– Average Country Song A Year in the Life of the Funky One
This is my case for the KeyPAP Man of the Year 2015, or at least it is supposed to be. An undeserved crown is but a fancy hat, which is why I will not partake in the hyperbole that will no doubt spread throughout the other essays like a malignant tumor. As I muse about my year, two thousand and fifteen years after the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, I keep returning to one day that I feel is an adequate representation of my last trip around the sun.
It was a quiet day in October, a day as ordinary as a common acorn. I woke up before the rising sun at a hunting camp that housed the memories of my father’s youth. I trekked out deep into the woods of central Pennsylvania. I walked behind my father as he gave me directions to my spot, referencing landmarks that were nowhere to be found in the recesses of my memory. I found the spot luckily, as I always do, quite unsure as to how this happened. I sat up in my tree stand and waited for the sun to come up.
The woods I have hunted in for the last 17 years are not immune to temporal changes. Our surrounding landscapes give us the illusion of permanence, perhaps a false glimpse into a span of time that is beyond our grasp. The truth is that this wooded expanse, a mostly untouched representation of a time long since passed, has changed as much as the people who hunt it. Gone are the days of constant action. It is not uncommon to go days without a single deer sighting, an event that would once seem impossible.
Entire species of plants that were once plentiful in my youth are nowhere to be found, changing the entire feel of the landscape. But why shouldn’t it change? As for the people I walked with out into the woods that morning, the change was more obvious. I was no longer a 12 year old boy who failed to grasp that you could get tired walking up a mountain. I don’t have to spend my time walking holding up my hand-me-down hunting gear made for a man twice my size. As I looked around that morning most of the people in the cabin had grayer hair and longer belts than they did when I spent my first days there over 20 years ago. Like the lost vegetation that changed the landscape of the mountain so greatly, the most striking difference in the people who walked the mountain that morning is the absence of some of them.
For all the changes that have taken place over the years, you still can’t escape that feeling of permanence that you get when you look at the rolling hills of the Unions 2nd state. Visually the surface may change, but the land is still as much the same as it is different. In the same way I feel connected to who I have always been when I am out there. I still stare at stretches of bark on the trees in front of me blurring their deep groves until they look like faces, I still believe that being ready to shoot a deer and actually seeing one are inversely proportional, and when I put the gun to my shoulder that day I looked into the same lens as I did when I shot my first deer all those years ago.
Objectively speaking this day was as uneventful as it gets. I woke up before the sun, sat in a tree by myself for 5 hours and shot an averaged sized doe. I don’t even think I bothered to take a picture with it. It was a day many hunters would trade for a long morning in bed. Maybe it was just the right combination of factors but I was able to take it all in that day. I felt that connection, to the past, to the woods. I was grateful to be able to bring home food that I killed myself. It all felt right. There is no trophy to hang on the wall, no crazy story to tell. Just a hum drum day in the woods that for some reason, I find myself remembering more fondly than almost any other. This is much like my 2015, I certainly have done nothing to win any awards, especially one as illustrious as the KeyPAP MOTY award, but I can’t help feeling like it was one of the good ones. 2015 was one of those bland uneventful years that you never forget. Every common acorn has in it, an entire oak forest. 2015 contained as little and as much in it as any year I can ever recall.
A few weeks ago, all of the voting and non-voting members of the KeyPAP traveled to State College, Pennsylvania for Smits' bachelor party. It was here that they spent their most critically formative years between the ages of 18 and 22. It was here that the individuals of the KeyPAP initially forged their relationships. And so it was here that they all gathered for one more night of belligerence, debauchery, and Canyon pizza. So much masculinity was witnessed that day: weightlifting, chopping wood, riding quads, archery, mass consumption of Busch Light, and a visit to the End Zone - Central Pennsylvania's premier strip club. But all of those activities have taken a backburner to the one event which overwhelmingly captivated the KeyPAP clan. In the following story, Dr. Funk describes the unexpected highlight of the night . . .
