The Start of a New Blog

Alright, Folks. As promised, I am posting here today to unveil my new blogging home. I've got a few posts under my belt and the page is up and rolling. There will be some cosmetic changes in the future, surely, but that won't keep me from periodically updating the blog with the content you've come to expect from me (and I hope that doesn't detour you from checking it out).
With all that said, please direct your browsers to www.selfproclaimedbest.blogspot.com. Add it to your favorites, your RSS feed, your daily agendas and your list of favorite websites for wasting time. Tell your friends, your mom and your mom's friends. Thanks!

On the Merits of Blogging

Hey, what's happening? It's a cold, cold day in January, gray and snowy in the single digits, and it's been over seven months since our last correspondence. If you'd gotten pregnant on that day I said goodbye, you'd now be fatter, to say the least. 

Since my last post, I've moved across town and up a pant size (no pregancy to blame). I've taken out a mortgage, traveled abroad, seen my brother married and I've become tolerant, even fond, of jalapeño peppers. I've grown a beard, planted tulips, prevented a grill fire from consuming my deck and home, suffered a concussion and become keeper of the most snow-free driveway on the street. I've accomplished all this and more, and I think it's partly because I gave up blogging.

Now, instead of posting here from time to time, I've taken to sitting in a recliner and reading from my Amazon Kindle in the evenings, allowing spontaneous breaks, of course, to curse at the Gopher men's basketball team and Pat Sajak. I cook a little more often, read books much more quickly and go to bed a little earlier. It's a fine, predictable life, and it is time to shake things up.

You see, now that I'm not writing and posting here, I miss the interaction. I miss the feeling of spontaneous accomplishment. Hitting that "post" button is kind of satisfying, and the satisfaction is somehow different from whatever I get out of my imagined solidarity with old, dead novelists with their paper and ink wells. Besides, it's damn near impossible to imbed a hyperlink on college-ruled paper.

With that in mind, and without further delay, I aim to get a new computer in the coming days, hop back on the keyboard and direct you all to a new blog. I'm still kicking around ideas for themes, design and posts, but it's gonna happen. And you'll be the first to know when it does.

Most Humbly Do I Take My Leave

The interweb is an indescribable "series of tubes," as one man put it. It has undeniable promise, and it makes our brains less necessary every day. For some it is simply a way to read the news for free. Others use it to keep in touch with family and friends scattered across the far-reaching globe. Some people surf the net just to make enemies. I've done all these things and more, and this blog here has been a home base of sorts for me for the better part of three years. It's been a journal, a lengthy writing exercise, a portal through which to dump and share links to other blogs. I've shared quite a bit of myself with complete strangers, and hopefully, I've entertained some of you.

But these days I use my nearly broken laptop less and less. Maybe because I have to keep a pen jammed under the plug to keep the battery charging. Maybe because I have two jobs, one of which generously allows me access to a fully functioning computer (but not for blogging purposes). I even use my phone more and more to keep up with baseball stats, facebook statuses and random google searches. Whatever the reason for my infrequent contributions, you may have noticed I don't post here as much as I used to. I get my fill of the interweb without doing so, and the world is getting its technological fix just fine without my occasional meditations on beards, baseball and music. In short, I've found a better balance. It involves work, the wife and making our home a reality.

So, you see, I'm exiting a stage of my life here. I'm leaving my first apartment, I'm moving into a house with my awesome wife and I'm getting the heck outta Saint Paul, MN. Among so many other things, this move is providing me with a logical conclusion for this blog; I mean, I really can't keep sending Letters From Saint Paul if my address is no longer going to be in Saint Paul, can I? I know the internet eliminates borders, but come on, nobody likes a liar. Calling it quits this way may not have been my exit strategy all along, but logic makes it so.

So, I'm a touch sad as I empty my closets and lock the doors for the last time. As I post my final post and say goodbye to this web address, along with the more physical one where I hang my hat, I'll be grateful if you feel anything at all, Dear Reader(s). If it moves me, maybe one day I'll again take up residence at a new web address. But until then, I'll take my pen out from under the battery connection for good and put it to paper and write away. It just feels right.

