The Large Man Chronicles

The Large Man is sitting in the Fish bar of the Galt House Hotel in Louisville KY. I don’t think the formal name of this place is “The Fish Bar”, but the bar itself is an aquarium, so that’s what we call it. My Bluegrass Brewing Company Pale Ale is resting on the clear acrylic ceiling of the home of some goldfish, guppies, snails, and catfish.  It’s a really cool lounge area, and it’s also a walkway connector for the two towers of this magnificent hotel on the Ohio River. If you look to the north across the river, you see Indiana; look to the south, and it’s the city skyline of Louisville. Whenever I’m here, I just look at the fish, or the pretty girls that walk by.

The place is all a buzz tonight, because Justin Bieber is performing next door to the hotel, and then staying here tonight. I knew something was going on, because you can feel the vibe. There is extra hotel security, lots of traffic…and lots of women. I had mentioned to a few of my work friends that I was going to be writing a new Large Man piece tonight, so I immediately thought this was the reason for all the excitement. I was wrong.  It turns out that it’s just about the pop star. Whatever.

I enjoy watching all this excitement unfold in front of me, all these teenage, and “tweenage” girls walking with that extra little hop in their step. It’s also heartwarming to watch the little 5 & 6-year-old girls holding the hands of their mothers, but still walking in the rhythm created by the moment, the “buzz” – the event.  I would guess that some of these kids are going to their very first concert, I hope they’ll be able to look back on this someday and really appreciate moment.

 I know I do. I remember it like it happened this morning.

My first concert…

In the early spring of 1976, I was a 16-year-old sophomore in high school, my best friend Dave Bartee was a 17-year-old junior.  The school year was nearing its end and we were lamenting that summer was going to suck because we were starting a mandatory “year round” school calendar. Dave had a great part-time summer job working at a marina in town, and the new school schedule was going to affect his earnings. Dave was ambitious, he had a Chevy Camaro on his to do list, and he wasn’t going to be denied. Even before the term was in vogue, Dave was “goal driven”.

Dave didn’t have his Camaro yet, so we were discussing the most significant things in our world while eating cheeseburgers in the front seat of his father’s 1975 Ford Maverick:

Was all the hoopla over this bicentennial thing really necessary? What’s better   …Orioles finesse pitching, or Yankees power bats… Steeler’s stingy defense or Cowboys prolific offense…Debbie Roytos’ amazing rack, or Angie Muse’s phenomenal ass?

All had their merits, and we would deliberate over these issues for hours, as teenage boys are prone to do. But when one guy is an ass man, and the other guy a breast man, how can either truly win such a debate.

While pondering these topics we listened to DC 101, the premier rock and roll and classic rock station of the time, and in a talking, chewing or drinking break we heard the percussive keyboard from the beginning of Takin It To The Streets.  This led into a medley of the intros to several Doobie Brothers hits. (Those guys really knew how to start a song.) Then the loud voiceover starts… “ATTENTION ROCK N ROLL FANS… LIVE SATURDAY JUNE 5^TH AT THE CAPITOL CENTRE IN LARGO MARYLAAAAANNNDD!! THE DOOBIE BROTHERS WITH SPECIAL GUEST, THE MARSHALL TUCKER BAND”…then the distinctive sound of the acoustic guitar accompanied by a flute in the opening of Can’t You See…”TICKETS ON SALE SATURDAY APRIL 17^TH AT AAAALLLLLL DC AREA TICKET MASTER LOCATIONS! COME SEE THE DOOBIE BROTHERS AND SPECIAL GUEST THE MARSHALL TUCKER BAND”. Then the music fades, and there’s a commercial for a car dealership somewhere in our metro…

“That would be cool” I say while washing down a few fries.

“Yeah” Dave replied. That was all he said for a few minutes.

He wasn’t ignoring me; he was immediately working the situation. I learned this many years later: Dave starts thinking three moves ahead as soon as he’s faced with a task.  He’s sort of like Rain Man with a job.

So here’s what he’s working out:

1. It would be cool, but how are we gonna get there? Dad is not gonna let me drive this car all the way to Landover, and this a-hole doesn’t have a car OR a license.
2. Tickets are $15.00 each. I have the money, but how is this a-hole gonna come up with the cash?
3. How will we get to a Ticket Master outlet this Saturday? This a-hole can’t drive, and I have to work.
4. This is a date worthy event. If we get the tickets, and if Dad lets me drive, we have to find dates. Who would ever go out with JC? He is such an a-hole…He has no money, no car, no license, no charm….hmmm…but he will have concert tickets…so just maybe….if we’re a little bit lucky, it just might work.
5. Why am I hanging out with such an a-hole?

