Friday, October 27, 2017

The Eternal Flame of the Touchdown Jesus Barbecue

USC's shellacking at Notre Dame last weekend has me reminiscing about my first trip to South Bend, which is now -- my god -- more than 25 years ago. 

But that experience in October 1991 explains why I still have a special place in my heart for Notre Dame and its fans.

I'd grown up watching Notre Dame during the time when the Irish and the "U" fought in the tunnel before they battled on the football field.

I watched Rocket Ishmael perform miracles on TV before I saw Reggie Bush perform them in real life at the Coliseum. 

But I'd also taken a screenwriting class as an undergrad and had the improbable idea of going to film school at USC.

I even started walking around the Iowa State campus wearing a Trojans baseball cap. 

The road trip to South Bend started out as a good idea. A guy I knew from ISU (Patrick) had transferred to be a student trainer for the Notre Dame football team. 

(He may have been the only person who actually enjoyed Lou Holtz yelling at him). 

Late on a Thursday, he called to say he had two tickets, which were already paid for. If we just showed up…they were free.

Notre Dame was ranked #5 at the time. How could anything possibly go wrong?

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


I called a friend with a reliable car and told him the good news.

As I recall, other than my college roommate, no one really knew where we were headed. There were no Facebook status updates or texting (and I guess there were phones), but I didn't bother to call anyone. 

We just took off on the six-and-a-half hour road trip on a whim. 

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


For some reason, we got a late start on Friday, so we didn't get to South Bend until early morning. 

It was raining like crazy, the soaked streets surging like a river.

Rather than go to Patrick's apartment at such a crazy hour, we decided to stay in the only cheap hotel that appeared to have a vacancy. 

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


The next morning we slept too late, so of course we drove way too fast toward Patrick's apartment, which was apparently near the stadium. 

(Before Google Maps...or even Google...all we had was a complete address and half of a clue). 

Fortunately, the rain had stopped and the sun was now beating down. 

What we didn't anticipate was the long line of cars snaking their way to the stadium. 

My friend's car, which was very reliable speeding down an open road, turned out to not be very reliable sitting in traffic. 

It overheated and we pulled into a driveway, steam spilling from under the hood. 

There we were -- dressed in our USC gear -- in a stranger's driveway in South Bend. 

Not far away, a group of 40-something guys was grilling out, the traditional pre-game tailgate. 

As my friend fretted over the car, I tried to lighten things up by quickly (and quietly, I thought) dubbing their tailgate -- "The Eternal Flame of the Touchdown Jesus Barbecue." 

My friend laughed. Then he said, "Uh, oh. Maybe they heard you." 

Like a massive offensive line, the Notre Dame guys walked toward us as a group and the short one said, "What's the problem, guys?" 

We apologized for parking in their driveway, explained about the car, and then told them we also needed to find our friend's apartment to get our free tickets. 

They informed us there was no time to find our friend because the game would be starting soon. 

And instead of giving us grief about our USC apparel, they gave us food. 

They told us to leave the car parked in the driveway until after the game. 

And they walked with us to the stadium to help us find tickets. 

But the game was sold out. It was Notre Dame vs. USC. No one had tickets. Except a guy scalping them for $100 each. 

The barbecue guys generously offered to pay for the tickets, but it didn't seem right.

So, we dug out the cash, handed it over, thanked the barbecue crew, and searched for our seats.

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


So, now we were sitting in the middle of the Notre Dame alumni section, the only two people wearing USC gear. 

And this guy next to us, a physician from Pennsylvania, who flew back for all of his alma mater's home games, started up a conversation. 

We told him about the car and the free tickets and how we ended up next to him. 

He and his wife were amused (and probably took pity on us), so he pulled out his checkbook, signed one of them, and handed it to my friend.

A blank check. From a total stranger. To help pay for the car repair. 

We thanked him, but declined politely. It just didn't seem right.

The game was close. Notre Dame won 24-20, thanks to some little-known fullback named Jerome Bettis, who ran for 178 yards and two touchdowns.


After the game, the embers of the "The Eternal Flame of the Touchdown Jesus Barbecue" were still alive.

They were no longer tailgating. They'd just transitioned to grilling dinner.

They razzed us a little bit about USC losing, but not too much. And they fed us again. 

Then they asked us if we needed a place to stay. We reminded them of the friend who had the free tickets.

(Of course, that was the plan all along, right? Free football tickets, then party with Notre Dame students afterwards.)

We showed the barbecue guys our friend's address and they began to laugh. One of them might have even done a "spit take" with his beer. 

Confused, my friend and I looked at each other as they started laughing harder...and then pointing.

Patrick's apartment -- where our free tickets were waiting -- was visible from their driveway. Maybe half a block away.

The guys told us just to leave the car, go have fun with our friends, and pick up the car the next morning. 

