Positively Progressing from the Perils of Paunch

A Memoir by Louis DiFez

As 2013 A.D. ended as devastatingly as it began, I reviewed the year in my life thus far.  I am in the process of accomplishing my goals:  I will be graduating with my Doctorate in Podiatric Medicine in May 2014, the KeyPAP flourishes brightly as ever, and overall I am happy with my life and the direction that it is in.  However, as I perused the annals of my individual 2013 history, I came to a part in my life that I was extremely dissatisfied, and, frankly, thoroughly disgusted with.

The paunch.

In its noun form, it means “a large and protruding belly; a potbelly.” Or also, in nautical terms, “a thick mat that prevents chafing.” I believe the first is more appropriate.

"This turtleneck is so good at being thick and the prevention of chafing.  I get Bonair's every time I put it on!"

I let myself go.  I became lazy, unenthused, and bored with exercising.  In 2013, I viewed working out not as a goal to continually better myself, but as an obstacle that lay between my studying, eating, and facebooking.  Luckily, two things changed my thoughts:

#1 – Consistent harassment from the Founding Fathers of the KeyPAP.

Harassment not in the sense of, “I’m going to file charges against you for harassing me and saying mean things and I am not MAN enough to handle it.” But the good kind.  The kind that stirs in your loins, lights a fire from deep within, and looks to expel all of the terrible things inside of you in order to make yourself the best possible human.  Dr. Funk, Smits, the First Ladies, and lastly, The One Known as Beebles (TOKaB, for short) all constantly harassed me, and rightly so.  I was still muscular, but shapeless.  I had a midsection of Play-Doh®.  I felt as doughy as an uncooked stromboli.  I needed the abuse, I thrived off the abuse, and I turned it from a negative to a positive.

#2 – Smits MANLY performance as the first ever KeyPAP 2013 Strongman Performance of the Year.

We all saw the videos, heard the grunts of pain and agony, but reveled in his strength and mastering of the perilous weights.  He achieved victory as only a man of the KeyPAP can:  through a skin-tight, nearly bulge-showing, wrestling singlet.  Smits was a man of action, and I wanted it back.

I yearned for the sound of iron.  I missed the feel of the cold, never wiped-down, probably loaded with tetanus and MRSA, steel on my hands.  I pined as I would get ready to shower, seeing the abomination that I had become. “If I don’t think I look good, surely the opposite sex thinks I’m revolting,” thoughts ran through my head.  I needed to change.

I began to eat healthier and less.  I also began running to the gym from my Philadelphia house.  And when at the gym, I worked out like the old days of college - like a MAN.  No more of this, “I think I’m going to do 3x20 bench press of 135 lbs.” crap.  I began to bulk back up, like only a meatball can.

I am still in the process of changing my lifestyle and body, but I am fully committed.  2014 will be the year that the paunch is defeated.  Even as I sit here now, my muscles call out from within to be burned.  As the great Arnold once eloquently stated:

I will leave you all with 2 inspirational quotes that I use daily, while in the process of Purging the Paunch™.

“Be strong and of a good courage.  Act for the best, hope for the best, and take what comes . . . If death ends all, we cannot meet death better.” – James Fitzjames Stephen

“Time for dem gymtitties!” – Me

The Great Awakening

by Dr. David Funk

9:00 am EST

"What should I do at the gym today?" I shamefully asked myself since I had no plan of attack for the day.  It’s true, I have a workout routine over the last few months that is as shameful as it has been in at least 10 years.  This unplanned schedule is a breeding ground for future paunch, self-loathing and unachieved goals.  I realized this as I sat in my living room, fatly watching ESPN2 cover the three stories of the week.  In that moment I felt a surge in my belly, not in my ample adipose tissue hanging over the taut elastic of my pajamas, but deep inside where a man’s spirit lies.  I was compelled; I walked outside into the unusually warm December weather and looked out from my second story balcony to the highest point of my surroundings.  The surge said to me, "Today you will climb." It was not up for debate, it was a command issued from the depths of my soul.