I didn’t know until many years later that all my friends referred to me as an a-hole. It hurts, I won’t lie.

So, we start the process. The first hurdle was permission to take the family car.

Pop Bartee’s white Maverick with a blue vinyl top hauled me to my first high school party, and immediately after that to my first late night visit to Family Pizzeria. The Maverick took me to a few basketball games; some dances at our high school, and always after each event, the Mav got me, Dave, and our friends safely home. But it’s one thing to tool around the small town of Woodbridge in the vehicle that would otherwise be sitting in the driveway; it’s something else to let 4 teenage kids ride 34.5 miles to the Capital Centre in Landover Maryland on a Saturday night. Dave had to lobby hard for this privilege, I don’t remember the details of the sales pitch, but it worked. So the first obstacle was down.

Next…tickets. We had 9 days before they went on sale with taxes and service fees, we each needed $40.00. This was a considerable amount of money in 1976; of course Dave had the money, and of course, I did not. But Dave had a solution; he would front me the tickets and I would help him wash and wax boats down at the marina on Saturdays and Sundays until he was repaid. It took three full weekends of elbow grease, but I paid Dave, and had some spending loot left over. Obstacle two – done!

Dave just took a few hours off so we could go get in line for the tickets – that ended up being the easiest part of our obstacle course. We had heard all sorts of tales about people camping out overnight for tickets, waiting for hours, and when you are 3 customers away from the window, the window closes and they put up a sign that says “SOLD OUT”… “A-HOLE”!!

 We got in line 7:00 AM. The ticket window opened at 9:00 AM. At 9:45 AM we had 4 tickets in our hands. It was that simple. Obstacle three is now in the rearview mirror

We were going to see the Doobie Brothers, a real live concert! I owned every album in their catalog…Toulouse Street, The Captain and Me, Takin It to the Streets. These dudes were the soundtrack of my youth. They were my favorite band, and I was going to see them.  I really didn’t care about a date.

Dave however,  had taken a fancy to a chick named Debbie from my neighborhood. This was a different Debbie than the one we debated over earlier in the story, but a fine Debbie just the same.  Dave would sometimes come over to pick me up for a night on the town, then, he would see our little “Debbie from the hood” out and about, and suddenly where we were became the place to be. Since he had the wheels, he had the power. So he would spend some time flirting, and I got watch the little hormone dance. Debbie was like a sister to me, as were most of the girls in the neighborhood. At some point, Dave asked Debbie to go to the concert. She said yes, probably because Dave wasn’t an a-hole.

Cindy Pallo was another girl from our neighborhood. Cindy was Debbie’s friend, and Dave suggested that it would be groovy if we took a couple of friends to the concert, and how we would all have such a good time cause we’re all such good friends. Dave strongly offered this suggestion.

Two problems:

1     Cindy was the best friend of my most recent former girlfriend. I dated this girl for over a year. A year is a lifetime when you’re 15. The break-up was less than amicable. Friends took sides.

2      Cindy was also like a sister to me. I don’t want to take my sister to a concert. I doubted seriously that she would want to go with me anyway.

Now, I’ll admit, Cindy was a little honey. She had a smile that would light up a city block; she was just a slip of a thing. She had a tiny little gymnast kind of body – nice and curvy in all the right places. She was also very funny, she had a strong presence.  She was small and big at the same time. You want to call a size 0 or size 2 girl “cute”, but she was (and still is) too pretty to be labeled cute, maybe too smart as well.

The “smart” thing was going to be an issue here. Between my general lack of charm, my recent break up with her best friend, and our sibling type relationship, I just assumed that Cindy was too smart to accept a date with me. What’s worse, I would ask Cindy to the concert, she would say, “NO!” and everybody would find out about it. So I was looking forward to rejection, and shame. I considered just giving her the tickets. It would have been less trouble.

But I asked her, I was really more interested in the concert anyway – taking a sister type of date might allow me to focus on the music (one of my early attempts at a rationalization). So I asked. She assured me that we were going “just as friends”, when I agreed, she accepted.

Obstacles beaten back like the Dark Side of the Force. Done!