It was August 24th, 2013 and I was making my first re-entry to Penn State night life in four years along with four other members of the KeyPAP. Up to this point in the night our entertainment had been mostly based on several well placed Busch Lights. It was still very early, but if I was being honest with myself I would have to admit I was starting to feel like I was fighting an uphill battle against disappointment. Only 4 years removed from my final year at Penn State I felt that we would again blend seamlessly with the crowd, but, alas, I was mistaken. I could chalk it up to the fact that we were slightly overdressed for the occasion boasting several full suits and one tuxedo, but I feel the disconnect was based on more than aesthetics alone. I think that when we reminisce on our past we tend to look back on a romanticized version of reality that often gives us a preference for our generation over another. Even with this in mind I couldn’t help but think I walked back into a cheapened version of the world I once was a part of.
We walked into Bar Bleu at around 7:00 that night. There were many people there but no one looked as if they were having a genuinely good time. It seemed as if the overabundant energy that lies native in the heart of the youthful had been suffocated by the instant gratification of Tinder and denim hotpants. I still had some hope left in me, a dreamer as I tend to be, that if we weren’t going to get any substance out of this experience we would surely dive head first into a raucous crowd in the downstairs dance area.
Wrong yet again.
We walked downstairs into a sea of people binge drinking to house music with their faces buried into their phones. There came a moment in the night when one member of our group ordered a water and nearly fell asleep at the table (this, as it turns out, is a story for another day).
I can’t say that I was excited when I saw a band setting up on stage. I had my dancing shoes on and I couldn’t bear the thought of having my eardrums blown out by 15 shit Nickleback covers in a row. But I gave them a chance. What followed is the reason I’m typing this at my computer right now.
The band known as Big Feast started out slow, they didn’t come out with guns blazing, they eased the crowd into it like only real artists can. A zephyr of blues and funk delicately mingled with rock and roll floated through the musty bar air and sidled its way into my cochleae with a smoothness my ears had never before experienced. I found my spirit roused from the sleep it was put into by the impersonal setting we were in. No more was I concerned with my surroundings as I was hypnotized by the sounds filling the air. My dancing shoes ached to satisfy the purpose for which they were put on as they tapped unconsciously to the music. I was compelled by the funk, summoned by the satiny smooth vocals to go out to the dance floor alone. The truest form of dancing is the kind where the music controls the dancer and bends him or her to the will of the song. I gave in, I the marionette controlled on high by the puppeteers named Big Feast.
And what a dance it was. The drummer controlled my feet, coaxing out wild movements and footwork never brandished in public before. The bass player while working in solitude behind the scenes produced rhythms that coursed through my veins in a whirlwind of funk-filled hip gyrations. I would not describe the guitar solos as “face melting” since I would consider this an insult. The guitar playing was not the all too familiar cacophony produced by mindlessly racing up and down a pre-determined scale, but a symphony of perfectly placed notes that played on the emotions with a delicate touch that squired the spirit of the listener through a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows. The vocals floated on top light and airy as a cloud upon Happy Valley, and were just as capable of delivering thunderous devastation when the moment was right.
I give you this analysis as my feeble attempt to describe the music of that night, but to describe the music in its separate components is an abortion. It is the same as describing the way a cake tastes by describing the eggs, milk, and sugar separately. When the cake is made its ingredients no longer exist, only the final product. This indescribable sound infected me with a dancing disease and once I set it free the disease went airborne. The discouraged group of young, suppressed students got up and savaged the dance floor! They spilled their drinks, relinquished self-consciousness, and danced for no ulterior motive other than to dance. The euphoria that filled the room bordered on a collective manic episode.
That night Big Feast changed the course of our evening and etched an unforgettable memory in our minds. For that the KeyPAP would like to honor them with the incredibly distinguished honor of being the 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year, the first artist to receive this coveted award. It is not necessarily an annual award; it will only be presented in years where a band strikes us worthy enough to carry our stamp of approval. Congratulations to Big Feast.
Beebles, Funk, and Smits continued their strong play through the front nine. Beebles managed to overtake Funk on the leaderboard at one point, only to watch Funk snatch it back at the turn. Smits stayed within 2 strokes of the leader.
