Wednesday, October 26, 2005
The Ryan Davis Seal of Approval.
This hereby attests that the following post regarding U2 was completely 100% true, neither altered nor exaggerated in any way, shape, or form. Therefore, any doubting Thomases (believe me, that's how you spell it) can put your worries to rest and bask in the fact that Matt and I witnessed what could be one of the best bands of all time, in the world's most famous venue, from six feet away.
This hereby attests that the following post regarding U2 was completely 100% true, neither altered nor exaggerated in any way, shape, or form. Therefore, any doubting Thomases (believe me, that's how you spell it) can put your worries to rest and bask in the fact that Matt and I witnessed what could be one of the best bands of all time, in the world's most famous venue, from six feet away.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
I know people.
I dedicate this post to Pistol Priest and the others for whom certain and intense envy will result from reading:
Perhaps one of the largest lessons that I have learned in NY is that the secret of life is not always what you can do as much as it is who you know. Friends, let me say: I know people.
Actually, truth be told I know people who know people, and that works for me. This past Friday night I had the opportunity of a lifetime, and I will now share such an experience with you.
For the past week the illustrious band U2 played every night in the world's most prestigious venue, Madison Square Garden. As one might imagine, tickets for such an event were extremely rare, in fact hard to come by falls short in describing the absence of availability. There were none, zero, zilch, nada, SOLD OUT... months in advance. If you were not in the fan club, a prestigious celebrity, or a person of exorbanent wealth, there was no way to get tickets. Since I meet none of the previous three requirements there was absolutely no way for me to get a ticket. The average person would have settled with their eminent fate and gone on with their pathetic lives, but not me, I know people.
After beseeching my contacts, a plan was developed. As it was obvious at this point that tickets were out of even our reach, and therefore "alternative" options were discussed. Upon further review, a game plan was developed, and the rest is history.
After taking the train into Penn Station, "we" met together at an undisclosed location several blocks away. At that point I was handed a "ticket" (which was dated Feb. 24th) and given careful instructions about which side of the ticket to expose and which to hide. Written on the ticket was a small, meaningless message that would tip off the second, unnamed contact on the inside of our deal. I was then supposed to wait on the outside of the Garden until I received the phone call to give me further instructions, and finally reminded to "stay cool and just act normal". Famous last words was the first thing that crossed my mind, how could I act cool when told to do so? Just like a wet paint sign or the words "don't look down" the odds of my "acting normal" had greatly deminished.
At this point I am now semi-anxiously awaiting the phone call, standing outside MSG trying my hardest to look inconspicuous. Then came the call, which I kid you not started with these words, "Don't talk, just listen..." I was then given one chance to hear, remember and follow the instructions from "the voice" on how to bypass the two security checkpoints prior to the ticket booth, and then the general description of the contact on the inside and how to approach him with the "ticket". Of course, the conversation was ended with the words: "Remember, stay cool and just act normal." Yeah, sure...
Acting as "naturally" as possible, I follwed the directions through the bypasses all the way to the ticket booth and looked for my man. Naturally, as fate would have it, there are several guys who meet the description of the contact. This is the piont where doubts and second thoughts come racing in: "What if this isn't the right guy? What if it's a sting and he was put up to this? How long will it take those three police officers to get over here once they figure out what's going on? Where are my exits? Where can I run? What the heck am I doing? Screw this I'm going back! Heck no, it's freaking U2 concert, forget the consequences... what are the consequences?" Acting cool is a difficult task indeed when all of these thoughts plague your mind. It was at this point when I was reassured that I was not born for a life of crime or espionage.
So, all thoughts aside, I just went with the flow, tucked me head down, and walked as normal as I could to the supposed contact and prayed for the best. Acknowledging no one, including him, I flashed the secret ticket and he ushered me through -- no problems. Then it hit me, what was I worrying about, I know people.
That's right folks, I was inside, and at this point there was no way out, because were I ever asked for my ticket stub I would tell them the truth, "It's not on me, I'm just trying to get a better view." At that point I was instructed that they would just ask you to go back to your seat, and you would drift off to another place to try again, or go to the top and find a seat that no one wanted anyway. Who can complain about that, I mean hey, I was in, that was cool enough, right?... Wrong. You, the average reader, might have settled with the fact that you made it into a sold out U2 concert in Madison Square Garden without a ticket to your name, but alas you forget, I know people.