Polonius:
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!

Laertes:
Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Hamlet Act 1, scene 3, 78–82

Kirby the Kestrel

While working the rainy game at Target Field last night, I watched the Twins come up short against the lousy Baltimore Orioles. The late innings were especially chilly and slow, and the Twins just couldn't seem to heat up against the Birds of the AL East. Fortunately for the Twins fans in my section, and in the rest of the stadium for that matter, another bird came to

entertain us.

I've seen a little Kestrel Falcon just like this one perched atop the right field foul pole at each home game so far, and the bird has even made an appearance or two on the jumbo-tron and local TV. Last night, however, he finally hit the big time. When the game got slow, he started diving off his perch and snatching little moths all around the stadium's lights. While fans all

across the stadium ate their peanuts and drank their hot coffee, they watched and cheered for this bird after every spectacular catch. He has been dubbed Kirby the Kestrel by the bird-watching interweb community, and the name couldn't be more appropriate!

His show went on for about 30 minutes, and even the outfielders (especially Michael Cuddyer) wondered what in the heck was going on. I can't wait to get back to the ballpark so I can see more of Minnesota's nature at its best.

The Sun Is Warm and the Grass is Green

I got to the ballpark a little early this morning, and before I reported for duty at my assigned section, I walked sleepily down to the edge of the seating bowl and took a few deep breaths along the first base line in right field. The sun was spilling all over my little corner of the field, and I stood in its warmth, rubbing my cold hands together and thinking about dreams coming true. I looked at the chilly shadow still blanketing the seats in left field and watched the championship flags wave at the top of the left field wall, and I nodded gratefully at the men running the dirt raker and the chalk spiller below me. Dew shone like diamonds on the field, and it felt like a little slice of heaven had been carved up and served to me with no questions asked. I did my best to enjoy it and give thanks.

A co-worker of retirement age joined me at the edge of the seats, and he leaned against the railing and let out a happy sigh. When I heard the infield mower, he smiled at me and pointed at the new cross-cut pattern being combed into the grass. The Toro made me forget it's only April, and the smell of gasoline mixing with freshly cut grass made me hungry for sunflower seeds and beer. For me, no other sounds or smells capture summer quite as well, and even though baseball games have been happening all month long, summer officially arrived for me as I stood there in silent reverie. I told my thoughts to the man next to me, and he agreed there is nothing quite like a patch of perfect green grass. "Good for the soul," he told me. We got to talking.

"I always wanted to work at a golf course once I made it to retirement," he told me. "So I worked at a $100-a-round course in Maple Grove last summer." He told me how he got to do a little mowing, and that he really enjoyed raking the sand in the bunkers. It reminded him of making sand castles at the beach. He pointed at the three-wheeled machine making circles in the infield and explained that the raker he drove at the golf course was almost identical. "Used to hop on the thing about 5am and drive it around until the first tee time. Then they let me golf all morning." He raised his eyebrows at me and nodded proudly, very similar to the way some men do when they talk about their salaries and hefty 401Ks. I told him that sounded like a pretty sweet deal, and he told me that even though he loved it, he was happier to be spending this coming summer at the ballpark.

"Why's that?" I said.

"Well," he said, "golf is a great way for an old man to spend his retirement, but baseball is a kid's game. I'd rather be a kid." I thought at that moment, as I agreed with him all the way down to my bones, that I couldn't have said it better. In fact, I wished I'd said it myself.

You see, when the game is in your bones, there is nothing at all you can do about it. It's as much a part of you as your height and your shoe size. So you don't fight it. You sit back and watch the grown kids play in the dirt, and you watch them run and dive in the grass. You wake up early on a Saturday when you don't have to, and you thank your lucky stars that you get to.

The Chance To Be Great

The only thing more wonderful than a summer in full swing is the very promise of summer. And at no time is that promise more immediate or delicious than on Opening Day.

