Zie Archives

Ah, zie sweet unproductive experiences of our past. We would make little funny pictures to keep ourselves entertained (or distracted) during priesthood and sunday school. And, to make us not look like complete slackers, during priesthood opening exercises.

Ah… a few excerpts from the archives…

 

The Chief Joe Race

"The Chief Joe Race". These four simple words are all it takes to boil the blood of every noble young hero of the tribe of F-Dub. Long have we toiled in our misery and disgust over that injustice of a competition. Sacrifices have been made, blood has been spilt, Adrians have been hugged, and still nothing slakes our thirst for vengeance. How, you may ask, could the now chivalrous, penitent, and well-groomed men of Federal Way be vexed with such seething hatred? Well, I'll tell you

We were at Boy Scout camp in the summer of 2000 or 2001 at camp Hohobas. After several days or not coming dressed to morning muster, not treating our fellow camp members with respect, chasing said camp members, stringing said camp members up poles, mocking said camp members endlessly, and destroying said camp members everyday in water polo at the lake, every other scout at that camp trembled to think of the savages from troop 329. Our troop had, amongst its members, some of the finest and most amazing men of its age: The powerful Dan the Manly, the cunning Mark the Bold, the more impressive than he seems, Bobby, the Enigmatic Sir Charles, the Unflinching Eves Dog, the Zealous Fife Dog, and many others.

Even the camping Gods had seen in their wisdom to bless and fortify us against a plague that beset every other troop at camp. We watched in grim satisfaction as every troop but ours lost at least a few of its members to this sickness. Not even the dreaded bog beetle could stand before us. And we did rejoice.

For days we feasted and danced as we toasted with golden goblets, to our own glory. By and by, we became drunk on our own power and though ourselves nigh unto invincible, even in the face of so many who would oppose us. "Fools!', we thought as we further insulated ourselves against the idea that any could usurp our power from us. We were the most feared troop in all the land, and we reveled in it.

But the camping Gods were jealous then, even as they are now, and plotted to overthrow us. They felt that our power had begun to rival even their own and they felt they must stop us before it was too late.

As part of the camping tradition, there would be a test or race to determine which troop was the most powerful. We scoffed at the notion that we could ever lose but decided to honor this tradition and participate in these tests of strength, skill, and speed. Little did we know that, even on the eve of the race, the Gods, sitting in their lofty castles in the clouds, were plotting our doom. Yea, even the doom of us all.

The morning of the race broke clear and cold. We saw this as a sign of good luck and slaughtered fifty oxen in our rejoicing. We were unaware that this was done by the Gods, only to lull us into a false sense of hope. The camp elders counseled with all and told us of how the race would proceed. The nine most worthy and imposing men would be chosen from each troop to compete. There would be eight legs of a perilous journey that each man would complete a portion of, in turn, one after the next. A chalice of fire would be passed along from leg to leg of the journey, until the last man handed the flaming chalice to the camp elders at the end of the journey, far to the northeast.

The legs of the journey, and those chosen were as follows. Legs one and two: a great test of speed. A sprint through wind-swept plains and rocky outcroppings. Dan and Mark were chosen, both of them being fleet of foot, though Dan was the faster of the two. Leg 3: A perilous hike through the dark forest which was inhabited by all manner of demons who possessed the dark power to become one with the trees and vanish to the naked eye. Bobby was chosen for this part of the journey as he possessed the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox, or so his legend says. The fourth leg was by water as it required two men to take a sea faring vessel through an impassable bog, inhabited by pirates and scoundrels. The most able-bodied and experienced sailors in the group were Danny and Eves Dog, and thusly they were chosen. The fifth leg was across the open vastness of the sea; empty and mysterious. Fife dog was chosen to navigate this lonesome leg of the journey as he possessed the most mental fortitude. The last three legs were a series of final swims through choppy, beetle and plague infested waters that looked like Coke. As this was the least difficult part of the journey, the three youngest members of the troop were chosen, their names being: Dueck, little Eves (maybe) and Fej (also maybe).

And so the brave wayfarers took up their positions. The Gods also took up theirs, still determined to foil the great warrior's plans, and keep them from finishing, or, if possible, surviving.

