Letters From Saint Paul

The Start of a New Blog

2011-02-02T13:24:00.001-06:00

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

2011-01-13T12:26:00.000-06:00

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

2010-06-08T13:21:00.006-05:00

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

2010-05-07T09:32:00.003-05:00

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

2010-04-17T17:59:00.005-05:00

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

2010-04-05T11:34:00.007-05:00

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

2010-03-24T17:12:00.006-05:00

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.

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

What's Dumber Than Breaking Into a Jail?

2010-03-24T13:25:00.005-05:00

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

2010-03-10T15:10:00.002-06:00

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...

2010-03-08T12:02:00.004-06:00

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!!!

The House I'm Looking For

2010-02-26T13:55:00.004-06:00

Requirements:
Within the borders of Burnsville, Eagan, Bloomington or Richfield
Under $175,000
3+ bedrooms, 1.5+ baths
1,200+ square feet
Attached Garage
Hardwood Floors

Options:
Fireplace, Eat-in Kitchen and Formal Dining Room, Office, Finished Basement, Spacious Fenced Yard, Partial Brick Exterior, Three-season Porch, Wet Bar

Status:
Undiscovered

Crazy Heart, Crazy Good

2010-01-24T14:42:00.007-06:00

Last week, when Wifey was on a trip to Vegas with her brothers, I sat in my most comfortable chair to play some guitar and watch the Golden Globes. I'm a bit of a Ricky Gervais fan, and I mos def like watching drunk celebs, so I can honestly say I expected the Globes would give me what I wanted. They gave me a little extra, to be accurate.

By watching the Globes, I learned that Jeff Bridges (a.k.a. The Dude) recently cranked out a Best Actor-winning performance as Bad Blake, a fictional, hard-drinking, all-but-washed-up country singer in the movie Crazy Heart. I learned a singular cinematic experience existed that offered a combination of three of my favorite things: cowboys, guitars and whisky. Even Ricky Gervais' champagne-soaked monologues couldn't drown my excitement. I knew I would have to see the movie.

My anxiety was finally cured when Wifey agreed to see it with me yesterday at Minneapolis' historic Uptown Theater. Among a Saturday-afternoon crowd, we sat with our Coca-Cola smuggled in from the outside, and we watched not just a good movie with a collection of heartfelt original songs, but also a story about how life really is and about people who actually get what they deserve. It's exactly the kind of story I want to write. It was a movie so good that, as Bad Blake said, "[It] made everything else around it look bad."

The Southwest scenery was wide open and beautiful, like a nasty wound finding a way to heal, and the old pickups were big and still shined. Maggie Gyllenhaal was a gorgeous mess, and Jeff Bridges was believable and worthy of redemption as an everyman who pissed away and on everything, including himself. He sang somewhere between Gordon Lightfoot and Bob Seger, and he proved that sunglasses are probably necessary even at night. Collin Farrell ditched his brogue, grew a pony tail and made it in country music without a voice or a hat (no small feat), and Robert Duvall affirmed for me that fishing is indeed a deeply resonating activity, not just a shallow metaphor for, well, everything. And the songs. Jesus, once again to quote Bad Blake, "That's the thing about a good one; you swear you've heard it before."

The movie, on the other hand, isn't quite like anything I've seen before. Not quite Walk the Line (I dare say the music is better in Crazy Heart), and not quite like any other love story about heartbreak (the point here is to hurt more and feel good less). It is unlike those cowboy movies before, and I won't mind seeing it again.

Happiness Extended

2010-01-10T21:58:00.004-06:00

That was all so long ago. I wasn't even shaving. I still had hair to gel and a letterman's jacket. I spent my paycheck on school lunches and gasoline for the weekend. But I don't really remember that. I just sort of know it to have been true. Once. My memory works like that. Anything that happened more than five years ago is almost like it happened to someone else. But I was someone else then, so it's all the same.

Jesus, I wish I could retain and fetch these memories a little better. I don't have a good handle anymore on who I was or who you were or what went on. What did we talk about back then? Were the conversations real? Or did they exist only in my imagination, just like plans to spend summers on a tour bus and nights on a stage?