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


When we get to Patrick's apartment, there was a decent group of Notre Dame students, who were all eager to laugh at our misery.

And we were eager to entertain them with our mishaps and misadventures.

To rub salt in our wounds, we learned they'd left the door unlocked for us in case we showed up at the last minute.

Patrick said, "Sounds like everything went according to plan. Only mistake you made was not taking that blank check."

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


To prepare for the long drive home, we stayed up basically until dawn. Why? 

Because there were girls there, of course. Notre Dame girls who were infinitely interesting -- smart, funny, and, well, Catholic.  

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


The next morning, my friend and I shuffled down the street to find the "The Eternal Flame of the Touchdown Jesus Barbecue" still burning brightly.

It was Sunday morning. They all attended mass on Saturday night. And besides, someone had to keep the grill going for the NFL games later in the day. 

The Notre Dame guys razzed us a little bit about USC losing, and striking out with the Catholic girls, and then they give us more food.

Finally, we headed for the car to make the long drive home, and the short guy shouted, "Hey, kid!" 

I turned. He raised a beer and said, "To the eternal flame!"

Slightly embarrassed, I did the only thing appropriate for a guy wearing a USC cap in a stranger's driveway in South Bend.  

Instinctively, for whatever reason, I raised two fingers in what could have been a peace sign and said, "Fight on!" 


Somehow we found maybe the only mechanic in South Bend open on a Sunday. 

He gave us a "special discount" for people dressed in USC gear and stuck in South Bend. 

As I recall, it was just north of $600. 

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.


The long drive home was a quiet one. 

We were probably both contemplating how a road trip to get free tickets had turned into the price of a hotel room, $200 in scalped tickets, and a $600+ car repair. 

When he dropped me off back at college, I wrote my friend a check for $300 and hoped it didn't bounce. (I'd already paid cash for my ticket and for my half of the hotel room). 

At first he refused, but I insisted. 

"My three hundred dollars is for being dumb enough to suggest this trip," I said. 

"Yours is for being dumb enough to go with me."


Was it wasteful? Probably. 

Was it worth it? Absolutely. 

Would I change anything? Nope. 

Well, okay, maybe I would have taken the blank check. 

If there’s doctor from Pennsylvania, who remembers this story, just know that I’m now much older and only slightly wiser…so, if the offer still can overnight that blank check to Redondo Beach. 


A few years after the road trip, I met a girl who was infinitely interesting -- smart, funny, and, well, Catholic (at the time).

And a few years after that, I eventually made it to USC. 

Most of the college kids I know these days are very bright, very focused, and very driven. 

There's a lot of pressure for them to fill their resumes with accomplishments, or even start their own businesses, on the way to a good career and a good life. 

But I hope they still have those experiences where they can look back after more than 25 years and say...

It was college. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Things kind of just happened.

Guest blogger Donnie Becker is an accomplished speechwriter who currently resides in Redondo Beach, CA with his wife, that girl who was infinitely interesting -- smart, funny, and, well, Catholic (at the time). And except for the Catholic part...still is.

Friday, October 13, 2017

But That's Not How Mom Did It!

For the bulk of my upbringing, this was officially a garbage disposal scraper. It sat on the back of the sink and was used for the sole purpose of pushing unpleasantries to their demise in the destructive drain down under.

Ours was Tupperware, tinged a dingy cream color, and battle scarred with bite marks from countless close encounters with the blades below. My mother had ordered it out of peer pressure at a party, ultimately relenting because it was actually an affordable item that appealed both in price and potential purpose.

With five children, she sought to ensure the security of all fifty fingers. So this utensil was used to add distance to the drain, while still keeping us responsible for our refuse as we cleared our plates and placed them in the dishwasher.

And so it sat on the sink, without challenge, diligently doing its designated duty for close to a decade.

Until, I was startled out of my senses during seventh grade home ec when my kitchen partner plunged such a paddle into our imitation Orange Julius before I could stop her and proceeded to scrape out every last scrap before swallowing a huge swig!

Nausea thrust through my throat in a reflex so severe, I was certain I would soon be in need of that very garbage disposal scraper to clean up the surge that was sure to spew forth at any second.

I swallowed hard galvanizing against my gag as this girl slipped a straw into my glass and slid it before me. She wasn’t a close friend, so I didn’t want to cause any embarrassment, but there was no way I was drinking that disgusting, septic sludge!

I looked around for a way out and was shocked to see everyone, at every station, scraping and slurping away as if what they were doing was perfectly sanitary.

So I stared down at the potentially infectious straw as my teacher approached.
“Is everything okay?”
I was the only one not delightfully downing our class’s concoction.

So I stepped aside and spoke. Recounting in full detail, the horror of how the whole lot of them had dipped the disposal scrapers into their desserts. And then with great satisfaction, slurped until their straws rattled on the remnants.

Suddenly, amusement slipped across her smile as she secretly shared the utensil’s true title and intent.