The race began with the sounding of an hundred hundred trumpets and they shook the earth with their soundings. The mighty Dan took off too quickly for the Gods to respond and he raced away from their lightning bolts, as well as the men from the lesser tribes who raced as well. He completed his part of the journey with such great swiftness that it has become a legend of its own. But, by the time he passed the chalice to the brash and prideful, Mark the Bold, the Gods had recovered. And so, even as Mark ran with all his might and strength (he being a speedy man as to the speed of men), the Gods vexed him and set their will against his to stop him from taking even one more step. But the Gods underestimated Mark's stubbornness and he fought through their barriers but, alas, one of the lesser tribesman, being whisked by on a cloud from the Gods, had passed him.

And so, Mark, fighting ever on, reached Bobby who took the chalice only moments after the lesser tribe had passed on theirs. Bobby used all his cunning and physical faculties to slip by the demons of the dark forest and made his nimble way through the trees. The Gods, however, knowing of Bobby's great abilities and not wanting him to pass the lesser tribesman, put a spell on the demons that they attack and hunt none but Bobby. And so, Bobby, being ever mindful of the demons, was not able to catch the lesser tribesman, even though he had a much greater measure of skill and speed. Thanks to Bobby, however, and despite his marked disadvantage, he was able to make it to the harbor only a few steps behind.

He then handed the chalice to Danny and Eves Dog. It should be noted that Danny and Eves Dog were among the finest sailors in the land and were rivaled by none save, perhaps, Fife Dog. And so, will great zeal, these two met set off through the bog. They laughed as they sped through the narrow passes and navigated the dangerous currents, "Surely, these things would only vex lesser men", they said as they went. But the Gods had not given up, even though they were taken aback by the skill of the men of this troop. So, the Gods quickly devised a plan that they would unhinge the minds of the other sailors from the other troops and command them to attack Eves and Danny. The Gods ploy worked as legions of other sailors beset Danny and Eves and, despite Danny killing 47 of these scalawags, they were still grounded on the rocks. Two ships passed them as they wrestled themselves from the rocks and, again, made their way through the bog. Eventually, they were able to close the gap and passed the chalice to Fife with only 3 leagues between him and the other two ships.

Fife was a man of great strength and could, therefor, row with incredible speed. The Gods could not stop him with wind, rain, giant squids, or sirens, and Fife heroically rowed on through the sea. He rowed, all the while beset by a raging sea, for three days and three nights and was able to pass the two lesser ships, despite the Gods anger. Behold, the Gods rent their clothes and cursed the name of Fife Dog forever. But Fife was not fazed and passed the chalice to Dueck, who, upon touching it, was immediately struck blind by the Gods and fell straight into the water. He thrashed about and, thanks to his nautical training, did not die, but was able to pass the cup on to little Eves. Little Eves then avoided a shark, sent by the Gods to eat him, and gave the chalice, finally, to Fej, who then walked up to the Camp Elders.

But the Camp Elders, being sore afraid of the wrath of the Gods, would not take the chalice from Fej's hand. They refused his pleas and bribes and would not take the chalice from him and declare his troop the winner. The Gods laughed a horrible laugh as Fej wept, alone, on the edge of the sea. It was not until two of the lesser tribes handed their chalices to the Elders that Fej was finally able to force his into their hands, but it was too late.

The Chief Joe Race had been lost, and the brave, though prideful heroes of troop 329 still, to this day, only remember the shame, the scorn, the frustration, and the excruciating sorrow of coming so close to immortality, and being foiled.

And so, when you ask one of those heroes why they sometimes wake up in the night with a cold sweat on their brow, vengeance in their heart, and painful memories in their mind, you will know.

-Mark-

Remember that Old Man?

Just a random memory, I remember that coming home from seminary, at about 7 in the morning, we would always see this same old guy jogging. Nothing too unusual except it turns out our friends all across Federal Way would also see this guy at around the same time. So that means the old man, who must have been at least 90 years old, was running about 10 miles every morning. Either that or he was able to split himself into 7 pieces and have different parts of him run at different places. Every morning he would get out and jog even though it looked like he was going to keel over and die at any moment. He was an inspiration to us all. After the mission I never saw him again. Although, it is rumored that sometimes in the wee hours of the morning, amongst a dense fog, you can still hear the thumping of shoes and a vague, gangly, silhouette running amongst the trees aside of the twin lakes golf course. Keep on running old man, keep on running.

