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August, 2007
The Great Indoorsman Speaks
By Patrick J. Bowen
"No I can't go away with you on a rock-climbing weekend,
What if something good's on TV and it's never shown again?"
--Evan Dando
This whole "let's go outdoors and risk our neck doing stuff!" thing is lost on me.
You heard me: An outdoorsman, I am most certainly not. The most adventurous I get is watching a "Man vs. Wild" marathon on a rainy Saturday. But, hey, watching that sick bastard go all Gollum on a live fish takes a certain sense of adventurousness, doesn't it? I'd like to think so, precioussssss. Now all of you reading this paper are outdoorsy to some degree. And that's great. More power to you, my friend. But if you need me, I'll be nestled in the warm embrace of city life.
You see, I come by this aversion to the outside quite naturally: I'm Irish. The history of the Irish is not one of exploring the hinterlands and coming back with grand legends of Lost Cities of Gold. Name me one Irishman who helped explore the American continent. You can't, can you? Because while Lewis and Clark were off….Lewis and Clarking, we Irish were sitting in a pub laughing our asses off at them. Sure, mate, go and walk to the Pacific, have fun!!! I'll catch up to you after this next Killians!
To be fair, we Irish weren't always this way. At some point in the foggy long-ago, we were the leading edge of the great human tide that swept across the European continent. The problem: all that intrepidness got us was a rocky, boggy little island in the middle of the North Atlantic where it rains like 250 days a year. Justifiably pissed that the lollygagging French got all those nice wineries and beaches, we swore off the whole exploration thing for the rest of time. Of course, we got a good laugh when the French turned around and saw a gaggle of irritable Germans sitting on their border and sharpening their spears, but that's another story. Hell, the British tried exterminating us time and time again over the centuries, and only succeeded in pushing some of us across the pond to the US and giving U2 a career's worth of material to work with.
And over a century ago, my forefathers landed in Boston. Four generations later, my Dad lives….12 miles away from Boston. See what I mean? We don't get out much.
So why write this column? The way I see it is you outdoor-folk need someone to keep you abreast of what's going on back here in civilization. So while you're out there risking life, limb, and malaria coasting down some icy-cold river, I'll be here eagerly awaiting my next Netflix delivery and hoping for another "I Love the 70's" marathon on VH1-Classic. When Paris got out of jail—I was there. When McDreamy finally realizes that the waify doctor is a self-absorbed pain in his backside—I'll let you know. When you're out there sleeping under the stars secretly wondering if Ginger Spice is hot anymore—I'll find out for you, buddy.
See you on the couch!
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