Brad Marley Professional storyteller. Dad. Lover of things.

For 30 days, I will be sharing random stories from each year of my life as the big three-oh looms. Consider it my way of coping.

Photo courtesy of BAMCAT

In 2004, three friends and I drove from Michigan to Florida for what would essentially become the last hurrah before that ugly word "responsibility" became all too prominent in our lives.

That's not to say we were irresponsible and crazy, but the four of us were young enough that careers and relationships had not yet reached the forefront of our lives, so we figured we'd make the trip while we still could.

We left early one evening and drove straight down, stopping only in Kentucky and Georgia for food and to catch our breath.  Twenty two hours later, we were in Florida.

Out of everything we did while on that vacation, the highlight, at least for me, was deep sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico for red snapper.

I'd ask my buddies what they thought about the experience, but they were too busy puking over the side of the boat. 

Little did I know that the charters sink things, like old basketball hoops, at a certain depth, which provides shade for the fish to hang out.  Then the captains bring their clients out to fish in that general area.  I'd say it was like shooting fish in a barrel, but that would be cliche.

The shark that jumped out of the water and ripped a snapper off of my lure? There are no cliches to for that.

For 30 days, I will be sharing random stories from each year of my life as the big three-oh looms. Consider it my way of coping.

Picture courtesy of FromTheNorth

I like Dave Matthews Band. 

I have seen them live eleven times and, in a week's time, I'll make it an even dozen when my wife and I see them at DTE Energy Music Theatre.

At one point, my casual enjoyment threatened to morph into downright obsession, but I'm happy to say that my cravings are under control and I can now go long periods of time without listening to their music. 

(Side story: On the way home from a golf trip Up North last week, my cousin, who brought along his iPod for the ride, apologized that there were only a handful of Dave Matthews Band songs in his playlist.  Obviously, I have a reputation.  For the record, I do like other bands.)

But there was a point where one of their CDs would stay in perpetual rotation in my car stereo. If you were riding shotgun and tried to turn it off, well, I couldn't promise you would still be in possession of all five of your fingers. Something clicked in my brain when I began listening to their music, and I did everything in my power to devour anything and everything they produced.

I will now pause while you silently mock me.

*Bad elevator music*

Done? Good.  Let's proceed.

Out of every album they've released, my favorite is the Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds show at Luther College.  I've listened to it so many times that the album has been scratched and sliced, practically beyond repair.  In addition to the actual playing of music at the "Dave & Tim" shows, Matthews likes to share zany stories with the audience, which means the concert time usually exceeds three hours.  On this double CD, it's no exception.  If you have a spare $22 lying around, spend it on this album.  If you don't like it, I'll refund your money.* 

Thus, seeing the duo live is on my bucket list, but it can prove difficult since, unlike the full band, they do not tour every year.  In fact, it's closer to every three years, and the tours are small, usually playing to intimate crowds closer to 5,000 than 50,000.  It's rare that a mega-star routinely plays for small crowds, but Matthews is that rare mega-star.

Anyway, one morning in 2003, my friend called while I was driving home from a bachelor party and said the spare ticket to their show at Rose Arena on Central Michigan University's campus was mine, if I wanted it.

I said "no, thanks."

I was dating a girl at the time who was a huge fan of the band, and, in my infinite wisdom, I didn't think it would be right to see them without her.

If there's any piece of advice I want you to take away from this blog post, it's that you shouldn't alter your plans — especially potential once-in-a-lifetime plans — for members of the opposite sex, unless you're married.

Needless to say, I regret the decision to this day, however, my friend did call me when they played one of my favorite songs, so that's gotta count for something, right?

Yeah.  I didn't think so, either.

*Psyche.

For 30 days, I will be sharing random stories from each year of my life as the big three-oh looms. Consider it my way of coping.

There isn't much to say about the year 2002. 

A few months in, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd be hard-pressed to find a job anytime soon, so I decided to take full advantage of waiting tables at a country club.

Free golf.

Free food.

Free drinks after work (if you could determine where the members were going when the 19th hole closed. "Oh, hey!  We had no idea you guys would be here!)

I lived the life of a waiter for a solid year.

For one reason or another, my friends and I spent a large part of that year at a karaoke bar trying to out-sing each other.  It got pretty intense.  (If you've never had the opportunity to sing "Bust A Move" in front of a whooping crowd with a drunk woman singing back-up, I suggest you do it.)  Now you couldn't pay me to get up and sing in front of a group of people.  But back then?  Give me the mike.