The month of May was mostly a blur as we awaited the show. This had little to do with anticipation of the concert; it was largely due to teenage drinking. Truly a scourge on society, but I gotta be me.

On June 10^th 1976, after overcoming one obstacle after another, Dave, Debbie, Cindy, and I made the journey across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge from Virginia into Maryland, north on 495 to the Largo MD, Central Avenue exit. The Capital Centre – we made it! The couples held each other’s hands as we hurried across the parking lot. You couldn’t slap the smiles off of our faces.

We were 45 minutes early, so when we walked through portal number 225 on the way to our floor seats, the audience section was completely lit. It was so big. I had the same butterflies that I experienced before a football game – maybe even more so. Frisbees were sailing through the crowd; giant beach balls were batted about. It smelled of French fry grease, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and weed – a total assault on the senses.

We settled into our seats about 15 minutes before the lights went down. Being in that moment will stay with me forever and it will always be the same every time I experience it. It’s that moment in a concert when the house lights go dim, and the light inside of you goes bright. The crowd always responds to those dimming lights, and the connection of energy happens. It connects the crowd to each other, and then connects the performer to the crowd. I don’t care what anybody says, when it works, it’s one of the most powerful things you will ever experience…it’s magic.

Michael McDonald starts belting out, “You don’t know me but I’m your bro-o-tha-ah…” and I was happy. I don’t know how to describe it any better than that; I was happy. Everything we went through was worth it; I was so focused, so connected to the moment. Cindy looked at me and smiled, and then, I think she fell asleep. Concerts don’t affect everybody the same way.

We stayed through the last encore, we screamed for more, and were all completely spent as we made our way out of the gridlocked parking lot – turning south, heading home. I loved it, we all loved it, but we knew we would.

Oddly, and perhaps the only surprise of the night was the un-sisterly kiss that Cindy and I shared at her doorstep as we said goodnight. I wasn’t expecting it, but it made me forget that we had been to a concert for about 20 minutes or so. To be honest, she crushed me – buckled my knees. Dave could see the dumbfounded look on my face as I walked back to the car.

“It’s just a concert a-hole”, he teased as we backed out of Cindy’s driveway. “Wanna go grab a slice at Family? I’ll buy.”

“Good. I’m all out of cash”, I replied.

“What else is new?”

 As Pop Bartee’s family coupé with the blue vinyl top carried us down Alaska Rd, I sat and smiled, and I knew I would remember this event forever. That was one hell of a kiss.

 Thanks Cindy.

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I’ve been sharing the tales of this great journey with you guys for a little over 365 days now. I have learned a lot in this year of telling Large Man stories. The best lesson to date is that no matter how much I learn along the way, the things I don’t know will always be in the heavier suitcase. That’s probably the only real sense of pride that I take away from The Large Man Chronicles experience.  

I am in frequent interaction with men and women who know everything, and they are happy to let you know how and why they do. I always find these people comical, and sometimes even a little scary – kinda like a circus clown. That will never be me. The more I write about the people, places, and things that I see, the more I realize how much I don’t know.

Every time I sit in front of this Compaq 6515b and try to turn my view of things into words, I realize all the things I don’t understand. Presenting a coherent organization of thoughts expressed in a way that you, the reader, can relate to, understand, and appreciate seems like it should be so easy, but it never is. It’s fun, it’s always a challenge, but it’s never easy. Then, when I press the “publish” key on WordPress, I feel like I’m watching my daughter cross the street  all by herself for the first time…I trust that things are gonna be okay, but I never know.

So why do it?

Socrates said that “the unexamined life is not worth living”. Socrates was a dick.

Well…that may be a little harsh, and I don’t completely disagree, but like everything else, moderation is the key. I truly believe that too much examination of life can be counterproductive – it’s so easy to over think shit. I’m walking, talking, keyboard chunking proof. I over think every single part of my life. I guess I do this because of all the things I don’t know. I’m so proud of it in paragraph one of this little essay, but here I am complaining about it a couple of lines later. This is the shit that the people who love me and I deal with every single day. It’s madness.

 It’s a Bad News/Good News situation.

The bad news: I teeter on the edge of being a semi-institutionalized, drooling, former salesman that tried to make it as a writer but now can’t make it to lunch without the meds.