The battle between the three athletes in contention raged on as the PTC moved to the back nine. Smits got his first taste of the lead at the 12th hole, but Beebles and Funk stayed right on his tail. As if the drama of the PTC wasn't prevalent enough already, Beebles, Funk, and Smits found themselves in a three-way tie for the lead heading into the 15th hole. The 15th was a short 132 yard par-3, an easy pitch for men the likes of the KeyPAP clan. But a pond that sat in front of the green loomed heavily in the minds of the athletes. Funk took a particularly long time eying up his target across the pond. He changed his mind several times about which club to use and kept speaking of the water bazard as the critical factor in his decision. The crowd could sense that he was rattled.
Funk's swing was a graceful as ever, but immediately a look of panic came over his face after he made contact with the ball. Over and over he repeated the phrase, "O no!" escalating from a whisper to a bellicose scream, but words don't have the power to change a golf ball's trajectory mid-flight. The crowd watched in terror as the ball plunged into the pond five yards from the far edge of the shore. Several frogs scattered away from the area as Funk looked on at the ripples in the pond emanating further and further from the scene of the crime. With only four holes remaining and Beebles and Smits not willing to give an inch, Funk became the PTC's second victim to fall out of contention. Fez tried to comfort his fellow martyr, but Funk didn't even have the capacity to hear words at this low point.
Beebles and Smits remained tied heading over the 16th hole. Only three holes remained in regulation. Would the first annual Penn Tower Classic require a playoff to determine an outright champion? Would one of them hole an impossible iron shot and take the lead with and eagle? Or would yet another man crack under the pressure, leaving the last man standing as champion?
The 16th was short downhill par-4 with the Jackie Robinson Parkway running along the right side. The first 20 yards in front of the teebox was crowded by trees, but then opened up to an ultra-wide fairway down below. Beebles stepped to the tee first and roped a straight shot down the hill. Smits stepped up to the tee next feeling like Beebles' drive left a lot of distance on the table. His aim was to outdrive Beebles and lay up for an easy chip onto the green for his second shot. Smits approached his ball, set up straight at the flag and swung.
VVVOOOOOOMMMM
The ball leapt off the clubface and immediately curled to the right and out onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. He pulled out a second ball from his pocket and proceeded to hit another drive without take a practice swing.
VVVOOOOOOMMMM
Smits' second drive attempt followed the exact same path as the first. Once again he set up for a drive and once again the ball tore off onto the highway. As a fitting sumbol of the PTC's third and final bombout, the last drive landed with a crash onto an unsuspecting citizen's windshield sending a spider web of cracks across the entire window pane. The startled driver weaved the back and forth on the highway in the midst of an involuntary panic attack. Luckily, he was able to regain control of his car in time to avoid a fatal collision.
A few spectators began to weep. More drama had unfolded in front of their eyes in a matter of four hours than entire year's worth of Lifetime original television programming. But this wasn't fiction; it was all too real. How much can the human soul bear to see before it becomes overwhelmed? For some, Smits' triumvirate of hooked shots onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway was the final straw.
And so Beebles took a commanding lead without having to even swing his club. All he had to do now was hold it together for three more holes and the PTC Championship would be his. Funk made a valiant comeback with a birdie on 17, but Beebles' steady play kept him in the lead.
Beebles' triumphant victory march on 18 will remain etched in the minds of all who witnessed the 2013 PTC. The three who had knocked themselves out of contention struck up a conversation now that they were alleviated from the PTC pressure, but Beebles did not partake. He remained quiet, calm, and focused as he hit his first putt to within 8 feet of the hole. As he waited for the others to putt, he stared daggers into the cup, simulating in his mind the final stroke which would secure his championship victory. Slightly downhill with a break from left to right, he needed to aim 3 inches left of the cup. Just as he had done all day, Beebles walked up to his ball and made his vision a reality and ended the 2013 Penn Tower Classic.
When the ball sank in the hole he simply stood on the green and took in the atmosphere. The crowd roared their emphatic approval and began to chant his name. With supreme class he doffed his cap to the crowd and embraced his KeyPAP competitors with a firm handshake. Physically beaten down and emotional scarred from watching Fez, Funk, and Smits eliminate themselves from contention, he had no energy left to celebrate.
The physical and mental strength, endurance, and intensity put on display by all four competitors was nothing short of remarkable given the magnitude of the PTC combined with the events which unfolded the night before. What these men did with no gas in the tank, no wood on the fire, no coal in the chamber will live on for time immemorial. The 2013 Penn Tower Classic perfectly defined both KeyPAP and America.