I found some old stuff I wrote on the 'Net while that year was happening, and it appears I was an angry person.  I bitched a lot about waiting tables and not being able to find a job, but it appears that I learned some things about myself, as well. 

In retrospect, maybe I didn't enjoy it as much as I should have.  I wish somebody would have told me to chill out and enjoy only being responsible for showing up to work on time and taking out the garbage.

It really wasn't that bad.

For 30 days, I will be sharing random stories from each year of my life as the big three-oh looms. Consider it my way of coping.

I suppose it would be an exercise in futility to even try to remember anything else that stood out in the year 2001, so let's just go with the obvious.

It's pretty amazing, when you think about it, that you still can't go one day without hearing Wolf Blitzer or Bill O'Reilly mention about 9/11.  Makes you wonder what they would talk about if it never happened.

Like everybody else who lived through it, I will always remember where I was: sleeping.

I had been out late the night before watching Monday Night Football with some friends.  Looking back, it's such an eerie feeling to think how unprepared and oblivious we all were to what a group of men were planning to unleash upon the world the very next morning.

At around nine o'clock on said morning, the incessant vibrating of my cell phone woke me and, when I glanced at the caller ID, I saw that it was my cousin calling me at an especially early time.

As soon as I flipped open my phone, everything changed.

"Dude, turn on your TV. We're being bombed."

What?

I turned on the television just as ABC showed a replay of one of the planes hitting the towers.  Any lingering effects of the night before were gone.  While my cousin had been exaggerating, his description was not completely off.

As I watched the news anchors in complete disbelief and, for once, at a loss for words, my stomach started to churn and a sense of panic set in. I kept asking the same questions to myself that everybody else seemed to be asking: What was coming next? Would I be affected?

It was, literally, pandemonium.  I took a quick shower, hopped in my car, and drove around with no destination.  I had no idea what to do.

I think I finally hooked up with a friend and we went to Applebee's for lunch, but nobody was eating.

That night I drove to my girlfriend's house when her classes were let out, and I remember seeing abnormally long lines at the gas stations.  You have to remember we were still in speculation mode.  Nobody, not even the government, had an idea of how this could have possibly happened.  So a lot of people just assumed that we were going to war, which would lead to higher gas prices.  I guess those were the priorities.  It was, if I can think of the right word, bizarre.

***

A few days later I was talking to my Mom about the events of the past few days.  The morning of the attacks, Good Morning America had been interviewing Michael Jordan about his comeback when the planes hit, prompting the show to switch to breaking news.

She remembered thinking about the Michael Jordan interview, "This is the most important news of the day?" 

A few minutes later, she was wishing it was.

For 30 days, I will be sharing random stories from each year of my life as the big three-oh looms. Consider it my way of coping.

I am pretty laid back when it comes to most things.

For instance, I will always take a pint of Blue Moon with some friends in a darkened booth at the back of a bar over a $7 Bud Light at a bass-thumping club where you have to scream to be heard.

I guess this is why in the irony of all ironies, I met my wife in 2000 at a bass-thumping club in Canada where you had to scream to be heard.

If it's possible to be even more ironic, I was 21, which meant I had no good reason to go, other than my two 20-year old friends who wanted me to go with them.  (In Canada, 19 is the legal drinking age.  Plus, it's not like I wanted to go to the bar alone.) 

Usually I would stay as far away from the dance floor as possible, preferring to watch from afar.

On that night, however, the music must have moved me, because I ended up on the dance floor dancing with the woman who would eventually become my wife.

Now, don't kid yourself – it wasn't one of those situations where the music muted as we gazed at each other from across the dance floor while everything slowed to a crawl and we floated toward each other on clouds and embraced. 

I was literally pushed into her.

We had danced at the beginning of the night, but when I saw another guy dancing with her at the end of the night, I figured that ship had sailed.  My friend had other ideas.

As we walked past them later that night, he pushed me into her, and we started dancing again.

Long story short, I got her phone number before we left, repeated it to myself over and over while we walked back to the car since none of us had a pen and called her a few days later to ask her out on a date.

Nine years later, we have a one-year old daughter with another little girl on the way.

Not bad for a night spent at a bass-thumping club.