Old memory-The Tillamook road trip of Awesomeness

Back in the day, it wasn't unusual for the Federal Way Homies to take random road trips at their leisure. Usually it was in a family van, befitting of the homies, such as Bobby's red van, Mark's old school blue one, or even occasionally Brandon's talking truck. Brandon's talking truck had many adventures in its own right but that story will be told another day. In fact, there are many road trip adventures worthy of note, but today I will focus on a very special birthday road trip. This trip was in commemoration of Mark and Bobby's birthday. For birthday parties, some kids go to Chuck E' Cheeze, other's, roller skating at Patterson's West, and some even have parties at the Pacific Science Center. But for us, there could be no better place for such a celebration than at the Tillamook cheese factory itself.


So off we went from Federal Way, WA to Tillamook OR. It was a jolly ride that soon marked by memorable occasions such as the Hell Station in Olympia, Washington; and when Bobby's mom called about 3 hours into the trip and told him he was supposed to be at work half and hour ago. Old man Kaler had completely forgotten to inform his employer at the Aquatic Center that he would be unable to perform his janitorial duties that week. So, in Bobby fashion, he told his mother to call and tell them he would not be coming to work. Amazingly, Bobby still had his job after the trip and in fact, months later, was promoted to receptionist.
That night we made base-camp at Danny’s Grandma’s house in Portland, Oregon. Approximately 3 hours from our final destination. With a good meal, and sleeping bags, we all settled down from our day’s journey in the living room. It was then that we saw the best movie ever, per Danny’s request, Starship Troopers. It was a motion picture that moved you to the very soul as it made you contemplate such deep questions like, “What would I do if giant bugs took over the planet?” “How long would I survive as a random extra character amongst a battle scene?” and “Who is this Joe, and how did he get the ‘bug’ at the end of the movie?” There was also intermittent watching of Trigger Happy T.V. to all’s rejoicing. After we fell asleep Mark claimed that he saw a rare moment when Adrian proceeded to take his shirt off, and sleep topless. It is unsubstantiated, however, since there are no other witnesses and Adrian declined to comment.
The next morning, the Federal Way Homies set out West to the Cheese Factory. They were pelted by fierce sleet, buffeted by boisterous winds, and attacked by midget pirates, but that did not deter them. Eventually, they saw a sign, “GO MOOKS!” and they knew they had made it into the rich, country coast land of Tillamook Oregon. The rolling green grasslands, white picket fences, and salty pacific air made the realm of Tillamook the inspiration of poets.
After a couple of miles, Brandon spotted our destination. Ahead, as a yellow pillar from heaven, stood the Tillamook Cheese Factory tower. Like children in Toys ‘R’ Us, we lept from the van and scurried about in the cheese factory. We took pictures with the ceramic cows, shook hands with the chefs/artists who make the cheese, and of course, feasted on many samples. Danny personally bought many beefstick/cheese snacks that his mother used to give him as a wee lad. Mark and Adrian hugged. Stephen and Brandon danced. Bobby got lost. Tears were shed.
Eventually, the time came for the visitor center to close its doors to the Homies and the group left with some great memories. On the way back to Federal Way, it was time for Adrian to repay is debt for his portion of the travels. A lad of good disposition, but sometimes a bum, it was often Adrian’s lot to amuse the Homies and in return they would pay for his travels. For this trip, Adrian was required to stick out his thumb to hitch-hike and we would see how long it took for him to get a ride. With his fiery red hair and handsome looks it wasn’t long before some people pulled over. They asked him where he needed to go. He replied “over there”, pointing about 10 yards up. Confused, they repeated the question. At this point Adrian became so beat red that his face matched his hair and he came running back to where we were rolling on the ground with laughter. The second job we had Adrian do, was he had to knock on the windows of people stuck in traffic and wave. Good times, all around.
And so that is the tale of the Tillamook Cheese Factory Road Trip of Awesomeness from Danny Knechtel’s (Sir Charles) perspective. Until we meet again I bid you all a fond farewell.
Sir Charles Daniel Knechtel esquire the IV

