Lucky Ones from New Orleans

^ Willy and Swinkle in New Orleans, summer 2005. ^ 

Silver guy in the middle? 

Surprisingly, not me. 

We were discussing one of the worst natural disasters in American history when a funny topic arose. A thousand miles south of Fond du Lac, Swinkle was reminiscing into his phone outside of a restaurant in New Orleans.

“Willy had ordered a hammock that was supposed to be delivered on the day Katrina hit.”

“I paid for it!” Willy said.

“It was a standalone hammock, meant to replace his bed,” Swinkle said in his thoughtful drawl. “He couldn't get in touch with the company for the longest time. Then we found out a month or two afterward that the company that took forever to ship it to him was actually in New Orleans. So he was never going to get his money back.”

“Think about that,” Willy said. “It was taking them a while even though we were in the same city. And when I was supposed to finally get it, a hurricane took them out... as well as the post office, the mayor's office, and any chance of me getting my hammock.”

Ten years after Hurricane Katrina—settled with a wife, two kids, and a steady job, Willy has never realized his dream of sleeping in a hammock every night. Later in our talk it was reiterated that there are probably worse fates.

###

We did the interview a half-hour later than planned. My iPhone couldn't directly record the call with Swinkle because I guess that's illegal. Willy had arrived at my apartment on time but forgot to bring his digital recorder. My backup plan was a Microcassette relic with playback that made me sound like a demon on Quaaludes. Willy called an audible and we drove to his house for his Zoom Mic, then to his mom and dad's, where his sister joined us in an upstairs bedroom. When we belatedly got through to Swinkle at 8:30, I felt a tinge of pressure to prove I was truly a pro.

“Uh... So, Swinkle, you were born in the south. Right?”

“Yeah, in New Orleans.”

I nailed it! Swinkle elaborated.

“As a kid, I took stuff like Mardis Gras for granted, but you also knew it was kind of a magical place in the deep south, not like anywhere else you'd ever been.”

In the fall of 2001, Swinkle was lured upstream of the Mississippi River by recurrent wanderlust, a love of music, and a mutual friend of Willy's who played drums in their rock band Reveal. Willy and I had been pals going back to the X-Men battles of our youth, and so I was introduced to Swinkle shortly after he arrived in Wisconsin. We have been triangulated ever since.

Treasured memories, enduring kinships, and some good tunes notwithstanding, the band ran its course, and on a much heavier note, Swinkle's father passed away in August of 2004, prompting his return to the bayou to be with family.

Willy relocated in June of 2005 with no way of knowing his timing was to be as bad as that of a certain hammock vendor. I asked him why he made that move when he was 22.

“Because there was somebody who could set up a living situation ahead of me,” Willy said. “And the main reason I moved there wasn't necessarily New Orleans. It was to get out of Fond du Lac. It wasn't exactly like running away. It was more, 'If I'm going to understand where I'm from, I have to understand what it's like to not be here.'”

Swinkle summarized how they spent their summer.

“I was working for AmeriCorps by day, and I'd lined up Willy with a job working for a contractor,” he said, referring to Ronnie, a born-again survivor of '80s decadence who had composed a dozen or so odes to God. “And we were recording crappy Christian music at night.”

(As a side-note, I visited them that summer, weeks before Katrina, and witnessed a jam session in Ronnie's garage. A Ronnie line the three of us have been known to quote can be found in his critique of the material world: “I don't drink my coffee in a fancy can/ You know that I'm a simple man!”)

“It was his goal and he wanted help with it,” Willy explained. “And it just made sense for us to keep playing music.”

Amen. The time had come for me to ask about that despicable wet thing.

“Initially, how serious did you take the warnings about the tropical storm that became Katrina?”

“I'd heard mention of it a day before we left,” Swinkle said. “The truth is, you get so many hurricane warnings per season, and over 90% of the time, it comes to the fruition of a bad rainstorm. Rarely did we ever really get hit.”

A number of false alarms had contributed to what Willy called “desensitization.” We believe this to be a product of human nature.

“What was the definitive moment that made you realize the best plan was to get out of the city?”

“When Mayor (Ray) Nagin made a televised press conference, live, seriously urging people to leave,” Swinkle said. “I had been working in gardens until four or five when my boss told me the news. I got a ride home and told Willy we probably had to get out of town.”

Evacuation was the plan, but there was a daunting obstacle: Neither man had access to a car. Weeks after it had made the trek from Wisconsin to Louisiana with his belongings in tow, Willy sold his 1990 Ford Escort. Swinkle's ride was being repaired at the shop; he had borrowed his ex-girlfriend's car to get to work that Saturday morning. She had since reclaimed it and fled the city. His plight seemed compounded by the fact that he'd also lost his cellphone.

Swinkle recalled: “Willy started gathering valuables, clothes, stuff we wanted to bring along and preserve. And I was on the computer, trying to find any kind of a rental, flight, bus, or shuttle.”

They were focused but perhaps overmatched. Mercy interceded in the form of a gracious ex.

“Luckily,” Swinkle went on, “My ex-girlfriend, who had my phone, called Willy. I'd left my phone in her car. She'd been on the road for about three hours, and was only about 15 miles out of town because traffic was so bad. She turned around and came to return the phone so I could have it, and she ended up helping us because we didn't have any other options.”

They packed into her sedan a military Duffel bag full of clothes, two acoustic guitars, some recording equipment, and most legendarily, nine lighters. Anything they couldn't stow on a plane was to be destroyed.