The good news: Because I write it all out and I’m willing to share, I unload a little of my psychosis bucket into your bucket. To Socrates’ point, this “examination” of life is relatively cheap therapy for me, and it seems to entertain many of you.  Better news:  If the self therapy doesn’t take, and they haul me off to the happy house, you all get be witness to the drama and humiliation. Stuff like that can be a lot of fun.

And here’s the very bestest part: I’m putting all of you in a perfect I told you so position.

If I end up getting hauled away to the funny farm, every one of you can say, “I was there man! I saw it coming. Don’t know why it didn’t happen sooner. Ya know, I always thought there was something about that dude…”

Or, if I become famous (or maybe even rich), you can say, “I was there man! I saw it coming. Don’t know why it didn’t happen sooner. Ya know, I always thought there was something about that dude…”

You’re welcome.

In all seriousness, I doubt that I’m in any immediate danger of a meltdown, but I’m starting to understand why so many people in the arts are a little bit “out there”. The distance between crazy and normal is sometimes measured by ones bank balance. Angelina Jolie gets to roam the street as a free woman because she’s rich. You can’t tell me she’s not off the reservation cuckoo. But other “peculiar” people are put into state homes every day because of their stories about the UFO they saw last night. Income (and smokin hotness) issues many a pass…I think Socrates said that too.

I guess this logic puts me in the “moderately unstable” category. I’m not wealthy enough to be considered a “quirky writer”, but I’m not poor enough to be considered “deranged”.  I’m not a physical threat to anybody, and I pay too much in taxes for the government to let anybody take me off the street. I’m not paranoid or anything, but The Large Man Chronicles is on the internet, so I’m sure there is a government agency that has a file on me. Trust me, they’re watching.

Along with the psychological treatment aspects of writing the LMC, I also use it as a tool that will help me remember and appreciate the things I see along the way. Sharing it with the rest of you wasn’t an original intent, but that’s where I get the magic…if I kept it to myself, it would just be a journal or a diary.  There’s nothing too exciting to me about a journal, and only teenage girls keep diaries…

 Plus, The Large Man Journal would make a shitty looking t-shirt.

The very first time I opened up MS Word and typed The Large Man Chronicles…dropped in the date, and gave the page a title, knowing that it was going to be published on my blog page (Thanks Kelly Armentrout!) I got a few butterflies. My palms got as clammy as the first time I held my wife’s hand, and I just sat there for a minute or two and smiled. The butterflies and sweaty palms are mostly gone, but there is still magic in the moment when I type out the header for the next story. Knowing that a few hundred people are going to take a few minutes to read what I have to say is pretty special. I don’t think that feeling will ever go away.

 I wondered if the things I saw, or the way that I saw them, (just a few parts of my “examined” life) might be something that someone could relate to. Just some of you, never all of you – and not even most…just some would be good enough.  A year and 10,871 website hits later, it’s still a work in progress, but I’m happy with what it has become.  That’s a big deal, because it’s really hard for me to be happy.  The LMC makes me happy, not satisfied, but truly happy. Satisfaction will probably never come, and that’s okay – it’s the way it should be.

Based on your comments, The Large Man Chronicles has made a few people laugh, a few people cry, bored a few, and disappointed a few. If this Large Man thing made a few people think about something that they might not have otherwise, then it has accomplished something.   

I’m not sorry for anything I’ve written, but I realize that some stories were better than others. Some were a little too sweet, some were definitely too salty, and some never delivered the message that was originally intended. It ain’t easy. I have only written one story that I can say I’m truly proud of.

A big lesson learned in the process, and something I should have known at the start, is how powerful the written word truly is. Not my written words, but anybody’s. Having learned this in year one, I’m gonna be a little more respectful of it moving forward. The things we say can evaporate and disappear over time…the things we write can quite possibly last forever. I’m not arrogant enough to think that my ramblings will be historical documents; I’m just going to be mindful of the fact that there is permanence to things that are written.  (I guess I shouldn’t have called Socrates a dick)

 So, that’s why I do it. It’s the therapy for my lunacy, and it’s a desire to get other people to take some time to look around.  Look at your kids, your friends, and your loved ones, and let those images burn into your memory. Enjoy the simple things like a cold beer, and a hot waitress, but still appreciate and try to examine the more complicated things, like a mentor or a hero or a moment in time. It’s all amazing, and it’s all right in front of us. Maybe Socrates had a point.

 I’ll keep throwing this stuff out there, and if some of you can relate to what I’m saying, it will make me feel a little less crazy. That’s’ good enough.

