa mi pinga" and "Punto Americano" from the Mexican fans. (If you don't know what those says mean, trust me they are not nice).

These moments of tension and hate were brief. The majority of the interactions we had in our section (which was mostly pro-Mexico) had a spirit of fun, joking, and a love for a common game. A group of Hispanic teenagers gave us background on their players - who they played club for and how many CAPs they have earned for the national team. We, in turn, would tell them about our players and the MLS. No tension, just 8 people talking soccer.

Late in the second half, we begin stealing the common Mexican chant "Ole, Ole, Ole", which they shout whenever they start to get more than 3 passes strung together in a row. Every good pass or tricky move elicits an "OLE!" in unison from all over the stadium. The 5 American fans around us began to shout "Ole!" every time Mexico made a bad pass out of bounds. Instead of it being taken as an insult, 20 Mexican fans turned around and laughed. A few nodded approvingly at the challenge, and started a new chant to shut us up, which they did.

To punctuate the point that people are all the same despite culture and background, picture this... in the row in front of us, three men all had their faces painted, were wearing flags as caps, and were wearing their nations jersey. One was wearing USA colors, one was wearing Mexico colors, and one was wearing Hundurus colors (I'm not sure the Hundurian support dressed up - lol) But after the game ended and all of the US fans erupted in song, the wife of the Mexican face-painted supporter came over and asked all three men to take a picture... these three super fans leaned in together smiled and then high-fived one another before leaving the stadium.

Check the Video. Bradley's Goal for USA
Recommended Reading. How Soccer Explains the World

It is the things in common that make relationships enjoyable, bit it is the little differences that make them interesting.
Gerbs

Allowing for the possibilities...

“There are some guys who don’t believe in God and can prove he doesn’t exist, and some other guys who do believe in God and can prove He does exist, and the argument stopped being about God a long time ago, and honestly, I don’t care. I don’t believe I will ever walk away from God for intellectual reasons. If I walk away from Him, I will walk away for social reasons, identity reasons, deep emotional reasons, the same reasons that any of us do anything.” - from Blue Like Jazz (page 103).

It's Saturday at 11:30, and a friendly mom-like women is standing on my front porch. I smile and muster my cheeriest "Good Morning?!?". She smiles and hands me a pamphlet containing insultingly simple theological questions like "Is God Real?" and "How do I get into heaven? My smile fades to an obvious grimace, and I consider running out into traffic to avoid the coming conversation.

"Do you believe God is real?", The Jehovah Witness asks, pushing the open pamphlet closer to my face.

"I allow for the possibility", I reply. (Note: You should never reply positively to any question from a Jehovah's witness. It's like dumping blood into a pool full of sharks.)

We verbally spar through a few more questions, and by the time I close the door, I feel judged, annoyed, inconvenienced, angry, and further from God than I ever have before.

Sigh. How did a two minute conversation, make me loath this friendly mom-like women to the point where I wanted to verbally smack her off my porch? Why do I loath her at all? Weren't her intentions good?

To the friendly mom-like Jehovah's Witness...
I don't care about your pamphlet or your beliefs or your intentions because you don't care about me.

You have to earn the right to have a conversation about God with someone. People come to God through trust... not solicitation. You have to dive into the dirt of people's lives if you want them to trust you and ponder eternity. If you want to talk about God with me, you need to take the time to learn and accept my dreams/my flaws/my mistakes/my successes/my friends/my problems/my family/my desires and my secret desires. You need to get to know me.

I don't think you give a damn about me or my soul, but I allow for the possibility that you might.

If we ever meet again, before you ask me "Do you believe God is real?", try asking me my name. It's Patrick, by the way.

It's not Good Bye, It's See Ya Soon

Today is my last day of work at Barbour Publishing. Your last day of work is sorta like attending your own calling hours. Everyone says really nice and caring things to you, however you can't help but shutter at the awkward, rehearsed feeling of the conversation. You know the words are sincere, but cripes if it isn't uncomfortable.

My Thanks to Barbour and the People of Barbour
Working at Barbour and working with you all has given me the opportunity to grow professionally more than I think I know, to challenge myself spiritually and personally, and to meet some amazing people along the way (this does not include Ashley, Shayln, and Annie). Thank you for all your thoughts, prayers, and kind words. I will truly miss you all...