“I had just inherited my late father's furniture. His couches, his records. I had that material connection with my dad,” Swinkle said. “I thought, 'I can take care of his stuff now.' Then it's gone.”

Katrina would deprive Willy of a brand-new mandolin. “She was a good girl,” he eulogized. When asked if he had christened her with a name, he deadpanned, “Amanda Lynn.”

There was no use pining over possessions as they drove to the airport where Swinkle had made reservations for a rental car. They waited in line for over two hours. Swinkle noted that “people were definitely frustrated and a little freaked out, but they were civil at that point.” When at long last the trio got to the counter, their fortune waned.

“Because my ex was not yet 25 and paying for it, they couldn't release a car to us.”

What a hassle. “Big Easy,” my ass. Furthering her sterling reputation, Swinkle's ex agreed to let the guys tag along on her journey three states east to Albany, Georgia, where she had family. Willy and Swinkle crashed on the couches of total strangers in the wee hours of Sunday, August 28^th, 2005. Later that morning, they emptied their funds for plane tickets. In a deluge of nasty rain that foretold Katrina, the pilot of a "small puddle-jumper” worked up the nerve to fly them to Atlanta. It was the last flight the plane was to hazard that day. From Atlanta they were flown to Milwaukee's Mitchell Airport. Willy's family was there to drive them home to Fond du Lac.

That night and Monday morning, we gathered around the TV watching the news, sipping coffee, somber and shocked. This was more than a “bad rainstorm.” Katrina was the malevolent payback for all those false alarms. With winds upwards of 175 miles per hour, Katrina was a rare and ferocious category 5 hurricane. Exterior levees had been built to withstand the magnitude of a category 3. Interior floodwalls like that of the 17^th Street Canal were undermined by faulty engineering. The death toll exceeded a thousand in New Orleans alone. Overall damage to property is a scarcely comprehensible figure: $108 billion. New Orleans' burden was exacerbated by its geography; the city exist in a bowl with elevation dipping seven-to-ten feet below sea level. Flooding continued after the storm had passed. When the levees failed, the effects were catastrophic. By Tuesday, over three-quarters of the city was submerged. The Upper and Lower 9^th Wards were especially decimated.

We watched images of desperate souls on rooftops or floating on mattresses from our living rooms. We saw the Superdome embroiled in a doomsday struggle from far, far away. I didn't say the obvious to my friends. “That could have been you.”

“We weren't the only people who wanted to evacuate but had very little means to do so,” Swinkle said.

“We're very lucky,” Willy agreed.

In a town of about 43,000 at the foot of Lake Winnebago, they roomed together in a spare bedroom at Willy's sister's house. Within two weeks, they realized they couldn't return to New Orleans anytime soon. They got day jobs. Swinkle in particular began to loathe the news reports, the inevitable inquiries. People called them the lucky ones even though they had lost everything. I had to wonder if there was more to the story than luck.

“Do you think you benefited from divine intervention or simply good fortune?”

Willy's answer was immediate.

“Before we had any knowledge of the hurricane, I remember stressing out. Thinking about how I wasn't going to be able to continue at that pace, as far as bills and income were coming along. It was a mountain of obstacles to overcome. And I had a moment of asking for divine intervention, getting on my knees and praying to God, saying that I can't do this without some help, and I will do whatever it takes.

“When I look at all the circumstances, I can't help but feel a little bit of hair standing up on end,” he continued. “I specifically asked for help. Then Swinkle left his phone in her car—and that helped us. My last paycheck, all my money, was almost the exact amount that I needed for a plane ticket. We got the last flight... I asked for divine intervention, and I think I got it.”

As a brief editorial, an answered prayer like that could speak volumes about the madness of the world in which we live. I don't think faith or science will ever solve the ongoing mystery and it's hard to be at peace with that.

I questioned Swinkle about the city's efforts to revitalize.

“Being part of the rebuilding with AmeriCorps, I respect the resilience. The resilience resulted in a tighter sense of community. Not only that, but the huge outpouring of support nationally... We had college groups, church groups every week. Buses full of people taking weeks off their lives to come down and help us rebuild, and they didn't get a dime.”

“The worst nature sometimes brings out the best in people,” I said.

We were on our way to an optimistic conclusion. From Fond du Lac, Willy had his faith intact and I had an upbeat ending to an otherwise morose tale. (Maybe I could mix in a few more jokes! I thought selfishly.) Swinkle believed New Orleans was toughened and united by hardship... But he also had something to add.

“Well, initially, Nick, it was horrible. You know, with the Superdome. One of the girls I worked with had to identify her boyfriend-of-four-years' body after he was murdered, shot point blank in the back of the head. The military and police that were established were gone. Anybody in a position of authority had bailed. The building just got taken over. So, this girl came back from the coroner's office with a dry face and told me exactly what it was like to identify her boyfriend's body, but she couldn't open up about the Superdome. Ever.”

We were left with sunken hearts and I was all out of questions. There were no jokes to lighten the mood as we changed the subject and said our goodbyes.

But it struck me as a fine encapsulation of the human condition and empathy. At the end of retelling their adventure, even the lucky ones had to dwell on the sadness. 

South Shall Rise or Come

They had gathered in the basement again to talk things over. Woods was the last of the group to arrive. He flung the door open and for a moment they overheard pans clanging and the faint drawl of the owner coming from the kitchen. Woods shut the door behind him, nodded apologetically and took a seat. Travis stood proudly between a rickety podium and a Confederate flag hung on the back wall. He cleared his throat. They were ready to begin.