The Decatur Classic 2009

The Decatur Classic with its lush greens, treacherous turnpikes, and perilous curbs, is known to test the grit of even the best and provide a spectacular display of man’s ability to overcome in face of adversity. This year was no exception. The year end match-up consisted of three champions that hale from all over the world. Charles Knechtel from Southern Bavaria, recently came off a charity invitational in Africa for the equal rights of zebras. Our readers may recall that he won last year’s Decatur Classic with an amazing last second 30ft putt that won the extra-innings, tie-breaker hole. In commemoration of the nail-biting event, the course added the hole as a permanent addition to the classic in honor of the struggle between Charles and his opponent, Mark Elkington. Mr. Elkington, the American favorite, was invited once again this year to the classic after a record setting year in the states. It is said that he was so good that Chuck Norris became his caddie in order to learn a few pointers. But everyone’s attention was raptly upon the return to professional urban golf, of legendary, Bobby “Old Man” Kaler. It is said that when the first swing of the first urban-golf club hit the first urban tennis ball, he was there. That he went to high school at Decatur before it was even an urban golf course. That the game of urban-golf may have been started by this great man himself. Surely, the match up of these three great men was one for the ages. Filled with moments that will be long held in the minds of the spectators, reported in every newspaper across the world, and become the stuff of legend that is told to little grandchildren about the fire.
At 1:56 pm Pacific time, December 29th 2009, Old man Kaler won the poke-ball showdown to start the match. Charles gained an early lead after the two holes, but was cut down at the third hole, aptly titled “The Rock” due to its unusual tee-off from a large builder. Here, Charles fell victim to an obstacle on the fairway, a 1992 blue Honda. It seemed as if his urban-golf ball was drawn to it like a magnet and by the time Charles finished the hole, he found himself in one. Old man Kaler quickly took an enormous lead in the next three holes, thanks to his stroke and long drives. Hundreds of years in the making had crafted his swing into the very picture of that “perfect stroke” that golfers only see in dreams…or Tiger Wood video games. But hot on his heels was Mark Elkington, who kept powering his way ahead. As our champions reached the back end, one cold hearted hole crippled Old Man Kaler like ice cripples the elderly. During a long, and technique sensitive putt, Old Man Kaler’s ball bounced into the thick costing him several strokes to get back on the green. When it seemed as if the Old Man would recover, suddenly he had a fatal stroke (literally and figuratively), that would prove to be his maker. The ball went under the gate, and into the tennis court. When the legend himself came back to reality Mr. Kaler found himself three strokes behind Mark and one behind Charles. At this time, Mark seized the opportunity to forge on ahead and maintained a lead until the second to the last hole. Nobody quite remembers how, or when, but Charles Knechtel arose from obscurity like the German’s at the beginning of 1941, and he meant war. Suddenly Mark found himself tied for first at the last hole and a bitter Bobby Kaler one stroke behind them. As often happens during the Decatur Classic it appeared that fate had decided it would come down to the last hole.
The last hole of the Decatur Classic is specifically designed to push the physical and mental abilities of the challengers to the limit. The first part is a cement path of 15 feet in length and but 3 feet in width, hedged by deadly swamp marshes. The end is abruptly met with a high 5 foot fence, which leaves the player but a two foot opening of breathing room. The challenger is faced with to options 1) Trying to tee-off over the fence but run the risk of losing the ball in the woodsy marshlands, which with Urban Golf’s motto “Always play it where it lies”, can mean “Doom”. Or 2) If the challenger has the steady hand of a surgeon and the fluid motion of a dolphin they can attempt to putt the ball along the path and through the small opening in the fence. But even when the urban-golf player makes it past this point the must face a fairway that is littered with trees along the left and a winding road with curbs on the right. Once getting through the fairway the hole itself is a garbage can wedged into the corner of a door, behind more trees and up a bunch of stairs. With all the pitfalls of trees, curbs, cars, fences, stairs and angles the reader can understand why the course has claimed the lives of 52 golfers, including the mysterious disappearance of Adrian Walsh, and since 2002 why only a select few professionals are allowed to contend with it.