The Trail

I set out toward my mountain along a trail that I was very familiar with, the sights and sounds of soccer moms and their puffball dogs were commonplace on this path.  I had never ventured off of this trail before.  It was well marked, it was level, it was safe.

When I arrived at the base of the mountain where I planned to begin my assault on the summit I discovered, much to my chagrin, that its base was completely surrounded by houses.  To continue on my journey I would have to trespass, in broad daylight, in a community that lands on the extreme right of political issues.  The risk was not a small one but it was one I was willing to take.  I daringly broke trail and stepped into a yard boasting a truck whose lift kit surely cost more than the machine.  I strode through the residential back yard dodging dog dumplings like landmines the whole way.  I gazed at the house all the while picturing a man, with more first names than teeth, bursting from it waving his second amendment rights in my general direction.  At the end of the yard I clambered over the stone wall that marked its end and began my accent.

The Ascent

I looked out into the terrain that I would soon be traveling on.  The ground was still wet with droplets from the morning dew.  A thin refreshing layer of fog hung low on the dead trees and rocks that formed the mountains floor.  The lay of the land was not intimidating, in fact the mountain itself seemed at first glance no more than a large hill.  As I began to walk up the gradual incline I could feel my heart starting to beat a little more quickly, I could feel the cool December air satisfyingly stroking my face as I pushed through the woods.  Something primal was stirred inside of me, a thought that this would be what the world looked like if humans had never left their grotesque mark on the planet.  I remained enamored with this thought, hardly able to comprehend it in my own mind, or why it weighed so heavily on it in the first place.  I thought about the fact that I could have easily passed this time by sitting on my couch barely moving except to gorge my face with salty foods, a practice I am no stranger to.  But I had made the right choice.  This, I decided, was where I belonged.  My pace quickened, even breaking into a childlike run at times, the kind of run where you just move your body through space and time out of pure excitement.  It was a kind of run, I thought, that is not commonplace in the morose land of adult decorum.  I wove my way in and out of the heavily wooded mountainside, walking on logs, climbing on top of large rocks. I could start to see the mountain rising at a greater slope and all at once the trees cleared and I saw what remained of my climb.

Summit

I peered through the remainder of the trees trying to get a good look at the climb ahead.  I had anticipated a gentle grade that would lead me to a relatively easy summit.  Gentle grade this was not; this was a sharply inclining grade that culminated in a 90 degree wall of intimidating rock as craggy as a cancerous prostate.  I began to climb the steepening mountainside, each step harder than the last.  My lungs burned white hot and pleaded for a rest, I could feel my legs filling with lactic acid as they begged for reprieve.  I had gone into a trance; I could feel the summit beckoning me.  I finally paused, out of breath, when I arrived at the rock face that guarded the summit.

The stone rose beastly from the ground without warning like some sort of sinister push pop.  The wall was 12 feet high if it was a foot, and I had to form a plan of attack.  There were several somewhat easy routs over the wall but I was maddened by the climb.  If I may borrow from the great alpinist and author Jon “5 star” Krakauer,

“Climbing was a magnificent activity, I firmly believed, not in spite of the inherent perils, but precisely because of them.”

With those words in mind I took the most difficult rout I could handle.  I started up the face of the rock wall, the rocks were cold and much more slippery than I anticipated.  They were moss covered and it occurred to me that I may be the only person in a very long time to have been here.  I neared the top clumsily and my foot slipped from its hold.  I could feel my heart drop as I lost my balance.  Luckily I regained my footing, but not before I sent a dead stump hurtling down the mountain falling meters to a rocky demise that reduced it to unsanitized toothpicks.  My mind did not hesitate to make the connection that this could very well have been my fate.  I climbed to the top and expected to be standing triumphant over citizens of Shavertown.  To my surprise there was another climb that culminated in yet another wall of earth that was taller and more intimidating than the first.
 