On Opening Day, the warm nights you'll spend at the ballpark beneath the moon's glow are like a cold beer not yet tasted. Each sip is anticipated, craved and full of sweet, wonderful alcohol. And did I ever tell you about the worst beer I ever had? It was pretty good. Likewise, there is almost nothing so bad in baseball that it can't simultaneously grant relief and happiness to the opposing team and its fans.

Opening Day is the one time each year when baseball fans across America can look forward to 162 games with equal measures of excitement, hope and wonder. Last season's accomplishments and disappointments don't matter anymore, or not as much anyway. They've become only memories, some sweeter than others, and for the innocent kid in all of us today's game takes precedence. Yesterday is gone and we'll talk about it in awe or disbelief as Baseball History dictates, but optimism reigns supreme. It is believed that anything can happen today. Any team can win tomorrow, and the World Series Championship is once again up for grabs. Every team has the chance to be great, and cold beer is on the way.

Rain delays are upon us. April lays claim to ceremonial first pitches and first hot dogs. Fresh grass stains cover the knees of ballplayers and little leaguers alike. Our hometown heroes and the most-hated visiting players survive early slumps, and we bleacher-warmers chase foul balls and spill our Cokes. Our hands sting for the batted ball that slipped through our fingers.

But then May and June's warm winds will come to dance across our sweat-cooled necks. The sun will burn our thighs. We'll cover our brats with mustard, onions and sauerkraut, and the girls of summer will sport tan lines and tube tops. They'll wear flip flops, sundresses and smiles. There will be perfume enough to make even the strongest among us dizzy with pleasure.

The beer is always cold and sold in every ballpark by a tribe of nasal-voiced, South-Boston transplants. Grandfathers every year struggle to explain the infield fly rule to granddaughters who are sticky with cotton candy and joy. Sunflower seeds and peanuts sustain us. July's fireworks scream high above and shower down. All-Stars shine on the biggest stage, and shooting stars streak the sky above our ballparks. Our hearts rise and fall with every pitch, every Home Run, every must-win game won...every dream dashed by the Damn Yankees. Road trips drag on like the winter you hope never comes.

But winning streaks and Pennant Fever grab hold of us in August. Injury bugs beget September call-ups. We launch prayers skyward akin to moon-shot Home Runs. There are shoe-ins and long-shots. Heroes and villains. For every Casey, there's a Cobb. For every King of the Diamond, there is a Wild Card.

And so the dog days give way to Twi-Night Double headers; mittens and sweaters for Midwesterners. October berths are clinched. Playoff baseball begins. We suffer shortness of breath and see it in front of our faces. Every player's triumph is our own, each failure a punch to the gut. We suffer from heavy eyes and light hearts, our knuckles go white, we grind our teeth, pound our fists, kick awake our twitchy legs, let loose our hoarse voices, boos and belly-deep cheers.

There are happy tears for some and long, silent walks to the clubhouse for others. Some among us celebrate with a gleaming trophy and a ticker-tape parade. The rest of us empty the stands and share our front-page disappointment. November rains replace champagne showers. This is where the road leads us. Every year.

But on Opening Day we all get to wonder: will our team win it all? Is this our year? And along the way, as we wait for the superstitious to work their magic and for Lady Luck to come calling, we enjoy the scenery. The uncertainty. The possibility. The sunshine, the green grass devoid of dog's mess. The promise of summer is upon us. Nothing is over. Nothing is written. Baseball is here, and it will be great.

Allen Wardell: Defender of Megan Fox's Honor

Ladies and Gentleman, meet Allen Wardell. Sports fanatic, friend to cheerleaders and loyal Defender of Megan Fox's (questionable) honor. Not only is this tall drink of water a rabidly handsome and intelligent friend, he is also the one man in a world of 6 billion people who can see beneath The Fox's layers of overt sexuality and into her true and chaste soul. (You'll find it somewhere past the cherry, I think).

The Fox recently made news for divulging her most personal of secrets in UK's Harper Magazine. She told the world, much to my surprise (and to Allen's absolute joy), that she has slept with only two men in her entire life. One was her childhood sweetheart, one is her current 90210 boyfriend and the other 19,000 assumed mates shall remain nameless and firmly a part of my wild imagination.