I just remember longing. For everything. And unjustified elation whenever I had some attention. I remember thinking the guitar was all I had and all I needed, that it could be used for any purpose. For love, hate, to impress, to entertain, to relax, to fulfill a school assignment or give someone a parting gift. Oh, goodbyes were momentous even then. I remember not being embarrassed by my truck or my weight or my silly impulses. And I remember your look. A teacher's stare. Playfully surprised and insincerely upset.

But now everything has been dulled and has become more like a question than a memory. Did that happen? Really? Age. Self-doubt. Regret. Alternative choices. Distance. All these things working against a picture in my head and a feeling in my gut like adjusting the contrast and sharpness on the television screen.

Maybe I've always been malleable, decidedly directionless. Maybe I was better at accepting it. Maybe it wasn't as severe as it is now and a simple note or smile or high five could dispel it all. Maybe it's so apparent now because the messages and stolen glances and innocent touching have all but disappeared. There is still longing, though. That will always be with me, I'm sure. We always long simultaneously for the past and the future, the person we were and the future we had, hoping that somewhere up ahead the road will turn and again the past will be there before us, ready to be re-lived and re-experienced. Possibly changed for the better. Exchanged. Old conversations will be rehashed, emotions renewed. Happiness extended. But then there's reality. The present. The now.

I sure wasted a lot of time. The wrong people, the wrong places, the wrong priorities. So much of it so important and vital at the time. All of it now perfectly stupid and useless. Harmless through and through, for the most part, but painful now nonetheless. Because the things I miss most are the things I never bothered embracing or exploring. The rich, fleeting moments between all the bull shit that kept me busy. But if I re-touch these faded memories, if I wash the gray areas with a little more color and choose some words to fill in the blanks, then there is some comfort. The past becomes only slightly less perfect than life as it happened. And that, I think, is better than forgetting.

My Letter to a Credit Card Thief

2010-01-09T10:20:00.010-06:00

Dear Son of a B*tch Who Stole My Credit Card Number,

I hope this letter finds you with holy socks and an unforgiving case of constipation. Since you were dumb enough to pay your own phone bill with my credit card number, instead of, say, going on an anonymous shopping spree at Pawn America or Wal-Mart, I have already been able to start karma's wrecking ball swinging back toward your little shanty. I can only imagine your phone has been turned off now that Qwest has reversed the unauthorized charge you placed on my Visa check card. I presume that since you're unable to pay your bills by honest means, the electric, heat, water and cable companies will be cutting their services next. It must really suck to be you. Even though I am out $152.59, unlike you I can still call someone who cares.

So I'm curious. Do I know you? How did we meet? Maybe you swiped my card at your place of employment (if you even have a job, you wiener) and slyly recorded my credit card number for my future inconvenience. Or maybe you found a receipt with my card number on it in the trash near your values, moral compass and conscience. Since Qwest says you live just on the other side of the Mississippi in Minneapolis, it's likely we have crossed paths somewhere. I regret that I was unable to identify you as a potential pain in my ass; I should have farted in your general direction.

I also wonder what other types of crap you're causing now that you've no doubt realized TCF canceled my check card and, simultaneously, your meal ticket. Are you looking for another victim so you can pay for some parking tickets or keep your bare-ass cupboards stocked with stale ramen? Perhaps you're illegally accessing your neighbor's unencrypted internet connection on a stolen laptop to read my angry words. It's possible, unlike your ability to feel guilt. So let my words sink in, if you will. Maybe you'll learn a lesson and get a job. Or maybe next time you'll at least try to get your hands on a credit card with some actual money attached to it. Man, it must be rough to suck at being a tool.

But before I get too carried away, I must remember that Qwest has encouraged me to, like them, give you the benefit of the doubt. They say you might have mistakenly entered my credit card number when paying your bill. Like, maybe your finger slipped while typing. And I say bull spit to that. The odds are slim that you, an irresponsible Qwest customer in Minneapolis, could have randomly entered a credit card number belonging to another individual living in, of all places, your own metro area. Probably as slim as your chances at getting away with it. But, just to cover all the bases, if you did not knowingly type my credit card number into Qwest's automated bill pay system, then I at least find you guilty of carelessness and a high level of jackassery.