I began to climb the second rock wall, the craggy moss laden demon that stood in my way toward the summit.  Midway up the wall I grabbed a small branch to hoist myself when - SNAP - the tree gave way.  My feet slid down the mossy slope of rock they were perched on toward the nothingness that marked the rocks end.  I was going down.  I reached blindly in the area of the broken branch and caught a root with my left hand saving me from tumbling down the mountain.  I stood there badly shaken.  My mind felt clouded, perhaps the beginning of hypoxia.  I had, after all, climbed hundreds of feet above sea level to perch myself on this precarious ledge. I was woefully underprepared for this moment. I was wearing a long t-shirt, jeans and boots. I had no carabiners, no ropes, and I was smack dab in the middle of a 12 hour fast.  The brashness of my preparation, or lack thereof was staggering to me in that moment.  I had never climbed anything before, and I was attempting to solo climb this rocky whore of a mountain without safety gear, without food, or water, and not enough clothing to make a bivouac until I regained my strength.  The climb back down the mountain was too treacherous, the rock wall I was on was too slippery and I would have to descend a second rock wall after it.  The thought of slipping on the wet leaves, as I approached the ledge of the lower rock wall, and hurtling over it was sickening to me.  I would have to climb up the mountain and find an easier way down. In that moment I thought of my wife, the beautiful first First Lady of the KeyPAP.  What would she think if I lost my footing?  The only people who knew I was out here at all were hundreds if not thousands of miles away from here and would not know where to look in the first place.  I could not place that burden upon her shoulders.  No, it is in her that I found the strength and determination to move on.  I struggled mightily to the top of the second wall battling my own limbs which trembled with fear.
 

 

On the top, the mountain smiled mockingly at me with a third rock wall.  There were trees twisting from the side of the wall, reaching towards the heavens, as if they were daring me to continue.  I realized that it was not up to me - in the end, the mountain would decide my fate.  I thought then that it might not be so bad to be seated on my couch vegitizing in front of the TV.  I shook the thought off and stormed toward the third rock wall, my blood boiling at the mockery of the mountain.  If the mountain wanted me, it was going to have to fucking take me.  I tore at the third wall tossing loose rocks by the wayside, climbing with great fervor and strength.  I was moving but it was as if my body was moving for me, I was just along for the ride.  In minutes I stood atop the nameless mountain.  The mountain, fittingly, did not reward me with a spectacular view, those heaven bound trees did all that they could to obscure it.

Descent

I was able to find an easy way down the mountain.  Once my descent began I noticed that I was absolutely drenched in sweat.  At several hundred feet above sea level this could have proven treacherous if the weather turned.  Luckily I was graced with clear skies the whole way down.  I stepped out of the woods on a road labeled Carverton.  I knew where I was, back to safety, and decided that I would stay there for a long while.  As I began the walk back to my apartment I looked ahead of me, away from the mountain that had spared me.  I walked around the bend of the road and saw through the clearing another mountain appear, dominating the horizon, looming over me something sinister, and I felt my spirit stir once again.

Worldwide Pandemic: Do You Have Bonair's?

Recently every single member of the Keystone Professional Association of Pennsylvania came down with recurring bouts of Acute Onset Bonair's Disease, or Bonair's for short.  What are the signs of this devastating illness and what can you do to prevent it?  You've come to the right place to learn, ye olde loyal readers.

Background

Bonair's is defined as the involuntary engorging of the penile tissue.  It is sometimes unrelated to sexual stimulation.  For example, one may find upon waking up that he has a raging boner.

 

Pathophysiology

Erection is the result of smooth-muscle relaxation and increased arterial flow causing engorgement and rigidity.  See image below:

"Awww SHIT, I got Bonair's again!"