Old Man Kaler scoffed at the hole and started with a mighty swing. It seemed to burn through the air but was tragically snapped up by the trees on the left side. Seeing the folley of such a great and wise man such as Bobby Kaler, Mr. Knechtel opted for the putting route. After making an offering of an Eagle to the Decatur Urban Golf Gods, Charles humbly sent his ball along the small cement pathway. Those who witnessed the event say the ball moved as if it had a mind of its own, or perhaps was guided by some unseen deity. Whatever the cause, the result was that Charles’ ball glided safely through fence opening and out onto the fairway. Mark Elkington also followed suite but forgot to make the obligatory offering to the Decatur Gods. In this they were displeased and Mark’s ball did not go straight and true and fell by the wayside. With heroic effort and strength that has not been seen by men in the age Bobby chipped his ball out of the wood/swamp only to be disappointed with the sound of metal fence and his ball once again dropping back down into the gloomy woods. The ever determined Mark pushed forward and under his own strength gained entry into the fairway. A rather defeated looking Old Man Kaler decided to take a drop outside of the woods and fence for the cost of a stroke.
In the fairway, it appeared the Charles had the game in hand has he confidently chipped on ahead. But here in is Charles Knechtel’s greatest weakness. Because of the lack of space in Europe Charles had never quite mastered the long ball and to his utter surprise Mark and Bobby had quickly caught up with him. Seeing that desperate times called for desperate measures Charles turned towards his secret weapon, a move that had saved him despite all odds in last year’s classic, “The Knechtel Lift”. This is where the urban golfer, in order to secure necessary height to clear a curb places the iron directly under the ball and lifts. But in order to be the “Knechtel Lift” the player must master the technique of being able to aim where the ball goes, while lifting, and doing a full swing in order to get decent yardage. A risky maneuver in that you are now having to take all the physics of normal urban golf into consideration while lifting. So putting his trust into every fiber of the iron, Mr. Knechtel allowed the spectators to glimpse this remarkable move. With a swift motion the ball lifted over the curb and seemed to be heading for glory when it fell a bit short of its goal and landed on a haphazard tree root. To his horror this sent Mr. Knechtel’s ball at an opposite angle and landed the ball into the parking lot some distance from the hole. Seeing an opportunity, Old Man Kaler then risked everything by aiming a quick shot along the left side in hopes of reaching the hole first. Sadly, his ball was consumed by bushes. All eyes then fell upon Mark Elkington, Man of the year. With an air about him the emoted “greatness”, “calmness”, and “old spice” he took a well measured swing. They say time froze as the ball sailed 50 feet through the trees, up the stairs, and between five other-world dimensions, onto the green. Charles managed to secure his ball into the hole with an additional two strokes. All Mark needed to do was move the ball around a corner and to the garbage can, a matter of 2 feet in order to secure a tie. The first putt went a little short, but there was still a direct line to the hole. Bobby then finished his round and with one stroke behind Charles. Now Mark just needed to putt about a foot, just twelve-inches to secure the tie. He confidently lined up the putter, and he swung…only to have the earth shake ever so slightly as a large underwater earthquake had caused a giant Tsunami to slam into Forks Washington (Destroying all places known as “twilight” movie scenes to everybody’s joy) which in turn caused the state of Washington to shift but a centi-meter. This slight movement however caused Mark’s ball to miss the hole by what the officials declared “three Adrian chest hairs”. (Close calls are always measured by such according to the official Urban Gold rule book made in 2007)
Charles was ahead by one point, with Bobby and Mark behind by just one. It appeared that the traditional Decatur Classic “Golf Club Chuck” would decide the winner. Bobby, being the eldest, took the first swing. The club soared through the air like a crane across Japan. Mark then answered with the power of a thousand dragons using a thousands rockets. Finally Charles Knechtel, having been trained by the late “Happy Gilmore” himself gave it a running throw that sent his club screeching through the air as the metal actually burned through the earth’s atmosphere. When the dust settled it was undecided who was the victor because as with tradition, nobody had brought a tape measurer or any form of measuring tools. So, as with tradition, the winner was decided by a poke-ball show down. Bobby sent forth a level 50 sandshrew, fierce and terrible. But Charles managed to call upon a level 90 slow-king and smote the sandshrew in the woods. Charles Knechtel, lover of all things peanut butter, arose victorious. Once again the Champion of the Decatur Classic. As with previous matches this had been one for the books. Full of ups and downs, twists and turns, gleeful leaping and angry club throwing. Not everyone can win, but all who survive come out stronger, better, and wiser. Nothing can top what was seen today at the Decatur Classic, nothing at least, until next year.