“Howdy, all. We're congregating once more to discuss the impending freedom of the South from our Yankee oppressors. On that day our sacred words will truly come to fruition...” He raised his right hand to gesture a solemn pledge. “'I'm as free as a bird.'”

The other four stood to return his hand gesture and chant: “'And this bird you cannot change.'”

Travis removed his tan ten-gallon hat and dabs his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief.

“Hoo-wee, now that is a lotta fancy talk to begin with,” he confessed.

“You need to sit down for a sec?” Woods asked, patting his chair.

“Na, na,” Travis said resolutely. “I ain't no loafer. Now, seein' as how I'm gabbin' 'bout words, that brings us to our old, familiar first topic. Same one our great-great-great ancestors started fussin' 'bout way back in 1865...”

“The South shall come again!” Matthews vowed.

“Horseshit!”

That was the charge of Barney, the chunky opposition to the reedy Matthews. “The South shall rise again!”

“Come!” Woods said.

“Rise!”

The lone woman of the group, Kelly, sidled beside Barney to reinforce their stance. Her purse nearly fell off her lap in the excitement. 

Travis buried his face in his handkerchief and shook his head.

“Can we have one goddamn meeting that don't start this way?” He produced a gavel and rapped it against the oak podium. “Right. For the seven-thousand, eight-hundredth week in a row, before we can move on to our second order of business, we're here to decide if the South is gonna come again, or if the South is gonna rise again...”

“Well hell, Travis,” Woods started, flailing his lanky arms for effect. “You done just said 'come' 'fore you said 'rise'! Ain't that a giveaway to yer true feelings on the matter?”

“For the last cotton-pickin' time, Woods,” Travis said, “I only do that on account of it's alphabetical order, see? Same decree of my great-great-great grandpappy. And it don't matter what the overseer thinks 'cause I gotta be impartial. Now just for that outburst, I'm givin' opening remarks to the Risers.”

Before pleading his case, Barney turned to Kelly for discreet counsel.

“Remember,” Kelly said. “We've been at this a while. But we're tryin' to win 'em over, and so it don't hurt to be subtle.”

Obliged by the wisdom, Barney removed his Crimson Tide hat and stood up to address the dissenters.

“Listen here, you dumb sons-of-bitches! Get yer priorities straight...”

He glanced at his ally for support. Kelly grinned proudly, gave him two appreciative thumbs up and signaled for him to go on.

“Rise vs Come, the winner is clear,” he continued. “Rise first, come second. A man's gotta rise before he can come. Why, you fellas ever try to come before you rise? I done it on accident, and it was a sad, ignoble thing.”

“I seen it!” Kelly said. “Soooo disappointing.”

“Kelly, please...” Barney said, his flabby cheeks flashing red. “Now, in closing, I gotta tell you, if we're ever going to feel the power of the solid South again, then we gotta rise. My fellow Southerners, let's all take a hard stance by rising.”

Kelly clapped her hands rapturously. She leaned in and jeered.

“Comes are for bums!”

She got a high five for that.

Travis struck his gavel with authority to quell the celebration. He nodded at Matthews, who was receiving last-second conspiratorial whispers from Woods, his Comer in cahoots. Matthews had opened his mouth to elucidate, only to ask his cohort a question in a low tone.

“What was that opening line again?”

Woods intently cupped his hands to Matthews' ear and whispered. With a thankful nod, Matthews pointed across the aisle and began his speech.

“Fuck y'all, Risers!”

“Nailed it,” Woods said with quiet approval.

“The South shall come again! You feel that 'come' just rolling off your tongue? We do, and hoo-wee, we sure do love the taste. Mmmm, come. Rising's all fine and dandy, but it don't get nothin' done. It don't create nothin' new. What a silly debate this is—let's all agree to come so that we can finally just relax! My fellow Skynyrd box set owners... if we really wanna make a splash, then we gotta come.”

This rhetoric garnered applause from Woods and derision from the Risers. Approaching the moment of decision, Travis retook the floor.

“OK, OK, we got two fine, well-crafted, articulate arguments as always...”

“Risers is vaginers!” Woods taunted.

His impudence was scolded by Travis and his righteous gavel.

“Quiet, Woods!” he said. “All right, maybe this time it'll all turn out differently... Let's put it to a vote again. All in favor of 'The South shall rise again?'”

In unison, Kelly and Barney proclaim, “Aye!”

“And all in favor of 'The South shall come again?'”

Woods and Matthews simultaneously declare, “Aye!”

Travis took his time pointing at each member of the group, counting as he quietly murmured calculations to himself. The others waited with tense anticipation on the edge of their seats, Risers and Comers tightly holding their respective hands for moral support.

A minute later, when the outcome was determined, Travis' look of concentration turned to one of dismay.

“Goddammit, it's another tie!”

The others groaned, united by dejection.

“You know somethin',” a frustrated Travis vented, “We been gatherin' in this basement of a Whataburger what used to be a Klan meeting place for a considerably long time, and--”

He was interrupted by the door slamming open. It was the owner of the Whataburger, Skeet as his nametag indicated. Skeet was panting, panicked, and as usual, barely intelligible.

“Newsflash... Dag gum libs gone too far dis time!”

“Yeah,” Travis sighed. “We know 'bout the damn uppity liberals, Skeet...”

“You listen to me!” Skeet roared. “TV says day done canceled Dukes of Hazzard reruns on account of Old Dixie's painted on duh General Lee!”