Thanks for reading.

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Two quick points, before we get started…

Point I

I know without a shadow of a doubt that anyone who reads The Large Man Chronicles would never leave a grocery cart in the middle of the parking lot. Large Man readers are way too sophisticated and thoughtful a breed for such careless and inconsiderate behavior. But I see it every time I go to the store and it really pisses me off.

I made a vow today that if I ever witness someone committing this heinous breach of parking lot etiquette, I will pummel them with humiliating insults about their manners, upbringing, and their heritage. Well…I mean if I think I can get away with it. I obviously wouldn’t say anything if the perpetrator were considerably larger than myself, or had a general “gruffness” about them.  

I find grocery cart leaving to be one of the more despicable of the Large Man Common Decency Crimes. Others include, but are not limited to; talking in a movie theater, smoking in a public place, allowing your small child to kick the back of my seat on an airplane, texting while driving, ordering drinks on my tab without an invite, unsolicited advice, failure to return a call when a clear request has been made, and not cleaning up after your dog. The dog one is really big.

Point II

Right now, this moment, I’m enjoying a Samuel Smith’s Organic Lager from Great Britain. It’s really good. You don’t usually expect such a crisp texture in an English style lager. It’s a little dry with some citrus after tones. I think it is well worth the $12.00 price tag. However, I think it’s fair to say that American micro-brewers now produce a product that is equal to, and in many regards superior to, the best beers brewed around the world. I believe we compete with the Brit, Dutch, and German potions, and even the Belgians beers that are becoming so popular.

With today’s Sam Smith being an exception, I’m working my way through a few of the Belgian brews. While I certainly find these beers to be palatable, Sierra Nevada’s basic Pale Ale is simply better…Bell’s Two Hearted Ale is much better…and don’t even get me started on the Kona, and Dogfish Head product line.

I have a few friends that keep talking about the Belgian brewery, Chimay…and how the beer is brewed in the old style by Trappist monks in this very primitive and humble monastery in the town of Chimay (What a coincidence that the brewery and the town ended up with that same name).  I’ve had a few…they’re okay.

Because of the Trappist beliefs, all the proceeds go to the support of the monastery and its charities. This a completely non-profit enterprise. That’s great. I admire and support all that kind of activity. Hooray for the monks! But I have to ask, How good is the beer gonna be if the brew master knows that no matter how great a concoction he comes up with, he ain’t getting rich, and he ain’t getting laid? I may be over simplifying a man’s motivation, but I think it’s food for thought before you drop $10.00 on a 6 pack.

Enough about that, I’ll post script my two points by asking you to remind people not to leave carts in the parking lot – put them back on the sidewalk at the store, or in one of the many corrals that the stores provide as a courtesy. Also, just think about the motivation of the person brewing the beer before you buy. This may lead you to a happier life. But every now and then, please pick up a 6er of a Chimay beer so as to help out those generous and charitable monks. If you have a good tax guy, you may even be able to deduct part of the cost.

Now to our story…

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to spend some time with a customer who had made an Everest attempt last summer. I sat with a group of people in a circle around this guy and just listened with absolute awe.

“I learned a lot about myself on that journey”, he said with more than just a little regret mixed into his confident voice.

“I can climb that f-ing mountain. I know I can. I didn’t eat right. I lost 29 pounds, and at that altitude I just never could recover.

“How high did you get?” I asked with fascination.

“I got to 24,000 feet. The summit is 29,035 feet, so I still had almost 1 full mile in elevation to go to reach the summit”, he replied.

“Okay, let’s say you made the summit from that point, how much longer would it have taken you?” a listener asked.

“About 4 more days”, he said with a smile.

All of us in the group took a simultaneous gasp at the thought. This dude had to turn around at a point when had he continued,  it would have taken the better part of a week to finish the job. Amazing.

It took him almost three weeks to descend back to a base camp that would then hold him for another week to re-acclimate his body to conditions meant for man. He told us that what is basically happening is that the “lack of oxygen is slowly taking your life. You’re body is just gradually dying because the mountain is trying to kill you. The challenge, or the game, is to get to the summit before the mountain wins. You come back alive; you win. It’s a pretty simple concept.”

Everyone in the group considered these astonishing thoughts as we took a sip of our beer, wine, or sangria, in the comfort of this country club setting. Each of us contemplated ourselves in the same situation.