On the other hand, if you did indeed intentionally pay your hefty phone bill with money from my own pocket, then you are lucky Qwest's Credit Management Representative would not tell me your name, address or deactivated phone number. Their privacy policy is undoubtedly your only friend. I guarantee it single-handedly spared you excessive pain and humiliation. I told the Saint Paul police officer handling my case that I wanted to punch you in the nose, and he suggested I do even more. I find the long arm of the law quite just in this regard.

In closing, even though you did not do me the same courtesy, I would like to give you fair warning of the shit storm coming your way. TCF is investigating your fraudulent activities. Soon, they will ask the police to subpoena your personal information from Qwest, and the police will, in turn, execute some swift justice. Money and peace of mind will be returned to me, but you will more than likely receive yet another black mark on your embarrassing criminal record. I do not feel sorry for you, and I hope you have to pawn some clothes off your own back in order to keep the heat on until they put you in the gray-bar motel, you dumbass.

Sincerely,

The Guy Sending You Imaginary Knuckle Sandwiches

Warning: Full Disclosure

2009-12-31T17:32:00.002-06:00

Last year around this time, I was feeling a little ambitious. And trapped, and a little like the contents of my head reflected something, no matter how important or meaningless, about my situation at the time. I recognized the passage of one year and the beginning of another as what it is commonly understood to be: not just an excuse to suffer from a hangover, but also a benchmark against which to measure myself. I still kind of believe in all this, so I am pleased I wordified my thoughts. They've served as a reference point, as I had hoped they would, and I am inspired to repeat the process. For those of you caught a little "unawares," I resolved to make some Resolutions.

They were as follows:

"To enter at least five short story contests with NEW material."
Result - accomplished! but no winners...

"To actually start to work on that novel and get it up to the 20-page manuscript length necessary to generate any interest from outside parties."
Result - accomplished two times actually, but in all honesty these works are not up to snuff. I am learning that writing more isn't quite as important as is writing more sincerely. I mean, hell, if something I write doesn't quite move me, then how can I believe it'll do anything for someone else? Let's call this a repeatable resolution. Sort of like a do-over.

"To publish at least five more articles in the local paper."
Result - epic FAIL. I won't make excuses, but let's just say that for now I am done with the local newspaper. And it feels just fine. Maybe because I got my name and words in Esquire this year. Yeah, maybe.

And finally, an ongoing resolution (a.k.a. dream) since about 2004:
"To get the hell outta retail."
Result - check! done! mission accomplished! Since June 1, I have been editing a hunting and outdoors catalog. No folks, life does not get any better.

So, with last year's success in mind, I will repeat the process and offer up some more Resolutions for the 2010 edition. I want to be a little more well-rounded here and focus more on personal growth this year than just on my growth as a writer. With that said, I resolve to...

Take better care of the wife - i.e. less bitching, more doing

Demonstrate better self control - no eating "one more cookie" or giving into harmful impulses

Get a new damn phone - better be cheap

Save more money for shorter-term goals - I find we have more of our monthly income tied up in life insurance and retirement funds than we do in our annual vacation fund or our buy-a-home fund. While it's good to save for the future, it's also good to save for tomorrow. And difficult. Let's start with just 4% of the bi-weekly check diverted to more immediate needs.

And what Resolution list would be complete without a plan to lose 20 pounds? Well, since I don't want to be unoriginal, I'll just start with ten and work further from there.

This completes this year's edition of the Get-Better-at-Life excercise.

