Surf's Down

Not me.  Not even close.

Let me begin by saying that I feel infinitely cooler carrying a surfboard.  I'm not sure what part of lugging a long awkward board down the boardwalk to the beach does it, if it is the additional glances you get from passer-bys or the feeling that you have somehow been inducted into some exclusive underground club   a culture that looks exclusive as hell from the outside   but I know I walked with my head held just a bit higher as we strolled to the beach last Sunday.

The feeling didn't last.  You quickly realize why surfing seems so cool to the rest of the tourists and sunbathers on the beach:  it is a pain in the ass.  The ocean is not a forgiving body of water.  For someone who is used to calm lakes in northern Michigan and the occasional trip to swim in one of the relatively tame great lakes, the Atlantic ocean might as well be on a different planet.  Even on calm days the waves have enough power to knock you backward as they crash onto the shore.  But with hurricane season upon us and a storm having swept northward through the Atlantic, the waves were higher than I had seen them in my entire stay in Virginia Beach.  Surfers love hurricanes, because if they aren't directly in your area they are making enough noise out in the ocean to raise the surf to dangerous levels.  All the flags on the lifeguard stands were red as we picked up the boards and made our way to the water.  They were red for good reason.

When we went out at first there was just two of us, both completely new to surfing.  My friend Joe had a slight leg up on me since he is an experience snowboarder.  My only attempt at snowboarding ended with a trip to the ER and a separated shoulder.  Don't think that wasn't in the back of my head as I started to paddle out.

Our crash course in surfing 101 was terrifyingly brief.  "Keep your leash on.  Don't ride someone else's wave or they will have a few choice words with you  Paddle with the wave and try to stand up when you feel the wave begin to lift you."

"That's it?" I thought when the friend of a friend we borrowed the boards from finished up with, "Oh, and have fun."  Joe and I shot each other a quick glance of confusion and worry over this sink or swim method of instruction, then grabbed the boards and made our way in, determined to make the best of it.

You can easily tell who is a surfer and who isn't just by the way they carry themselves.  The air of confidence they have as they stroll to the water, walk the board out and paddle far enough out to sit on the board and wait for the perfect wave.  Conversely, even the most clueless of the tourists on the beach could tell I was woefully unprepared as I struggled to harness the leash around my ankle as I was standing a foot deep in the water and the waves pushed the board away from me.  I was fighting a battle against a leash that was too small and the surf that even ankle deep wasn't going to take any shit from a first timer, and I was losing both.

Once I was strapped in I began to paddle out.  The choice waves are tough to get up on, and even tougher to get past for the inexperienced surfer, and there were a few times I was thrown backwards just as I thought I had made it to the crest and would make it down the other side.  One wave hit me so hard that it threw me backward, and then threw the board fin first into my elbow, knocking the feeling out of half of my left arm and hand.  Had I not been able to see that part of my hand still attached, I would have swore that I lost it somewhere in that wave.  Even a day later my fingers tingle and my elbow aches.

Finally I began to make headway and get out past the bigger of the waves.  Now it was time to try to ride one.  I turned the board so it pointed toward shore and waited for what I thought was a suitable wave.  Not knowing what I was supposed to be looking for, I paddled with the first wave that I saw, and fortunately I was right, it was a big one.  Unfortunately, before I was able to get my body off the board and into a standing position, the wave had grabbed the back of the board and flipped me end over end.  Getting dumped was exhilarating.  The waves were powerful and fast, and it made me even more determined to harness one, even as I spit a pint of sea water out of my mouth.

Beaten and queasy with sea water, I gathered myself and made my way out for another attempt.  This one ended much the same.  My body catapulting off the board on the power of the wave rising up behind me.  This happened a couple more times, but I was beginning to get my bearings.  I knew what the waves I wanted looked like, and I knew what they felt like.  Now I just needed to know what it was like to get up on one.

After making my way back out, I saw the next wave and began to paddle with it.  I felt the back of my board rise, and I started to pull myself up as I noticed a flash of color coming toward me from the left.  It was another surfer, already up and riding down the wave as it crested.  He hit me at full speed and we toppled over in a mess of arms, legs, and boards.  The hastily made leash that was rigged up that morning came unattached and after sorting myself out of the aftermath of the collision and assuring the other surfer that I was okay, I swam to shore, frightened that the board I had borrowed would somehow be sucked out to sea, to wash ashore somewhere in New Jersey.

As I waded in I saw a man pluck a board from the shallow surf and set it on the beach.  I knew it was mine when he made his way over to me.  "Are you okay man, I saw that guy come down on you," he said to me, as he motioned to my marooned board lying on the beach.  I told him I was fine, and wanted to ask if he had seen my pride wash up somewhere with the board.  As I went to check on the board a lady nearby laughed at the state of the patched together leash and told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn't possibly take the board back out. Beaten up, bruised, and still hungover from the night before, I agreed with her whole-heartedly.  I grabbed the board and walked through the throngs of people to our spot behind the lifeguard stand.  This time my head was held a little lower as I walked.