The original contact came through once again with some knock-off yellow bracelets that allowed us access to the floor. The bracelet then became our golden ticket that allowed us, without a ticket stub, to meander through the entirety of the Garden. So down we went, past all the fan club members, exorbanently expensive seats and prestigious celebrities, all the way to the floor. Yes my friends, believe me when I say Woody Harrelson literally attempted to use his ticket to get to where I was standing, and his attempts fell pathetically short. Apparently he forgot that I know people.
So there I was living every sports fan's dreams, standing on the floor of THE Madison Square Garden with all 20,000+ people looking down at me, dreaming to be in my shoes, saying to each other, "Man, he must know people". While that experience in and of itself was all I could ever ask for, I would hope that you have not forgotten one very simple and obvious fact: on the floor of the arena is where THE STAGE IS. And naturally, where the stage is, there you can find me also. Sure enough, with only two rows of tightly packed and thoroughly excited fans separating me from music history, there before me stood Paul Hewson himself, or Bono to the layman. Finally, the moment that you are waiting for:
Drum roll...................................................................................................................................
Sweat and spit flew from Bono as fire flew from Edge's fingers, and I was there to witness it all -- only six feet away. So as you wipe the jealousy-colored green sweat from your brow, rest assured, after having read this you too can say, "Hey, that's Matt Foster... I DO know people."
Thursday, October 13, 2005
It's been a long time coming, but I can't help but gloat a little... nay, a lot.
Yea Alabama!
Drown 'em Tide
Ev'ry bama man's behind you:
Hit your stride!
Go teach the bulldogs to behave,
Send those Yellow Jackets to a watery grave,
And if a man starts to weaken,
That's a shame!
For Bama's pluck and grit have
Writ her name in Crimson flame,
Fight on! Fight on! Fight on! Men!
Remember the Rose Bowl, we'll win then.
So roll on to VICTORY!
Hit your stride!
You're Dixie's football pride,
Crimson Tide!
Yeah, pretty much added the last picture just for me
First Blood! Though similar to the infamous Sly Stallone's box office wonder, let me take a little time to update on the status of this deer season...
Let me start with the fact that I was required by the state of New York to take an additional class on bowhunting safety, of which I was quite skeptical. First of all because there was already a class on "How to Hahvest a Deeah with a Spuoting Ahm" which when translated out of New York and back into English means How to Shoot a Deer, not with a gun or a weapon -- as that instructor hadn't used weapons since he was over in 'Nam (trust me, I wish I was making all of this up) but with a sporting arm. We were failed if we referred to a gun as anything other than a sporting arm, as if the semantics would change the public's opinion on guns. Second, because we had to drive all over the island two nights out of the week right after work until 10pm to listen to Angelo ( I won't even try his last name, as there were two sets of C's and three I's strung together), a large and quite robust Italian man talk to me about bowhunting and all the strategic apologetics I should use to sway the 86% of the population who does not either hunt or actively oppose hunting (our enemies as he so sensitively put it). Digression aside, he spent a good 10 minutes talking about what you should do in the extremely odd chance that you should shoot the deer in the spine, and I just happened to be paying attention.
Lo and Behold, several days later, perched in my stand in the beautiful woods of Long Island, attempting hahvest a deeah, my friend Ty comes running through the woods, "Dude, I killed my first deer!" We give the allotted and respectful time to allow the deer to die in peace, which is also there to calm us down and keep us from chasing a fatally wounded and adrenaline filled animal throughout the neighborhoods of Long Island, disrupting the peaceful breakfasts and stealing the attention of the bored school bus passengers. While we were waiting, Ty was telling the story of how it all happened. Traveling through the woods to push the deer to me, he came across a doe and yearling, and without a release, he manually draws the compound bow and lands a slightly high but quite effective shot on the doe, and she drops like a brick.
Our first inclination was to assume the obvious, a spine shot. But I would be remiss were I not to remind us yet again of the seeming impossibility of such a shot according to the esteemed Angelo. I mean, come on, it was obviously a big deal to him, he spent forever and a day of his self-proclaimed precious time mindlessly lecturing on the impossibility of such a shot. Doubting the evidence, but not my partner's archery expertise, we cautiously approached the deer's original location -- the point of impact. Sure enough, not even a foot away from where he left her, there lay the man's fist deer. An "impossible" shot with half the equipment -- where you at now Angelo?!?