Both the Risers and the Comers were aghast. Travis could barely speak.

“You gotta be shittin' me,” he managed.

“I wish so, but I ain't,” Skeet said. He gazed solemnly at Travis. “Look, y'all're welcome to use dis here basement to figure our proper battle cry, but duh time has come fer action! And if dis Whataburger didn't have three trainees on duh same day as duh rodeo clown convention, I believe I'd be the one to pull up my britches, take dat dare judge-hammer from ya, and make the dang decision already.”

His scowl savaged Travis before he closed the door. The Risers and Comers chattered and griped, ill at ease.

“Can't argue that,” Travis said. “All right, I must make an executive decision. From this day forward, I decree that—and I could personally care less, I'm doing this strictly 'cause it's alphabetical and we gotta put this hullabaloo to bed right now—the South shall come again.”

With their century-and-a-half of uncertainty culminating in triumph, Woods and Matthews entwined their spindly arms around each other in a joyous embrace. In the meantime, Kelly wasted no time digging into her purse for two firearms. Kelly and Barney then rushed the podium, both equipped with the kind of miniature pistols once wielded by the likes of John Wilkes Booth.

“Lousy charlatan,” Kelly spat, her pistol trained on the heart of Travis.

“We got ourselves a mutiny!” Barney announced, his pistol aim roaming back and forth between the two Comers.

Travis held up his hands and pleaded as sweat leaked from his pores.

“Please, just gimme three steps towards the door...”

“That's enough outta you!” Kelly shrieked.

She cocked the trigger. The delicate yet decisive click brought an expression of euphoric malice to her bloated face.

“That white man is owed a vote on his impeachment!”

This cry came from Woods. A last resort of reason.

“Yeah,” Matthews seconded. “Does he look like a black, Jew, Catholic, Gypsy, libtard, Oriental, cripple, daisy-picker, half-wit, smarty-pants, Trans-Jenner, beaner, magician, Dixie Chick, or any of the other 47 groups of people we hate to you?”

Kelly gritted her teeth, her trigger finger itching but a foot away from the barrel chest of Travis. She glanced at her Riser partner, who bit his lip indecisively.

“No, he most certainly does not,” Matthews continued. “He's a white man. A white man with rights who let the first woman ever into this prestigious club on account of her spunk and ability to get away with hate crimes, I might add.”

Two tears streamed down Kelly's cheeks, then four, then six... When she next glanced at her Riser partner, he had to nod: He's right.

“Go ahead,” she said to Travis, her pistol held stationary.

A massive growth seemed to bulge its way down his throat like a rat being swallowed by a snake. He licked his lips.

“All in favor of impeaching me?”

“Aye!” shouted the Risers.

“All opposed?”

“Nay!” shouted the Comers.

Travis nodded deliberately.

“OK. Seems close. Now, I'm under a lot of stress here, so the counting process might take an extra long time...”

Abruptly and unexpectedly chipper, Barney snapped the fingers of his gunless hand.

“I got an idea!”

He kept his pistol nonchalantly pointed at the Comers as he climbed the steps and opened the door. 

“Skeet! Could you be a pal and put on a pot of coffee for us?”

“Ooh!” Woods chirped excitedly, hands aloft. “Double creamer for me!”

Epilogue:

When the deadlock was reckoned four hours later, the Comers and Risers of the South bickered as usual, but thankfully no blood was shed. In the spirit of democracy (for whites), they agreed to reconvene the next week to vote again on the impeachment.

Tragically, not all members would live to attend that meeting. Shortly after leaving Whataburger that day, Travis was gunned down beside a bargain bin at the local Wal Mart. Kelly shot him over the rights to the store's final copy of Dukes of Hazzard: season three.

The remaining members hastily formed the tribute band Saturday Night Specials in time for Travis' funeral, and with help from Skeet on bass, you'd better believe their rendition of “Free Bird” brought the house down.

Barney had his throat slit with a jagged whiskey bottle in the parking lot after the wake.

“The South shall come again!” the Comers declared.

And I guess we'll have to wait and see about that.      

Sportsball Entertainment (just the Favre part)

I had something to say during the pregame chatter of football analysts who know everything 52 percent of the time, not long before the kickoff of a much-touted Packers-Vikings matchup. Anyone with the slightest interest in football was talking about Brett Favre and we were no different. I turned to Bonham, a friend from college.

“Favre is just like Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight. He used to inspire worship in mortals like us. We really thought he was a righteous leader who had that Elvis-like swagger. Seeing Favre in a Vikings' uniform reminds me of Harvey's quote from The Dark Knight: 'You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.' It turned out to be a self-fulfilling thing—a prophesy—when Harvey Dent turned into Two-Face. Just like Two-Face, Favre follows through on that quote. Similar character arcs.”

Bonham seemed complacent with this observation and nodded. Then he offered his own take on Favre.

“I can see that. But to me, Favre's deliverance to evil is more like Hulk Hogan, the eternal good guy, turning into Hollywood Hogan, the leader of a group of bad guys.”

“The New World Order.”

“Right.”

“Did that gang of wrestlers ever conquer the world as they had originally planned?”

“Almost. But then Razor Ramon pussed out right before they invaded Russia.”

Bonham smiled faintly and shifted his weight with a strain of weariness.

“Anyway,” he went on, “The Favre fiasco reminds me of something out of the WWF. It has been like watching that dramatic transformation of a hero into a villain, for sure, but the saga has become such an unreal farce that, to me, it feels more like pro wrestling than a Batman movie. It's closer to wrestling in that the madness is being presented as authentic. Narratives that stem from comic books offer fiction that doesn't really try to represent reality.”