 

Epidemiology

Frequency of Bonair's is three to five times a night during REM sleep, upon wakening, and throughout the day whenever a man is exposed to titillating visual or psychological stimuli.  It typically persists from puberty until death.

On average 99.9% of males on Earth are victims of Bonair's.  Eunuchs and diabetics comprise the 0.1% of the unafflicted male population.

Bonair's is painful at onset, but has an almost nonexistent mortality/morbidity rate.  One notable exception is that one sex scene in Golden Eye where Xenia Onatopp squeezes the life out of that guy with a beard while trying to administer the antidote.  More on that later . . .

Bonair's afflicts unsuspecting males all over Earth, regardless of race and age (provided the male has already reached puberty).

There are two common causes of Bonair's.  The first is a reflex erection caused by a full bladder because of nerve stimulation in the spinal cord, which is most common upon wakening.  The second is also a reflex erection, but it is caused by physical or psychological stimulation increasing blow flow to spongy tissues in the penis.  Consequently the blood engorged penis becomes grossly erect.
 

History

Patients with Bonair's report recurring unwelcome erections.  Bonair's usually manifests itself in an episodic manner.  The physical stimuli may change over time, but the symptoms remain the same throughout one's life.  For example, a man may have had bouts of Bonair's while looking at his father's hidden Playboy magazines in his teenage years, while courting a co-ed during a college party in his early twenties, and while watching Brazilian fart porn during his 30s and 40s.

 

Physical

Inspection:  obvious raging erection is a key physical finding in the examination process.  Flesh need not be fully exposed to the medical professional for accurate detection.

Palpation:  a rigid erection will be felt upon stroking the organ.

Differential Diagnoses

Phone in pocket with protruding antenna.

Lab Tests

Blood work.

Porphobilinogen (PBG) measurement.

Nocturnal Penile Tumescence (NPT) Test - a device around the penis during sleep that detects changes in girth and relays the information to a computer for later analysis.

Erection Self Test (EST) - 1 cent stamps are bought in a roll.  A string of several of these stamps are wrapped around the mid shaft of the penis.  They are moistened and allowed to form a continuous ring around this portion of the penis.  Intermittently, the man checks to see if the strip of stamps is broken.  If so, this indicates that the shaft of the penis has swelled and hardened at some point.  If the stamps remain unbroken, no erection has occurred.

 

Imaging

Dopplar Ultra Sonography to view blood flow through the penile shaft.

Penile Radiograph.  See X-ray below:

Treatment

"Do you have Bonair's? Let me help you with that."

 

Alternative Care

Take a piss

Hire a prostitute

Use a fleshlight

Choke the chicken

Insert your member between two soft couch cushions

Insert your member into a warm apple pie

Insert your member into an attractive willing female companion's orifice

Insert your member into the orifice of an unattractive willing female with at least one redeeming quality

Medication

High quantities of alcohol

Trojan Extended Pleasure condoms

Cold weather

Swimming pool

Other dudes

Ugly bitches

Complications

When an erection lasts for longer than four hours the blood trapped in the penis is deprived of oxygen which can begin to damage or destroy penile tissue leading to disfigurement.

Public shaming and embarassment.  To prevent detection in public, a man riddled with Bonair's would be wise to secure his shaft in the "headlock" position.

Blue balls.

 

Prognosis

The prognosis depends on the duration of symptoms, the patients age, and the underlying pathology.  The time to treatment is the SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT FACTOR affecting the outcome of Bonair's.  Education is the best way to avoid undesirable outcomes.  Females especially should become familiar with the symptoms so that they may immediately apply the antidote upon detection of Bonair's.

 

Prevention

Current technologies have not evolved fast enough to prevent this pandemic.  Men must learn to recognize Bonair's when they have it and women must have the know-how to administer the antidote at any given time.