In response to this news, I salute you, Allen Wardell, for choosing to believe in and champion Megan Fox's purity. It is no small accomplishment and a testament to the strength of the human mind. Your conviction is admirable, much like The Fox's ability to misrepresent herself to the entire world as a sex fiend.

Bonus Feature: I have chosen to list below a small number of other infamous misrepresentations. While none of these provide a shock quite as powerful as learning of Megan Fox's near-virginity, they are surprisingly untrue regardless of what the world would have us believe.

1. Jay Leno is funny
2. Bob Saget is wholesome, just like his counterpart Danny Tanner
3. We can be anything we want to be
4. George Washington's teeth were made of wood
5. The US will soon adopt the Metric System

What's Dumber Than Breaking Into a Jail?

For starters...click here. Then tell me: what's the dumbest?

Breaking into your own apartment

Working out a payment plan with a gambler who owes you money

Lending a video game to the neighborhood dickhead

Stealing a cop's car

Believing in the Timberwolves

Going to the ballpark with a full belly

Stealing my 11-year old car stereo

Finding your realtor through google

Stealing my credit card number

Drinking the water in Mexico

Fucking with a streak

Not signing Joe Mauer to a long-term deal

Having unprotected sex with Megan Fox

You'll Look Back

You'll Look Back

sometimes you've got to

walk around in those size eleven and a halfs

for a few minutes before you know

it wasn't even a new pair of shoes

you needed

it was new feet altogether

sometimes the problem has got

nothing to do with anything

you would have guessed

your job ain't too easy or too hard

it's just you and your damned jumpy legs

can't stand still, can't keep up either

the whole world is a playground

everyone is out for recess and you

can't play the game unless you win

so you just sit

and watch, twitching

sometimes you gotta lose

just lose control, live a little

if you run, you may trip but if

you let the rest do their best

unchallenged you'll find

yourself bereft, wondering what's left for you

Un-break My Heart...

Toni Braxton "Hot-dogging" it.

A couple weeks ago, news broke that the Minnesota Twins were allowing its delicious corporate relationship with Hormel to go the way of the Dodo and Toni Braxton's tragically deceased music-video boyfriend (and Santana, Hunter, etc...) I, possibly along with other Twins fans, wept in my bathrobe after the announcement and wondered what would happen to my beloved Dome Dog and the Hormel Row of Fame. I felt more like a wiener loser than a "Wiener Winner." I realized how much I'd miss the song and the shenanigans, the excitement of Dollar-A-Dog Night and the continuity offered by a dependable, skin-encased tube of lips and assholes. But even in my darkest moments, Toni Braxton gave me solace. She was a crutch when I needed one.

You see, I believe in crutches. When one embarks on a life-changing journey, I stubbornly attest that it is prudent and admirable to keep at least a cane on which to lean in case a leg proves weak. For example, if you are packing up house and home and moving across town, it is worthwhile to retain your means of employment and important personal relationships in order to avoid unnecessary stress during the transition period. Or, in this case, it would be preferable to avoid drastically changing your eating habits by ending a decade-long relationship with a proven wiener...I mean winner.

But today my friends, today I no longer need anybody to "Take back that sad word goodbye." I feel as though there is something indeed to lean on. Although it is strange to see a new Wiener moving into the virgin Target Field with the boys of summer, I believe the Twins have made an excellent choice by partnering with Minnesota's own Schweigert Meats. Today my hometown team announced it will be offering four different varieties of Schweigert hot dogs at the ball park, and to be honest, they all sound pretty exciting. I'm excited to try the extra-long Dinger Dog, but I'm most amped to taste the Original Twins Dog. Not only is it going to be our new Monday-night, one-dollar treat, it is also the exact same frank once served at Metropolitan Stadium.

As the Twins are moving into Target Field and capping their winningest decade in franchise history, history may prove to be our greatest ally!!!

SAY THAT YOU LOVE ME!!!