On that Sunday in November of 2009, the Packers lost. Favre, aka Two-Face, aka Hollywood Hogan, shredded a usually solid Packers defense. Whereas my creative ego had fallen victim to a snap suplex of wit and left me to ponder the unsavory notion of humility, the Packers fared much worse. They were routinely body slammed and whacked in the head by a steel chair and then pinned by their most despised rival. On the long drive home, I wondered if Bonham's Favre analogy was to mine as the Packers were to the Vikings in 2009, if I too was good but not great, bound for the playoffs but clearly no match for the championship contenders.

At least Bonham, for one, was onto something—and so I borrowed his idea.

###

Of the major American sports, the commonalities between the NFL and pro wrestling are the most striking. First off, both entities appeal to our lust for mayhem and brutality. Secondly, many Pro Bowl caliber players have incurred the worry and dismay of their coaches, general managers, and fans (at least the ones who stopped watching pro wrestling when they were 14) by putting on tights and tangling with the likes of Bam Bam Bigelow in Pay-Per-View events. Perhaps the most conspicuous example of sports entertainment overlapping with football can be seen in the career of Steve “Mongo” McMichael. Mongo played 15 seasons as a defensive tackle whose career was punctuated by a Super Bowl victory as part of the '85 Bears and their dominant defense. Not long after he retired in 1994, McMichael traded in his pads and uniform for a pair of sleek trunks and achieved middle-tier status as a crony of “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair. Mongo's hit-or-miss stint in the gaudy limbo zone between athletics and acting came to an end in 1999. (He may have been but a pawn in the game, but Mongo is at least more fondly remembered than Chris Benoit.) 

These points of comparison are superficial, though. In retrospect, Favre's entire career seemed to adhere to an epic script conceived by Vince McMahon and his cohorts. Favre's dramatic legacy wasn't exactly too good to be true; it was simply too outlandish to feel authentic. Merit and perseverance factored into the Favre storyline every bit as much as betrayal and corruption. The most dynamic, profound, and hyperbolic legacy in the history of sports entertainment cannot be claimed by hacks like The Rock, Steve Austin, or even Hulk Hogan; it belongs to Brett Favre.

The young gunslinger shot blanks early on. In his rookie season as a backup quarterback for the Falcons, he played sparingly and with comic ineptitude, failing to complete a single pass. In his forgettable season as a bench-warmer, Favre meant no more to the NFL than the Brooklyn Brawler did to the WWF. Both entertained, ingloriously, as bottom feeders in the big show.

In what would later be deemed one of the most lopsided trades in league history, Favre was sent to Green Bay. An injury to Packers' incumbent Don “Majik Man” Majkowski forced Favre into action against the Bengals in week 4 of the '92 season. He seized the opportunity with bravado and lead the Packers to a late game comeback win that culminated in a deep touchdown strike to Kitrick Taylor. (Who?!) A year later, the WWF's 1-2-3 Kid seemed to crudely trace that era in the Favre storyline. The 1-2-3 Kid likewise showcased youthful exuberance as he battled with grit against improbable odds. Both withstood humble and fledgling beginnings and then launched their careers on the strength of surprising victories. (The Cincinnati Bengals = Razor Ramon.)

Favre's consecutive games played streak of 297 is mirrored in hype and endurance by a bald beast in a black Speedo named Goldberg, who began his career in the now-defunct WCW with 173 victories in a row.

Triumph in Super Bowl XXXI solidified Favre's status as football's answer to Hulk Hogan (the good guy—or babyface, in pro wrestling lingo). The mature gunslinger had won league MVP for the league's best team; he was effectively the face of the NFL by 1996. His loss to the John Elway-led Broncos in next year's title game emulated the Hulkster's narrow defeat at the hands of the Ultimate Warrior at Wrestlemania VI. (John Elway = The Ultimate Warrior.)

In 2003, not even a broken thumb on his throwing hand could scratch Favre from the starting lineup. This feat stands as his most impressive display of toughness. Like “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, a different bald beast in a black Speedo, Favre's competitive drive and hubris caused him to prefer blood loss and agony to the humility of tapping out. “There is not a human being on the face of this Earth who can make me say, 'I quit.'” Stone Cold said so, but this quote could just as easily have been proclaimed by Favre.

The Old Gunslinger staged phony retirements, just as the Nature Boy and the Macho Man did. Truly, number four reneged on vows and delivered shams with the greatest of sports entertainers.

Then came Favre's descent into villainy, his mutation into Hollywood Hogan, the bad guy (or heel). After that, the news broke that he sent lewd texts and a much ballyhooed dick-selfie to a buxom sideline reporter. The scandal had all the tawdry sizzle of a WWE storyline founded on the appeal of degradation. We were surprised, but in hindsight, we should have seen it coming.

Flaws, sins, and interceptions notwithstanding, I no longer see the sense in resenting Brett Favre. I can't begrudge a man for following the script. A long-time babyface turned into a heel and ratings soared. Nothing more. It seems as though some of the greats are bound to fatalism, and that God must be a fan of sports entertainment. 

Rope

I've been doing this sort of thing for a while, and as the years have gone by, I've saved a lot of notebooks and folders, all of them stuffed into desk drawers and cardboard boxes. On rare occasions, I'll revisit a high school story that the passing of time has yet to deem garbage. As proof, here's one I wrote in 1998, when I was 15. I suppose it had a certain "Shawshank for Dummies" sensibility.