A rubber spatula.

Imagine that! I had only seen it one way, my entire life, up to that point. Limited by my personal perceptions, experience and upbringing. What my mother alone had lead me to believe, about this one particular thing.

Did that eliminate every other good thing she taught me in our time together in the kitchen? No. Did it destroy the memories of standing at the counter, hip high to her, laughing and loving and learning as I “helped?” No.

Does it mean that a rubber spatula can never be anything more than a garbage disposal scraper and I have to fight anybody who tells me otherwise in an effort to defend my mother’s honor? No! Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous!

People are imperfect, no matter how loving. And the things that they teach us are as well. Sometimes, just wrong. And sometimes, just flat out nasty. And that can be hard to accept. But we have to. Especially the things that are far larger than anything we can hold in our hand. Because it is in our hands. All of it. And it’s up to us to test and re-examine all that we have been taught both on purpose and as in some cases, inadvertently.

So today when I baked, I used the rubber spatula, scraping the sides of the bowl and smoothing the batter into the Bundt pan because it’s a rubber spatula. That’s what it really is and that’s what it’s really for, regardless of whatever else I may have heard. I don’t use it on my dirty disposal. Never have. I took what I learned, moved forward, and made something pretty sweet with it.

And I still love my mother, just the same. Because she’s lovable. She’s done a lot of great things in her lifetime. Accomplished so much. And loved me until I can never forget it. That’s her legacy.

But if in order to ensure your legacy, I have to dig around in the dregs, dabbing at discards and slopping through sewage in search of something to salvage before it all disappears down the drain…anything not absolutely awful…if that’s all that’s left to remember you by…then…well…to put it mildly…forget you.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

No One Belongs Here More Than You...Except Maybe These Two Women

No one belongs here more than you…except maybe these two women.

They were quite insistent that they did, because they clung to the crease inside the cover, so they must. But exactly why, I’m not sure.

Neither one is the author, Miranda July. I looked her up. And this is definitely not her. And they are also not the owners of the used bookstore in Reno, where this was purchased, so far as I can tell.

I wonder what exactly it was about this particular book and these particular people that necessitated their placement here. And why and where and when are they?

It can’t have been recent, because it’s an actual developed photo, from actual developed film. Something you can hold in your hands in a way digital denies.

The book was published 10 years ago, and a lot has happened since then. I wonder what has happened to them. These two smiling women, one with hair shorn short, embraced by the other, outdoors as the leaves change and the seasons slip towards winter.

Are they still within arm’s length or is there a distance now?

There’s no inscription. No description. No dedication to a friendship penned on the pages of prose or on the picture itself. Just a colorful moment of closeness captured by Kodack, that these people were evidently pleased with and likely had no idea would pass out into the world where it would set minds to wondering.

Wondering what exactly they're doing there?

And more so...

Why do I even care?

Follow me on Instagram and twitter @TheLauraBecker

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

The Weight Of It All

I don’t carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I carry it on my stomach…and hips and boobs and backside.

In a time where everything matters too much, I have inadvertently ignored the fact that everything I eat matters too.

I’ve swallowed my feelings along with the flavors that force them down fastest. Not bad things or unhealthy things, just too many things. Because there have been entirely too many things out of control in our current climate.

Things that I’m having difficulty digesting. Things that just don’t sit well in my gut. Things that leave me feeling hungry for a better world and so I have filled that emptiness with whatever is at my fingertips.

I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew. I have gnashed and gnawed, clinching whatever was in my jaw with each new disastrous development.

And it’s been hard to look away from the drama unfolding before our eyes and put down the popcorn. It’s been proven we eat more when watching anxiety producing plots. We seek to satiate the scare. Horror stories sell snacks. And our plot has definitely thickened, along with my waistline. Politics, gunmen, sexists, insurance, assault, wages, wars, racists, rape, fascists, flags, fear, fires, hacking, hurricanes and hate. Endless, heaping helpings of hate.

And it’s become too much, the weight of it all. Mine included.

And instead of going for a run, I just want to run away, exercising nothing but my right to solitude and sorbet.

But there’s so much of it. So very much right now, that I just can’t get away from it…much like my burgeoning backside.

At this very moment ash is falling from the sky into my driveway. And each fluttering flake was once a vital part of someone or something’s life. It’s literally touching me. As well it should.

Without eating me alive.

So I’m pushing back my plate…and everything on it, if only for today. And going for a walk, somewhere indoors because the air quality is just too poor outside.

And it doesn’t mean I don’t care. I do. Very much.

But it’s okay to care for me too.

Otherwise, I won’t be able to do anything about the things I can indeed do something about.

And maybe, eventually, I’ll return to being able to actually enjoy and savor those occasional times of solitude and sorbet. Rather than just swallowing them down to get by.

Follow me on Instagram and twitter @TheLauraBecker