Ladies and Gentlemen, the man, the myth, the legend... Tyler D. Lewis and his first kill:
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
There are certain creatures in the animal kingdom that convey not only messages but identities. When you picture a lion you are immediately filled with a sense of dignity and majesty, there is an aura of pride, no pun intended, that you associate with a lion. When you witness an eagle in flight soaring high above the earth, peering down in all its effortless elegance, you mind escapes to places only the image of an eagle can take you -- the lofty heights of freedom and superiority, far away from the ground you find yourself returning to. We begin to associate certain activities with animal's characteristics, such as referring to an uncooperative person as a "jackass". Whether positive or negative, there are reflections of the animal kingdom in our every day activity.
The other day I was a vulture, and it was one of the lower moments of my life... at first.
Let me preface this by saying that the Ranch has an amazing opportunity to team up with antique dealers and acquire items from estate sales and repossessions, etc. This opportunity has allowed us to gather many valuables free of charge that we can sell at our thrift store on campus and turn the proceeds into immediate profit -- having no overhead. This is an amazing blessing to the Ranch, and I am grateful that we have been afforded the opportunity. That having been said, personally, that day I did not feel such a blessing.
Earlier in the week an elderly woman had passed, and the majority of her possessions were somehow uncovered by her will, which then allowed the antique dealers to come in and swarm about her property. Like Hyenas
on a new kill these ladies were hauling beautiful end tables and exotic lamps out of the garage door past the deceased's expensive car -- all while we stood by, waiting, circling 
overhead so to speak. Once they had their fill, we were allotted a specific amount of time to peruse through the house and gather any items we might be able to use. Naturally, pressed for time as we were, we rushed through the house picking and choosing through the leftovers; rummaging through a lifetime of belongings and taking only a few seconds to proclaim their worth. About thirty minutes into the process, after using the woman's own screwdriver to take things off of her wall, feelings of guilt and insensitivity plagued me.On the floor of the room were her memoirs, the collection of her life. There you could find her daily journal, awards and accomplishments -- the things which truly mattered to her. Though I couldn't bring myself to look through her journal, I felt compelled to stop and find out just exactly who this lady was; who spent her entire life to accumulate all of this, and now complete strangers are casually, if not frantically, gathering these "knick knacks" to sell for a couple of bucks in a garage sell. A graduate of Harvard, she was a very successful International Businesswoman who had worked across the U.S., from Los Angeles to Wall Street, as well as several corporations in South America. Her accolades went on and on, along with her belongings. I spent a while sitting there, soaking it all in, until a neighbor poked her head through the door, and witnessing my reflection commented, "It's sad, isn't it."
I could help but agree with her, I was upset that we were there cheapening her life by breezing past 80 years of experience and success for a couple of couches. My heart was upset that we were there, having to do this... I wanted to leave. But of course, I dared not speak; only assume that her heart was in the same place as mine as I nod in agreement, never looking up from the book.
And in one foul swoop my new compatriot in sorrow crushes my personal pity party with a simple yet insightful comment, changing not only my attitude, but my day: "I think it's so sad that she worked so hard to gain all of this and never had anyone to share it with." Whoa, whoa, whoa, that's not what was expecting to hear, but it's what I needed. What was I thinking? Here I am feeling sorry for a woman who could have cared less for anything that we took, sorry for the fact that we were cheapening her life, when really I should have felt sorry for her cheapened life. For the years that she spent in vain alone, gathering meaningless possessions in search of something so much deeper, so much more; literally traveling across the globe in search of meaning, and as far as we know never achieving it.
After several minutes with my new friend, a casual associate of the deceased, reflecting on the life laid out before me, a collage of emotions collected within me: sorrow, not for the life lost but for the lost life; peace, not in this place but in my heart; wealth, not in the possessions that I have gained, the limited success that I have had, or the insignificant accolades I might have received in the 23 short years that I have been here, but a wealth that the world is searching for, and seldom finds.
Countless are the lessons that I learned from that day, tangent upon tangent could be traveled down. Whether it reminds you the importance of family, the pointlessness of gathering wealth, or the responsibility to share true wealth with the world, I pray that her life will influence yours as much as it has mine, and that the years you have left here will not be spent in vain.
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