###

“Aw, man. You gotta get me a rope, Wilson. Please, I'm beggin' you!” Anderson pleaded.

“So you can hang yourself?” Wilson, an aging and wise black man answered. “I don't think I can accommodate that wish.”

The two were taking a stroll through the yard that cloudy March afternoon. Wilson had to hold his mouth shut tightly to keep from chattering his teeth. Still, he treasured every moment of it. Being outdoors was quite liberating for a man who had spent 40 years incarcerated.

“Na, it ain't like that. I just...” his explanation was cut off.

“Life is the most precious gift on God's green earth, my boy,” Wilson remarked as he gazed at the gravel. “Can you imagine what would happen if you were to die tomorrow? Or better yet, what if you'd never been born?”

“You got it all wrong. I...” 

Anderson was interrupted again.

“What you in for?”

Anderson was reluctant but he soon answered.

“Well, for starters, I stole an old lady's car. Pushed her down and busted her hip. Then I crashed into a redwood tree in a drunken frenzy.”

Wilson snickered.

“Now, if you was never born, how do you think that same old lady would feel about... Augh, hell, that's a bad example. What else did you do?”

“Let's see. I killed my boss. Slit his belly wide open, I did.”

The youngster laughed happily.

Wilson wore a confused look on his wrinkled face.

“Was he a nice guy?”

“Aw, hell no. Meanest sumbitch I ever did see.”

“Well, that's a start,” Wilson replied hopefully.

“Then there was that time I slept with your wife and you never found out,” the dimwitted Anderson blurted.

Wilson kept focus on the ground with clenched fists.

“Well, there's somethin' good you did. Sleepin' 'round with my wife and all...” he kept pace for a minute clenching his teeth. “You still want that rope?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“You just don't get it, you sorry sack of...”

“No,” Anderson snapped. “You don't get it! I need the rope to tie to bars of soap. For showers. I've heard some nasty stories.”

“Oh, Wilson said very slowly. “Yeah. That can be arranged.”

V for Vegandetta

There's a pertinent issue we all have to address at a certain point, and while my stance differs from the real pioneers of the movement, I do appreciate their vigor and relentlessness. Their trumpeting of the issue has convinced me of the need to self-identify, and so the time has come for me to demand everyone's attention and make a huge announcement. The whole world needs to know that I am not a vegan.

With so much awareness being raised about the issue, from sources ranging from vegans on social media to every vegan you've ever talked to for as little as five seconds, I've come to realize how important it is to declare that your diet consists of no animal products. Or, if you're like me, to declare that it does consist of animal products. Either way, self-identifying as a vegan or not is crucial. Your diet is everyone's business, so you might want to buy a megaphone or two.

We all have a duty to congratulate ourselves for saying no to meat. And if otherwise, to congratulate ourselves for saying yes. The point is, whether you savor succulent T-bone steaks grilled to perfection on warm summer nights, or you refer to dairy farmers as “murderers,” we're in this together as long as we know where we stand on the issue. And it doesn't hurt to keep reminding people if we're vegans or not just in case they forgot. For instance, I myself am not a vegan. See? That was easy.

Let's keep the communication in heavy circulation, vegans. And the same goes for you, non-vegans. We all need to shout it from a mountain top if we don't condone the butchery of animals—or conversely, if we do, since many of those animals are downright delicious. Whether you're a vegan who likes to binge on American Spirits and cocaine, or your brunch at Burger King is regularly interrupted by the Heimlich maneuver, feel free to criticize the dietary choices of others. That goes for everyone!

I don't want to start a full-blown, silly little war between the two factions so much as I crave a friendly competition. Let's all get the word out and make it known. Vegans have set outstandingly high marks of obviousness, so my fellow non-vegans and I have a staggering amount of work to play catch-up. And I'm here to dispense wisdom. For starters, when I introduce myself to others, I make it a point to declare myself a non-vegan ASAP. 

“Hello there, Annabelle. My name is Nick. I'm not a vegan, I like naps, and it sure is nice to meet you.”

If for some reason I can't immediately tell someone my true feelings on the issue, I search for other opportunities, such as when I'm asked what my hobbies are. “Straight up devouring meat 'cause I'm not a vegan.” Mundane questions may also lead to the big reveal, even something as banal as, “What's the score of the game?” “Who cares about sports in a world with so much meat to eat?! Bottom line, as I've mentioned to Annabelle, I'm not a vegan, bro.”

I want to live on a planet full of food snobs. You think your eating choices are better than mine? Well, don't just think it, SAY IT! Tell me why the simple act of munching on bacon makes me a disappointing savage. Or a hero! Whether vegan or non-vegan (and I am of the latter just in case I haven't been clear about that), we all deserve to have our butts kicked or caressed based on what we eat.

What does the future hold for the V/ NV crusade? I've been considering some progressive notions. I'm a proponent of bold and blatant forehead tattoos to brand individuals as a “VEGAN” or a “NON-VEGAN” (which is what I am). That way, someone like me can get a constant visual reminder while conversing with a vegan as he or she touts the virtues of being a vegan, and vice versa, when they spot me coming their way with my NON-VEGAN skull tatt, they can start making a mental note of all the guilt-tripping documentaries about animal abuse I should watch in order to prove I've got a shred of human decency.