The Game That Was Almost Forgotten

Cast in the shadows of other more important life events, the 2014 Penn Tower Classic Qualifier was an illustrious tournament that did not receive the news coverage that it deserved.  A homecoming of sorts, the KeyPAP clan returned to the illustrious Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to face off with the rest of the KeyPAP Tour for the right to compete in 2014's version of the most grueling tournament ever conceived - the Penn Tower Classic.  There were no crowds or reporters for this round of golf, but the talent level on display for the KeyPAP Tour's Penn Tower Classic Qualifier was evident yet again.

With three months for the competitors to recoup their mental faculties after the hellacious 2013 Penn Tower Classic, Beebles, Dr. Funk, Smits, and Fez took to the 4 star Toftrees Golf Club in State College, Pennslvania in hopes of continuing their dominance as the top foursome on the KeyPAP Tour.  The right to compete in the 2014 version of the Penn Tower Classic was up for the taking and no one wanted to let their chance at getting their name engraved on the PTC championship trophy slip away.

Fez came to the Qualifier with a chip on his shoulder after finishing last in this summer's Penn Tower Classic.  He took an early lead at #1 and stood atop the leaderboard for most of the day.  However, his actions at the previous KeyPAP meeting where he fell asleep during 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year Big Feast's performance for the ages, he incurred a vicious punishment:  he would be subject to unlimited heckling from all other competitors while playing the final hole.  This punishment proved to be fatal as Dr. Funk unnerved Fez during each shot on #18.

While Fez took great strides to prove his worth on the KeyPAP Tour after a last place finish at the 2013 PTC, another competitor's stock plummeted.

It is well known that Drake started from the bottom now he here.  In polar opposite fashion, Beebles fell from his vulnerable position atop the KeyPAP Tour to the depths of complete and utter despair at this year's Qualifier.  He started the day in fourth place behind Fez, Dr. Funk, and Smits and stayed there for the remainder of the day without even threatening for a third place finish.  In fact, the 2013 El Campeon barely qualified for the 2014 Penn Tower Classic!  Three straight shots into the pond off the tee at #9 sealed his fate before he even got to the turn.  But be on the lookout for a rebound next summer at the 2014 PTC:  predators are most dangerous when wounded, and this cat sure doesn't like the taste of defeat.

Smits played much the same in the Qualifier as he did in at the 2013 PTC.  Inconsistent with an impressive birdie and several pars but also holes in excess of triple bogey.  But he stayed in the hunt long enough to take the lead at #17.  After hitting his best tee shot of the day to start #18 and the green jacket a few strokes away, however, he became more jittery than a junebug in a hen house.  He sailed his second shot over the green and onto the unforgiving mulch.  Several unsuccessful chip shots later he finally managed to get the ball onto the green, but by then it was too late to salvage his grasp on the lead.

Despite being down two strokes heading onto the tee at #18 and hooking his tee shot into the woods, Dr. Funk took a drop ball and placed a tremendous iron shot on the green for his third stroke while Smits faltered in the mulch.  With a crisp 2-putt he stood alone atop the leaderboard for the only time that day.  But he managed to do it at the only time that mattered:  the end.

With no one there to fully chronicle the five hours of elite athleticism and mental strain which took place at the PTCQ, we are only left with pictures.  Fear not, dear reader; though you won't be able to relive the experience of this event like you did the 2013 PTC, the pictures are as striking, graceful, and savage as a mountain lion.

Smits, Beebles, and Dr. Funk fuel themselves with Old Forge pizza and Busch Light prior to traveling to the PTCQ.

Fez ropes one onto the center of the fairway at #2.

An immaculate display of pure strength by Dr. Funk.  Notice the whip he creates in the shaft of his driver just before impact.

Beebles makes up for his sliced iron shot with a beautiful pitch onto the center of the green.

With unbreakable concentration, Fez lines up his putt.

Smits almost gets a hole-in-one at #3.  He went on to sink the birdie putt.

Despite being in questionable physical condition for this Qualifier, Fez led the tournament for most of the day.  Here we see his paunch in full display while waiting for the green to clear.