See, wasn't that awkward? Sincere, I promise, but awkward.

Instead of getting all mushy on everyone, I will leave you with a list of things I will NOT miss... If you're not on this list, consider yourself loved and much appreciated.

Things I will not miss about working at Barbour Publishing:

• Amazon.com and the evil empire of computers and robots that work at Amazon.com. In 3 years, I think I sent over 500 tiles and thousands of corrections to Amazon, but I think I only spoke to one actual person, which might have been a robot pretending to be a person.

• Mornings -I know mornings will continue to come every 24 hours, but so much weight is lifted off me now that I will not be required to clock in anywhere at 9 am. If I could change one thing at Barbour - we'd either start working at noon or have naps after lunch time (or both). (I would like to issue a formal apology to Annie Tipton, my carpool partner, for my inability to wake up on time. Sorry, Annie.)

• Shayln Hooker and Ashley Schrock. These human wrecking balls of self esteem have caused more psychological and emotional damage in my life than all of my crazy ex-girl friends combined. Some of you might be under the impression they are kind, lighthearted, Christian girls...If this is the case, I would encourage you to head my warning of danger and to throw bouncy balls at them whenever you can.

• Crazy Authors. - I won't name any names here. But to any author who asked to have their name changed over 10 times or who emailed me a complaint about some misspelling on some website somewhere on the internet (Copy and Paste the link people, C'mon) or who cannot grasp the concept of a professional author photo - i will NOT miss you.
  

If you did not appear on this list, I will miss you greatly, and I hope you'll check back in the future for my new travel adventures and stories.

Awkwardly and sincerely.
Pat

When did a ticket stop being a ticket?

On January 20th, 2009, I woke at 5:30 in the morning to witness history. To witness, the first black man be sworn in as the President of the United States. After an hour and a half on the subway - collectively humping and being humped by everyone in the train at every stop. After 4.5 hours, standing on Interstate 395 in a line 6 people wide and mile and half long - Hands in pockets and teeth chattering.I watched Barack Obama take the oath of office...on tv like everyone else. But my TV was in the second closest house to the Capital Building in DC. Less than half a mile away, 2 million people became part of history. I became part of the ratings.

I am a survivor of The Purple Tunnel of Doom.

So here's my Seinfeld-ian question: What's the deal with tickets?

You get a plane ticket and you get bumped from your seat. You get tickets to the inauguration and watch it on T.V. I'm thinking next time I get a speeding ticket (which will be soon), I think I'll send the court a curtious letter, which will say something like...

"Due to a lack of monetary funding at this time, your speeding ticket has been bumped from the budget of Patrick Gerber. We apologize for the inconvience, and look forward to being pulled over by you in the future."

Check back for more DC stories and plenty more rants.

peace, love, dope, change, and hope.
Gerbs

One Week to Work

One Life to Live.

A Monday like any other Monday.
Wake up, incoherently. Hit snooze, twice. Shower (mostly with Axe body spray). Coffee. Tap, tap, type. Right click. Left click. Coffee. 5 p.m.

This was my last Monday because in seven days Monday's will cease to exist. Ahead of me is an endless fog of possibility. So what will fill the void left by routine and responsibility? Who knows? (Nate Johnson, probably)

The Plan.
quit my job. check.
sell the bulk of my worldly possessions to my roommates. check.
re-donate 4 trash bags of cloths back to Goodwill. check.

GO.
to Athens, OH
to Columbus, OH
to Pittsburgh, PA
to Brecksville, OH
to Chicago, IL
to Turvo, Brazil
to ???????, ??

The Goal.
Take the mistakes of my past, the apathy of my present, and drag them kicking and screaming into my future. Let me try to create some sort of coherent mission statement by saying... I want to erase/finish/perfect/erratic/become/forget the following thought;

I wait for a moment of brilliant, purifying redemption. I wait for a combination of words so lovely, so undeniably, eternally true that they will apologize to everyone I have ever known and make them understand why I never apologized before.

I wait for fleeting moments of innocence when I can smile and feel a rush of happiness without a hint of guilt.

I wait for a sign from a God, I really don't even believe to exist. At night, I talk to my phantom creator and potential savior, but mid-sentence I am silenced by the suspicion that I am talking to myself, or God already knows I am insincere and has stopped listening.

So I wait...

Check back to find out where I'm at.