If that idea is too subtle, let's discuss some other options. Consider Vegan Tourette's. It's a condition that causes the afflicted to compulsively blurt out the merits of cow-sympathy and whatnot. It affects 92% of vegans. If the opposition (which does indeed include me, I should add) could muster a Non-Vegan Tourette's rate that's anywhere close to that mark of preachy excellence, all of humanity could get one step closer to answering the ultimate question of our existence: Are you willing to choke down tofu? 

I'm not, but I do have a certain amount of respect for vegans. Their passion is genuine, and without their persistence, I never would have thought to self-identify as a non-vegan with so much moxie. 

So, thank you, vegans. I hope we can coexist peacefully without anybody getting doused in pig's blood christened by the head of PETA. And I hope for a better outcome than the worst-case scenario, but God forbid, if a full-blown, silly little war ever does erupt between my side and yours, I suppose we've all picked our sides for good or ill. And I must say, if the animal kingdom could be trained to fight, if a chicken could be taught to shoot a machine gun or a cow could somehow use its moos to shoot laser beams...

There's no denying they'd be fighting on your side. And if I someday get eaten by a pig, what the hell, I will gladly embrace the irony of knowing that I had it coming. 

Saved by the Blue Ribbon

When Joel is asked to pick the most interesting thing that happened to him on December 28th, 2013, he feels the answer is obvious.

“I got shot. By a bullet.” He pauses, grins, and adds, “From a gun.”

That marked the first and only time he has been shot by a bullet from a gun, but compared to what transpired next, that part of the story is pretty mundane. Ultimately, Joel got shot by a bullet from a gun, sure, but the impact was minimal. It just made a bruise. Joel was saved. By a Pabst Blue Ribbon belt buckle... From his wardrobe.

###

When I call Joel from the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly, I know his place is nearby, but I'm lost and frustrated by the task of finding a farmhouse in the darkness. He says not to worry and gives me directions, even rides on his four-wheeler a good distance to the highway to ensure that I won't drive past Gudex Lane a second time. 

We chat before the interview. His Miniature Pinscher Alice Malice trots beside him as we feed sticks to a bonfire that illuminates a fraction of the surrounding countryside. We go inside the garage when it starts to drizzle. Plus that's where he keeps the mini-fridge.

Joel is known for his love of punk rock, but I've also seen him croon along with Dean Martin at parties. On this occasion, however, he's got satellite radio tuned into a classic rock station. I leaf through my notebook and crack open a Pabst. As he loads charcoal into a grill, I overhear Joel parroting a Billy Joel lyric: “I never said I was a victim of circumstance.”

We were going to see about that as soon as I pressed the record button.

“My mind reels thinking about what percentage of your body was shielded by the belt buckle,” I say. “It's got to be less than one percent, right?”

“I'd say less than one tenth of one percent,” Joel estimates. “And you've got to keep in mind, the bullet didn't come in and hit the belt buckle like it was a shield. It came in from the side. What stopped it was that little metal loop, that ring that holds the buckle to the belt. Which is even crazier. That's two fucking millimeters of metal instead of the whole credit card-sized thing.”

This revelation did nothing to steady anybody's reeling mind. Joel explained: On his walk home from the Main Pub in Fond du Lac, he was headed north when he “heard a bunch of shouting coming up from the intersection" of Main and Second. Moments later, he saw two combative groups, one comprised of three African-Americans and the other of two Caucasians. (Joel later learned that the dispute centered on a young woman. Figures.) Somebody had brandished a firearm, which was really stupid. Sensing trouble, his two friends pulled him away from the fray, pleading, “Come on, let's go!” The two Caucasians who stood outside of a bar on Second Street took exception to the display of a deadly weapon. “I can't believe you just did that!” one shouted. And so they actually pursued an angry, gun-wielding drunk. It cannot be overstated that this too was a really stupid thing to do.

Stuck unwittingly in the cross hairs of bar-time idiocy, Joel proceeded on his way. He spotted a flickering red dot aimed from one faction to the next. The two white guys crossed the street to confront the three black guys. Then Joel heard a POP.

“I knew right away it was a gun,” he says. “'Cause I shoot guns for a hobby. I knew it wasn't a .22, 'cause I know the difference between the sounds they all make. I figured it was a nine millimeter. Ends up being a .380.”

It's worth relaying that the incident had no discernible impact on Joel's feelings about guns. He's still quite fond of them, as evidenced by his recent Facebook posting of his assassination of a can of shaving cream.

“So, I'm like, 'Holy shit, that was a fucking gunshot,'” he goes on. “As I'm processing that, I heard the second shot. And I immediately felt it.”

The man with the .380 had lousy aim. The bullet pierced the cold night air at a speed of about a thousand feet per second with Joel in its way.

“I just stood there, putting pressure against that area, 'cause I wasn't sure if I was bleeding or not. And I got so pissed off. 'Seriously?! That's how this shit's going down?' Finally, I was scared to look, but I pulled up my jacket... and the belt buckle fell down. The bullet fell out behind it.”

This inanimate hunk of metal that might have saved his life fascinates me. 

“Do you have the belt buckle now?” I inquire.

“Nope, it's still sitting in the evidence locker at the police station.” He mentions the shooter, who was quickly caught and remains incarcerated. “Mr. Wilcox has exercised his right to appeal.”

“Just to keep the belt buckle away from you?”

“Absolutely,” he deadpans. “I have little doubt he's being paid by Blatz.”

“How did you obtain the belt buckle?”

“I forget if it was a birthday present or a just-because present, but it was from an ex-girlfriend.”