Fez's black Lexus hurdled along I-80 as New York City's majestic skyline slowly came into focus through the front windshield. Beebles was laying back in the passenger seat for a nap and Funk was reading a book in the back. The sun slowly settled into the western horizon, only half of it visible in the rearview mirror. Night time was fast approaching. Traffic slowed as the three men approached the George Washington Bridge.
Bebbles decided to sit up as he realized bumper-to-bumper traffic was not conducive to sleep. Fez, seeing that Beebles had risen from his slumber, cranked up the volume on the car stereo.
Bandz a make her dance Bandz a make her dance These chicks clappin' And they ain't using hands
Fez was rapping along with Juicy J and it wasn't long before Beebles and Funk joined in on the fun. The car buzzed with energy.
2 Chainz, four bracelets Let me see that ass clap, standing ovation If yo girl don't swallow kids, man that ho basic
As the three got louder and started moving to the music, the car started to shake back and forth on the bridge, drawing inquisitive looks from adjacent travelers. But Fez, Beebles, and Funk were in a world of their own and didn't have a care in the world as to what anyone else thought of their antics. They were a mere 16 hours away from the start of the most challenging athletic endeavor they had ever faced: the 2013 Penn Tower Classic.
As Fez, Beebles, and Funk made their way across the GWB, Smits was finishing up work in his office several blocks south of them on 34th Street. The day had been a long and grueling one for the structural engineer. He had been summoned to the field in the morning to help with construction inspection at the World Trade Center site, then returned to the office in the afternoon where he was assigned the task of completing urgent calculations for his project manager. Stressed, hungry, and eager for the night's coming festivities he stormed out the front door and weaved his way through the pedestrian traffic, rejecting two requests for spare change on the way down to the subway station. When the Queens-bound E train finally arrived he sat down in the air conditioned car, laid his head back against the window and closed his eyes. Flashes of narrow fairways and tightly cut greens were interspersed with images of women dancing in clothes which showed off ample cleavage.
As the subway slowed to a stop at the 67th Avenue station, Smits darted out the door and up the stairs to his apartment. He quickly got undressed, showered, and got ready for the arrival of the three other KeyPAP co-founders and co-presidents. Smits was elected to serve as host for the first PTC. The reputation of KeyPAP put a lot of pressure on him to provide stellar hosting services. He was determined to live up to these lofty expectations.
At 7:00pm Fez, Beebles, and Funk arrived, 2 Chainz still blasting through the car stereo as they parallel parked along 67th Road. Smits walked out on the street to greet everyone.
Smits "Gentlemen, good to see you again. How long did it take you guys to get here?"
Fez "Only like an hour and 69 minutes."
They brought their luggage up to apartment 6N, finally getting a chance to kick back and relax. Each member of this foursome bad been a top notch and well respected member of the academic community at The Pennsylvania State University four years prior. Due to each of their separate vigorous pursuits of a graduate education they had seldom found the time or money required to have a post-graduate rendezvous. But now that Beebles, Funk, and Smits had professional degrees to their names, life had slowed down enough for this raucous crew to be reunited.
They wasted no time breaking into Smits' liquor cabinet. They threw back several shots of Absolut Pears, the official alcoholic beverage of KeyPAP, before making their way to the first bar of the night on Austin Street. They ordered a round of cocktails and beer after being seated by the petite Asian waitress. Fez almost immediately acquired a target of the opposite sex a few feet away. He quickly threw back the last of his drink and made his way to the bar for the first approach of the night.
Fez "Did you come here tonight to meet your dream man?"
Girl "[smiling] Maybe. Let me know if you see him."
Fez "Let me help you out. He's about 5'-7" Italian and used to be a cheerleader in college."
Girl "Wait, you were a cheerleader in college? I'm sorry, but that's a deal breaker for me."
She turned away and walked back to her group of friends before Fez even had a chance to explain. He had shed blood, sweat and tears, suffered broken bones and even a mild concussion for that gig, and this broad wasn't even going to give him the light of day. Such is the state of the present day American dating scene.
The drink orders started to come more rapidly after the dejected Fez returned to the table. The foursome engrossed themselves in vigorous discussions. Topics included alternate universes, popular music, vertical bacon smiles, new sexual positions, and athletics. Before they knew it the clock was tolling 11:00pm.