Smits coils back just before striking this tee shot at the dogleg left #5.

In this sequence, Beebles lines up and hits a lengthy putt.  Mere inches from a birdie against all odds, all he can do is laugh at how close he came.

Smits with a picture perfect follow through on this narrow tee shot through the woods.

Dr. Funk tees off at the picturesque #8.

Beebles crushes this tee shot into the night sky.

Beebles falters off the tee at #9.  Three times in a row he put his tee shot into the pond before he managed to put stroke number 7 across and onto the fairway.  He tries to laugh it off, but his body language confirmed that he was really crying on the inside.

Dr. Funk with an immaculate iron shot on #18.  This shot put him on the green and allowed him to overtake Smits on the last hole for the green jacket and #1 ranking on the KeyPAP Tour.

KeyPAP Perspectives: Smits Weighs In On the Barilla Controversy

Remarks made by Barilla Pasta chairman, Guido Barilla, in a recent interview with an Italian radio station have received a lot of attention on the interwebz over the last few days.  Unfortunately the full interview is only available in Italian, therefore my information has come solely from American and British news outlets instead of the real source.  All of these news outlets have slightly different translations of Barilla's comments, but the general message is quite clear.  For those not familiar with the story, here is Smits' Official Abridged Summary:

• Barilla does radio interview to promote his products
• Interviewer asks if he would put a gay couple in his commercials
• Barilla says no, he believes in the traditional family
• Equality Italia, a civil rights group, calls for a boycott of Barilla products, and notoriously liberal news outlets, such as Huffington Post and The Guardian among many others, label Guido Barilla anti-gay and a bigot.

"Herr Smits, surely you won't use this news story to shove your political opinions down our throats on such a reputable website.  You yourself have been known to despise such debates on account of people only becoming more entrenched and unwavering in their original beliefs."

Why, thank you, most trusting of hypothetical KeyPAP readers - you are correct.

The fact that there is backlash over Barilla's comments at all is what I find most disturbing.  What this story boils down to is human rights focus groups and liberal media outlets who strive to spread the message of tolerance and equality for all people, are attempting to eliminate Guido Barilla's source of income because, ironically, they do not tolerate his worldview concerning gay families.  The viewpoint is question is utterly irrelevant.  Equality Italia has not called for a discussion or that he step away from his position as chairman.  No, they are coming after his bread, his ability to provide for himself and his family.  If you don't agree with our agenda then you must be destroyed.  

What's most dangerous about stories like this is that they're covered up under the noble guise of human rights.  But make no mistake, this kind of mentality allowed to permeate a democracy is unmistakeably poisonous.  A minority focus group which has the power to crush anyone who doesn't agree with their views is called an oligarchy.  I don't think that's what the Founding Fathers had in mind.

Sadly, rather than defending his opinion and his right to have one, he issued an apology a few days after the interview in the wake of the international backlash.  Rather than holding true to his core beliefs, he caved and made a desperate, pathetic apology.

This story has also been an extremely convenient distraction for the United States government.  While the sheep wail away on social networks and lesser blogs than the KeyPAP's about whether or not Barilla's comments were anti-gay and an expression of outrageous bigotry, the politicians in the U.S. federal government breathe a collective sigh of relief as less attention is being paid to the shutdown.  They love it when we bicker over inconsequential shit like Barilla's comments.  Real issues such as your premium potentially quadrupling under the new health care law, a declining stock market, and the broken world economy are swept under the rug while they literally collect their paychecks without working.

Do not stand for focus groups who try to stand on moral high ground while simultaneously attempting to destroy an innocent man because his worldview does not conform to their agenda.  As a KeyPAP man, I sincerely value the freedom Americans should have to form their own opinions based on how they see the world.  May shame be brought all oppressors.

Passionately,
Smits

Big Feast: 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year

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.

2013 Penn Tower Classic, Part IV

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.