This is not a tale of redemption.  I put the board down for the rest of the day.  The ocean beat me on Sunday, and I will admit it.  However, this isn't the end of the fight.  It is merely the opening round.  I'll be back another day, when the waves are a little lower and the beach a little less crowded.  I've felt what it is like to be part of the surf culture, and I've felt what its like to get swept up by a wall of water, if only for a few fleeting minutes.   Next time I'll be a little more prepared and a little less uncertain.  I'll ride that wave.  Next time.

Time Marches On

I am no psychologist, but I would imagine it is a universal property of human nature to be averse to change.  Continuity is comfortable.  We like our routines and don't like having to deviate from them.  We get comfortable in the present, and quickly forget the changes that brought us to where we are.  Its easy to get lost in the present.  To get caught up in the status quo.

As a child I was so afraid of change that I would get sad at the end of the school year as summer vacation approached.  I wanted the familiarity of where I was, and I didn't want to blaze a path through the summer only to re-establish myself the next year as I advanced to the next grade.  Change scared the hell out of me.  Still does.

Change isn't bad, but it isn't good either.  Change is simply a fact of life, for better or worse.  Time marches on.  What we know today was an unknown future yesterday, and the uncertainty about tomorrow will eventually be a comforting present.  The only constant in the world is the laws of physics that guide the universe.  Everything else is fleeting.  It is this constant evolution of everything around us that forces humans to adapt.  We have to make the best of our world as it is, not as we wish it to be.

Funny thing is, we often don't notice that things have changed until the rug is already yanked out from beneath our feet.  We ignore the little signs and tell ourselves that everything will keep humming along like it always does, even though it never has.  Humans have the tendency to be extremely short sighted.  We lose the forest for the trees.

Lost in all the talk of Big Ten alignment scenarios is the fact that the real change has already happened.  The fighting continues over what should be kept the same, what rivalries to protect, what geographical considerations to value in this new landscape of mid-western college football.  But things are already radically different, even when it comes to the greatest rivalry in college football:  The Game.

I am an unabashed Michigan fan.  Always have been.  The Game means more to me than just about any other college football tradition behind the winged helmets and The Victors.  I grew up loving Michigan Football wholeheartedly and waiting for that final fall Saturday to face off against the team from down south.  I hated OSU more than I hated anyone or anything.

But college football isn't the monolith of tradition that we sometimes believe it is.  Changes slowly creep across the landscape inciting pockets of rage from effected fan bases.  Today, the loudest voices come from the "Big Two", crying out for the sanctity of the storied rivalry:  It won't be the same in October.  This is all about the money.  Won't someone think of the children?

Fact is, the game lost its significance months ago.  Once the Big Ten decided to push for expansion to 12 teams, with a conference championship game as the goal, the writing was on the wall.  The Game has been the hallmark of the Big Ten for as long as any football fan can remember.  Over the past 75 years of the regular season showdown has been the de facto championship 22 times (30%) and had a direct influence on the Big Ten champ another 24 times (Credit to Maize and Brew for the numbers, and a good counterpoint to my argument).  While it bothers me to think that the Big Ten title won't run through Columbus or Ann Arbor every year, we can't cling to the notion that this rivalry carries the same significance it always has now that the road to the conference championship and the Rose Bowl is going to run through Lucas Oil Stadium.  Moving The Game to mid October won't diminish its significance, deciding to stage a championship game already did that.  In a college football landscape where conference championship games fetch big money, a clash of old enemies in mid November loses its luster, especially when there are ten other teams that would benefit from a bona-fide championship game.

The game will always mean the same to fans on either side.  I don't hate OSU any less in October than I do the week before Thanksgiving, and I would hope they would feel the same.  That universal vitriol is what makes the rivalry great.  The hatred and bad feelings were born from years of struggle for conference supremacy, but a showdown in November no longer sets up the same way.  If The Game is played on the last week of the season it will always be in the shadow of the championship game.

College football is still changing, and what we see today will be radically different than what we will see at the start of the next decade.  When we look at the way the sport changes we see large leaps to new rules, different conference membership, and more intricate (asinine?) championship calculations.  But it doesn't happen like that.  Change flows like a glacier, creeping along and tearing up the landscape in ways that we don't notice until we are right in the path.  The changes that will lead to a playoff or four super conferences are happening now, in every athletic department and stadium.  Or maybe they aren't.  We won't know until we are confronted with the new reality.  Thats where we find ourselves today.  Two fan bases in disagreement on everything but the storied rivalry that both hold dear.  The Big Ten has changed.  Who are we to stop it?

Michigan-OSU won't be the same no matter when it is played.  You don't have to like it   and God knows I don't   but we can't refuse to accept that things have changed in the Big Ten.  This decision is going to be made with or without the support of the proponents of The Game.  Time marches on, with or without us.

Stadium Rock for All Ages

When did liking Green Day become a cross generational phenomenon?  What brings together a group of 40 year old women, twelve year old punk kids, and mid-twenties stoners?