Stealing Would Show Some Backbone

2009-12-30T20:53:00.003-06:00

Stealing Would Show Some Backbone

Nothing gets done
Unless
You stop talking and
Fucking commit
For once
Useless empty oak barrells
Over a puddle of promise

You back pedaller
Fold as though there are no cards but those drawn
You chicken-shit child
Hiding your broken eyes
How many ways are there

To tell you it's time to be
More than a mouth, shining colgate teeth
More than words or plans
Or daydream
Fantasies to be
A person who completes what they start

They say
To not work is to waste
The gift
My gift to you is this
Short task, small risk

A poem is something important
To me, to you, it's simple
You always want what you have
Not got

Nothing to Go Home to

2009-12-30T20:29:00.003-06:00

Nothing to Go Home to

My spirit, my breath, one
Thin cloud in the cold
Leaves me. I'm with you

Outside the bar beneath
A silver stop sign, a yellow light
My ankles like cedar logs drying in the fire
Burning, cracking and sinking lower

We take our seats the barkeep
Pours so slowly she left me again
Slow down, wait one beat
None of this tastes right and
I can't hear with all this quiet

Around us
There is life, confusion, there is only whisky
In my blood laughter falls out, runs out

OK. You're OK.
Only Coke in this glass
A puddle, ceiling fans against sweat

Steamed burgers and processed cheese, sugared buns,
Cold crisp pickles and a spotless tile floor
Cuidad: Piso Mojado
I limp to the closed door
Are you OK in there?
Heaving. Beer and bread bump
Into each other outside
Your body. Whoosh
They go in one fat gulp
In the cold empty.

Sweet Decay

2009-12-30T20:02:00.002-06:00

Sweet Decay

Did He feel
Like this? Magnets
In everything, metal guts
Charged, electric blood drawn
Just another hot needle
Beneath the skin

Welts, nine volts of anticipation
On the tongue aluminum
Foil plus a loose filling
Grinding, sparking, shooting
Through nerves until
You're weak, you can't speak

Of anything here I want most
My name on paper
Wherever you look so you can't speak
Sapped. Drained. I will move you.

Try, try it your own way
Depend on the disciples, you so high
So sure
If I were Jesus I'd still be
Pissed
But it's working for me, my way is

Turning and rolling, floating at
Gravity's
Mercy, Justice will be done
Quietly uncovering fertile ground

Maple leaves
Blown and dragged, raked,
Bagged decay smells sweet
To me, but to you there is nothing
At all to be happy about so
Let us rejoice and be
Glad

Jane Monheit is Good For You

2009-12-01T13:36:00.007-06:00

Have you heard of jazz singer Jane Monheit? Google her some time. Wikipedia her when you get a minute. Do an iTunes search and listen to a couple 30-second samples of her music; you'll want more. I know from experience. Youtube.com will satisfy you, if all else fails.

I saw Jane for the first time in 2004 when she appeared on Late Night with Conan O'Brien. She sang a solo version of "I Won't Dance," which she recorded as a duet with that weenie Michael Buble for her album Taking a Chance on Love. The song was hotter than Conan's fire-red hair. She was stunning and I was hooked, so I caught her with a buddy at the Dakota in Minneapolis shortly after that, then at Orchestra Hall in 2006 with my wife, and then again at the Dakota during the Christmas season of 2007. We just keep going back to see her. We can't help it.

My wife loves her as much as I do, partly because Jane put out a Christmas CD a couple of years ago (called The Season), and partly because Jane is "normal" (read: not a stick, thank the Lord) and "gorgeous" (agreed).

Two weeks ago, I was performing my random check of Jane's tour dates on her site (I do this about once each week with every under-the-radar artist I love so that I don't miss any performances), and I noticed two new Minneapolis dates had recently been added. I told my wife and she smiled that big smile of hers. Honest to God, tears welled up in my eyes as I secured two booth-seat tickets for a 930pm show at the Dakota (on a weeknight, no less!). And don't think I was overreacting, cuz you just don't know the half of it. There were no Jane shows in all of 2008, and she performed in Manhatten while I was there for work last year, but I decided not to go cuz it wouldn't be the same without Wifey. Think about my misery! Too much time between Jane Monheit concerts can hurt.

But all the pain evaporated the minute I took my seat Monday 11/30 with Wifey next to me (on a side note, the Dakota rocks cuz they seated us early and we got to catch Jane's encore performance of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" from the 730pm show). Man, I'm tellin' you, jazzy Christmas music is where it's at!!!