Originally, the KeyPAP co-founders and co-presidents had planned to spend the night at local bars in Queens for a few drinks and light conversation in order to rest for the PTC the next morning. But the Manhattan nightlife became too much of a temptation to supress. Once they got within a short subway ride from the city, they were drawn into the bright lights like an asteroid which wanders into Earth's gravitational pull.
The men took the R train into Manhattan, arriving just before midnight. They walked out onto the 34th Street sidewalk, gazing up at the skyscrapers which loomed over mid-town.
Beebles "The night is still young; let's drink!"
Smits "Where do you guys want to go? I only know a few places."
Funk "My friend is working at Libation tonight. Let me see if he can get us in."
Funk fired off a text to his contact as the men strolled down Broadway, taking in the sights: buildings squeezed one right next to another, hipsters propped up against dingy buildings taking smoke breaks, thin women in tight clubwear. They were filled with excitement.
A minute later Funk's text message was answered.
Funk "He said we're in. Let's go there now."
Twenty minutes later, despite not meeting the club's dress code, the co-founders and co-presidents of KeyPAP were granted access to the front doors of Libation. Through a missing link in the chain of communication, the bouncer had not been warned of their arrival by Funk's inside contact. But the men gave off such a strong aura of professionalism and confidence that he couldn't justify turning them away - shorts or not.
Once inside they were whisked upstairs to the VIP floor which overlooked the masses of full-paying customers. The dance floor below reeked of sexual awkwardness and desperation. They were grateful to have their own bar service upstairs, as well as the power to grant select females access to this coveted area of the club.
As the club began to fill up, Fez, eager to rebound from his first approach of the night, was the first to take advantage of this privilege. While Smits, Beebles, and Funk were reminiscing about old times, Fez quietly tip-toed down the stairs and made his way over to a pair of blondes at the far end of the floor. He pulled out his iPhone which had a picture of his young nephew on the lock screen.
Fez "Hey, can I ask you a question? Is it creepy for me to have this picture on my phone?"
Blonde 1 "That all depends. Do you know that kid?"
Fez "Yes, I know him. He's my nephew."
Blonde 1 "I think that's okay then."
Blonde 2 smiled and nodded in agreement. Since his departure from the VIP floor was sudden and unannounced, Smits, Beebles, and Funk took a minute to realize where Fez had gone and what he was out to do. Once they spotted him and his prey on the first floor they hastily moved over to the edge of the balcony to see if Fez could make this approach a success.
After observing his fellow clansman for a few minutes, Beebles decided it was time for him to take action. His loins ached for a dish of hot china, and much to his delight he was able to acquire a target in the form of a petite Korean broad. Off he went to the first floor to try to meet the needs which his boner placed on him. The two elder clansmen remained on the VIP floor sipping their cocktails while watching their brethren battle it out below. Talk was light between the two men; each had something weighing heavily on the mind, but didn't dare speak of it. KeyPAP is a respectful organization and one of the pillars of their relationships was the proper respect for competition. Funk and Smits would be slugging it out on the greens in just a few hours. There was nothing to be gained by either man in a discussion of the impending Penn Tower Classic.
The hours went by at a snail's pace compared to the number of drinks consumed. Smits and Funk made a steady stream of cocktail orders while discussing married life while Beebles and Fez tried to close on their prey by inviting them upstairs for VIP club service and titillating conversation. At 3:00am, an hour before closing time, both Fez and Beebles made their way back to Smits' and Funk's table exhausted from their efforts, but with nothing to show. In the game of slaying pussy the peaks and valleys are extreme with virtually no middle ground. On the eve of the 2013 Penn Tower Classic it was just not meant to be. Maybe the PTC weighed too heavily on their subconscious minds, maybe the women were legitimately not attract to the them. At this point only pure, cumbersome conjecture can be offered.
Smits hailed a cab in the street just outside Libation's front doors. Beebles slurred out one more "The night is still young!" chant, but it was clear his heart wasn't truly in it. At almost 4:00am the men arrived back at Smits' apartment and literally collapsed onto the floor a mere four and a half hours out from tee-off.