As I walked through the throngs of people smashed together on the lawn at DTE music theater, I couldn't help but wonder what brought each one of the spectators into the wooded outskirts of the metro Detroit area.  What songs were they hoping to hear?  Were the fifteen year old goth kid and his girlfriend excited about hearing songs off Green Day's breakout album Dookie?  Was the balding man a few feet in front of me an old school punk fan, or just a disciple of top 40 radio?  What made the five middle aged women in front of us dance?

I could have spent much of the three hour setlist trying to find the unifying thread behind Green Day's widespread popularity, but it would have been at the cost of the spectacle unfolding in front of me.  The concert itself was less about the music of Green Day, and more a piece of performance art that tries its best to bring you in to Green Day's universe for three hours of uninhibited fun.  More circus than rock show.

I would not consider myself a Green Day fan.  I haven't actively followed their music since I bought Nimrod when I was in middle school, and of the 30+ songs they played I could probably only name a handful.  I have nothing against Green Day, and I must say that the songs I loved when I was young haven't lost their luster.  I still get excited to hear When I Come Around, Basket Case, She, and the rest of my early alt-rock radio favorites.

Luckily, Green Day does their best to make sure you don't have to be a hardcore fan to at least enjoy yourself.  They reward the casual listeners in ways you only see in big amphitheater and stadiums.  They are the perfect example of a band that has "made it", and the show pulls no punches in that regard.  The mildly popular album tracks come out in the beginning of the show, played with as close an ear to the studio renditions as you can get on a live tour.  Rising up behind the band is a wall of digital screens that look almost like a city skyline   shooting up into jagged peaks and valleys.  The screens alternating music waves and flashes of color with pictures of the band that descend into static.  Just in front of the screens, there are a handful of firework cannons that spit out blasts of white light and sparks to punctuate the ends of songs and the crashing of guitar chords and bass drums.  As the show wore deeper, the band began bringing kids on stage to sing along, much to the chagrin of the majority of the audience   at one point my friend summed this annoyance up perfectly: "we paid twenty dollars to hear Green Day not sing Longview."  The songs at this point began to grow more grandiose in scale.  Early verses would be backed by just the strumming of an acoustic, with pauses before the chorus, only then to explode into a fully backed verse soaked in fireworks and cries from Billie Joe Armstrong to join in.  By the encore, the audience was in a state of rapture that wasn't quelled until the stage lights came on.

At one point the band teased the audience by playing bits and pieces of classic rock songs such as the opening riff to Stairway to Heaven, a verse of Sweet Child O' Mine, and Back in Black.  If it was funny to imagine what brought an eclectic group spanning three generations to a Green Day concert, it was surreal to see everyone immediately react to the highlights of an average hour of classic rock radio.

I was probably one of the only people out of around 15,000 to think that three hours of Green Day was a little much, but I was tired of standing and still feeling the effects of a long weekend spent drinking in the sun on a lake in northern Michigan.  Cultural fascination can only carry one so far in the face of exhaustion.

As I made my way to the car after the show, tired and in pain from hours on my feet, I couldn't help but go back to my original question.  What brought these people together?

Only now, looking back on the evening does it start to make sense.  Green Day has a little something for everyone.  This is a band whose musical career spans over twenty years.  They were playing garage band punk music and listening to The Replacements and The Ramones before I was even enrolled in kindergarten.  Since then they've put out solid punk rock (everything on Dookie), hokey "class song" material (Time of Your Life), emo tinged pop music (Boulevard of Broken Dreams), and wildly popular political commentary (American Idiot).  What used to be a staple of the alternative rock stations of my childhood has slowly grown to be a cash cow and chart topper.  Something for everyone.

All of this comes together as a picture of a band that has accomplished all its goals.  They have built a feverish audience, put out a handful of very successful albums, and developed a piece of performance art fit for the stages it is played on.  But I can't help but feel like they have lost some of that same energy that originally attracted me to the three chord fuzz of the early hits.  The hunger is missing.  Can a band that is filthy rich and wildly successful ever capture the same magic that helped get them to the top?  The songs were all hiding behind fireworks and call and response, cues that tell people when to cheer and when to sing.  The chords sounded the same, but didn't always feel the same.  When Billie Joe Armstrong talked to the crowd between songs about how much he loves Michigan, it felt like something out of This is Spinal Tap.  The sheer scale of it all can't mask the gimmicks and air of workmanlike performance from everyone involved.  The band is going through the motions, but it's all part of the show.

Is this a bad thing?  Do I feel bitter that Green Day has sold out?  No.  They obviously play the music they want to, and love the chance they get to perform in front of crowds this size.  And those crowds are full of genuine fans who love the music for what it is.  Green Day aren't the punks they used to be.  They are fathers just like some of the men in the crowd.  They play music for fun to an audience that just wants to have a good time.

And after all is said and done, isn't that what rock and roll is supposed to be about? 15,000 soccer moms, sons, classic rockers, punks, stoners, hippies, and at least one detached twenty-something music snob had fun at a Green Day concert yesterday.  It was all part of the show, and I couldn't be happier.