A “just-because present”? She must be somebody else's keeper. Here we have proof of the adage: “'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.” I forget who said that, but I do know that Joel is a Trekkie, so let's just say it was Mr. Spock.

“Let me lay this on you,” I begin. “Would it be practical of them to make body armor out of Pabst belt buckles?”

“Well, I think it's clear that it worked once,” he allows.

It's not practical. We discuss other matters. Like beer.

“After that crazy night, what did that ensuing Pabst taste like?”

“That happened at about 6:30 in the morning when the detective fucking dropped me off from the cop shop after they questioned me,” he recalls. “Cracked open a beer and stayed up until noon, 'cause I wasn't tired anymore. Walking through that door... I can feel it, right now. The joy. I was OK, and I was getting dropped off at my house, not the hospital.”

(Mere hours after his moment of joyous relief, he was ambitiously hunted down by a crew from Fox 11 News, causing Joel to quip, “We should have sent you fuckers after bin Laden!”)

“Did you get any free Pabst?” I ask.

“I was hoping for at least a year's supply. Or just give me a PBR credit card that's only good for Pabst,” he says. “But I got a box with a sweatshirt and a Frisbee and shit like that. Some socks...”

“You got a Frisbee out of the deal?!”

“Yeah, it was the kind of trivial shit that they give to everybody. I'm not sour about it... But my buddy sent in his fucking artwork to Pabst, and he got the same box of shit. And it was just Clip Art! I mean, he arranged it quite nicely and there's definitely some skill involved, but Goddammit, I got shot.”

To get back to that unbelievable gunshot, consider this: Joel's chasm between good luck and bad was a matter of two inches. But the bullet narrowly missed his manhood and so the tone of our talk was a hell of a lot more cheerful.

“I'd like to thank gravity for holding that thing out of the way,” he declares.

If it were me, I'd also thank that winter's bitter cold. Smaller target! Joel had to give his pants to the detective who drove him home at dawn, and as his parting line, one of Fond du Lac's finest couldn't resist zinging a dick joke, either. Joel can't remember it, but I'd wager the setup was: “Joel, a Pabst belt buckle, and a dick walk out of a bar...”

Onto more mature matters.

“Do you know anyone with a story similar to yours?” I ask. “Is there a support group?”

“I did read about one because I'm only human. I Googled. There was only one other guy. Some gas station clerk in Pennsylvania, maybe six months before my shooting. Except it was a regular belt.”

Someone else comes to my mind. A cartoon character. In the “Homie the Clown” episode of The Simpsons, Ned Flanders is shot twice by sniper fire meant for Homer. Flanders is saved both times. First by a Bible he keeps over his heart and then by a piece of the true cross...

“Christ,” Joel snickers. “I was waiting for you to bring up The Simpsons.”

I have a reputation.

“You're saying the belt buckle was like my Bible/ cross?” Joel asks. That is what I’m saying. “Well, I do love Pabst, but Ned Flanders was the last thing on my fucking mind. I know with you, it'd be the first thing on your mind.”

Gracefully or not, we were on the topic of faith, which led to the question I most wanted to ask him.

“Do you think what happened was a case of divine intervention or extraordinary luck?”

“Personally, I chalk it up to fucking luck,” he says unsentimentally. “Had I been a step behind or a step ahead, it wouldn't have hit me. I almost find it to be bad luck. But a lot of people chalk it up to divine intervention. You remember Eric Dietrich?”

“Eric was the tie that bound his friends together. His smile and unique sense of humor touched the lives of everyone he met. He is greatly missed.”

That’s an excerpt from his obituary. He passed away on November 15^th, 2008. Eric and Joel were kindred souls.

“Everybody says, ‘Eric was looking out for you.’ But I don't believe in God. I don't believe in the afterlife. With Eric, though… maybe I’d make an exception for him. I like to believe that if anyone is out there, it's him. It’s a struggle, because he was my best friend, so I'd like to think he was there. But at the core, I don’t believe in that stuff—and scientific, tangible evidence tells me that I’m right.”

“Yeah, but not everything is tangible,” I say.

“Absolutely,” he says. “And that’s why there’s so much… gray area.”

He lets out an exhausted laugh as he says these last two words. He smears his palm against his face, troubled by the mystery more so than most of us. It’s a lot easier to ask questions about the unknowable than to answer them, and so I change the subject.

“Are you a big hero?” I ask. “Or the biggest hero?”

“Pffft! I wouldn't call myself a hero because I didn't protect anybody. But if I was forced to call myself a hero, what the hell, I'd call myself the biggest hero.”  

Well played! Who could argue with that?

###

On the drive home I dwell on Joel’s rejection of the miracle more so than anything else. He’s right about science and luck, but I feel empty wishing there was more. I want to believe in miracles like kids and saints do. Whether it’s salvation by a beer belt buckle or God, sometimes it pays to have faith in the unlikely.

When I listen to the playback of our interview, I notice Tom Petty in the background commanding, “Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me” at about the same time I ask my first question. “Big Shot” cues while Joel describes what it’s like to be shot. Choir boys begin singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” in angelic falsettos as he discusses his departed friend.

My bright, gruff, tough, hilarious, Pabst-swigging pal would probably chalk that up to coincidence. Whereas a daydreaming dope like me craves a deeper meaning. I can’t fall asleep that night until I replay part of his take on faith:

“If there's a Goddamn God and you believe in God, then fuck off and let Him take care of it.”

The Gospel according to Joel. Pabst be with you.