Because I never pass up the opportunity to share my life experiences, I spoke up. This was poor strategy on my part. I’ve been a few places, and I’ve seen a few things for sure, but if we’re keeping score in this scenario – I’m not in the same league. I’m not even playing the same sport.

Note to self: It’s okay to LISTEN. Sometimes your cute little Large Man stories don’t measure up against other stories. When you hear Everest, don’t talk – just LISTEN!

I needed that “Note to self” before I began. But begin, I did…

“That’s some crazy shit Steve! I remember when I was in Colorado a couple of years ago…”

Now everyone turns to me, my boss is with me and I notice a raised eyebrow like he was wondering: What in the hell could you POSSIBLY have to add to THAT story?

I continued… “And I drove to the top of Pike’s Peak.  I gotta admit I wigged out a little. The drive to the top of that mountain was some of the scariest shit I have ever done in my life. When I finally got to the top, I couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk, the combination of the thin air and all the frigging anxiety man, I was a mess!”

So Steve, the Everest climber, is compelled to ask, “You drove?”

“Hell yeah I drove! The whole fucking way dude!  I was alone all the way to the summit. Have you ever been?” (I had to drop an f-bomb in there to make myself seem tough)

“Um, no, no I haven’t.” he replied.

 I continued my pointless ramble, “It’s 14,000 or so feet at the summit, I almost turned around a couple of times. At one point I pulled over and said to myself, you have to go on dude, if you don’t you’ll regret this for the rest of your life. I’m so glad I did it; it just kinda sucked to do it alone. “

In reality, I was alone with about 300 other people who seemed to have no problem…older people, handicapped people in wheelchairs, small children, and their pets…a friggin Chihuahua was yipping at me as I got out of my car and staggered to the visitors center to throw up and rehydrate. It has occurred to me that I might not be wired for these kinds of adventures.

In my defense, on the way up, it feels like you are going to drive right off the edge of the mountain. All you see is the road in front of you, the next switchback curve, and a huge blue sky that opens up into a space that simply takes your breath. You think you have to be almost there, and then you see an elevation marker that tells you there is still 2,000 feet  to go. But I guess it’s a little different on Everest.

I’m kinda feeling like I’m losing my audience at this point, so I get to the climax of my tale:

“You have to stop at a ranger station on the return, about halfway down, so they can check the temperature of your brakes. You can be in BIG trouble coming down this mountain if your brakes overheat.”

They all look at me and nod in agreement. Steve says, “Yeah, it sounds really tough.”

“Yours are fine” the ranger said as he put his little meter against my front wheel. And then he asked me. “Have you been crying?”

“NO! I haven’t been crying!” I snapped at the green clad soldier of the National Park Service

It wasn’t so much that he asked the question, it’s just that he asked it in one of those smart ass voices like you have when you talk to a grown man who’s been crying because he’s afraid of heights. This crying man may also be afraid of tumbling his rental car off of the tops of mountains, and dying in a fiery crash that may not be discovered for days so what little charred remains that might be left would be devoured by mountain lions, buzzards and grizzly bears. You know, he spoke with one of those voices.

I continue my tale, “So I told this ranger that he should shut the F up and let me pass before he got into a situation he didn’t want to be in. And I must have gotten my point across because even though he didn’t outwardly act like he was intimidated…in fact he start laughing a little bit to cover up his fear, but he waved me on, so I think we all know who won that little conflict.”

Now everybody in the group is just looking at me, no gasps, no astonishment; just blank stares.

“I’m telling you guys, that’s as terrified is I can ever remember being”, I say…looking for acknowledgement and empathy from my audience.

Crickets. I could actually hear crickets.

Everest boy says, “I was 10,000 feet higher than you at my base camp. Did you get a bloody nose? How long was the trip; top to bottom?”

“About 3 hours dude…it was insane.”

“3 hours! Did you get a bathroom break in there? Look, I’m sure it was a harrowing experience, but I was on Everest for 3 months. I lost a piece of my middle toe.  You might want to think about your audience before you tell your tales of adventure.” He said through a laugh.

It was one of those laughs that someone laughs when they listen to somebody who talks too much. You know, one of those kinds of laughs.

Thanks for reading…and not judging. Until next time…

Please make a comment, or email me at thelargeman@gmail.com and let me know your thoughts. Likes, dislikes, or similar experiences…I can listen. Really, I can! Become a fan on Facebook by searching Fan of The Large Man Chronicles

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