Anyway, come 930ish, Jane rocked the mic, her shaved-bald hubby/drummer Rick Montalbano showed his amazing restraint behind the kit, the upright bass walked around in the background, and the pianist Michael Kaman split his time between a (possibly Steinway) grand and a very awesome Fender Rhodes. At times, the thing sounded like a cross between a zero-distortion Les Paul and some mile-high church bells, and there was even a Slash-esque, spiraling fade-out solo at the end of an otherwise mild Bossa Nova number. Simply brain melting!

Among many others, Jane sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," "The Rainbow Connection" and three other songs featuring at least a passing reference to rainbows. It was similar to the way Cornell seems to keep singing about highways. No unicorns though, which was a plus. I understand why artists are sometimes drawn to specific themes and imagery. In fact, I have my own fascination with pickup trucks and the empty skins of dry baked potatoes. But you can bet one song about rainbows should be enough. Unless it's Jane singing. She gets away with just about anything.

She also sang one of my faves, "Taking a Chance on Love." I recently discovered the Dave Brubeck Quartet also recorded an instrumental version of this song like back in '61 for the album Jazz, Red Hot & Cool. The track is hopping as per the usual with Paul Desmond on sax.

Jane also sang more scat than usual. It mostly happened during intros and outros, and it sounded like many variations on the word lay and lady throughout. Scat seems to have become her signature way to close a song. I suspect it's happening with increased frequency because she has a new baby (18 months, she said during the concert) and made-up words are the only ones the kid can understand. But this is just a theory. My own jazz theory.

She also seems to have taken up the air guitar whilst singing. In past shows, Jane would dance and slap her legs gently to the beat. These days, however, she's playing an invisible six string. No strumming or plucking, however. Her repertoire consists of just the occasional fingering of the imaginary fretboard and some excessive palm muting.

All in all, Jane kicked off my holiday season the way it was meant to be kicked off. A little Christmas music, a lot of great standards, and an incredibly comfortable, romantic night with my kickass wife. I am already looking forward to NEXT Christmas.

An Original Song -- "Movie Magic"

2009-11-14T12:10:00.004-06:00

I was singing in the shower today and made up my own 12-bar blues. It reminds me of a B-minus version of some Dwight Yoakam song, and I hope that doesn't sound like I'm tooting my own horn. I'd settle for a C-plus anyway.

It's a song about the movies (not really) and it sounds happy (it isn't). It's a sad song if you think about it, and that's the way I like to think about it. Ray Lamontagne said last night at the State Theater in Minneapolis, "Sad songs just slay me." I agree with that, and it's been that way as long as I remember.

My fondness for sad songs drives my wife nuts and perplexes everyone I know. When we go out for Mexican, she asks the Mariachi band to play Guantanamera (she doesn't believe me that this is a sad song), and she sings along with La Cucarocha (which is about a cockroach). She hates when I ask the mariachi band to play "La Bamba" or "Feliz Navidad" at half tempo (they will make you weep). I try to explain her that I love the novelty of a sad mariachi song. It's an oxymoron, if you ask me, just like sour patch kids candy. They fuck with your tongue.

I tell her that a happy song can make me move my feet and smile, but an upbeat sad song can mess with my mind, give me a physical release and make me experience a wider range of emotions than something like "(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (to Party)." We're talking here about the emotional differences between "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" or "Freebird" and something like a smiley-face sticker. I just prefer my songs to be more like "My Favorite Things" (especially when played by John Coltrane) and less like the Price is Right theme song.

I know my wife and the rest of you pro-happy song people have a great appreciation for music, and you may even know a good deal about the emotive qualities of the blue note, it just so happens that I seem to prefer my coffee black and my music to cut deeply instead of treading lightly. So I hope this song lands somewhere in the middle for all of us.

It's called "Movie Magic."

I want to go to the movies
But Babe there ain’t nothin’ to see
I want to go to the movies
Baby just you and me
We can sit there in the back row
Me watchin’ you, you watchin’ me

Baby I want to get some candy
You know I like it so sweet
Babe I need to get some candy
Won’t you please share yours with me?
Won’t you give me some of that sugar,
And would you save some pop for me?

Babe this movie is a snoozer
It’s moving way too slowly for me
I said this movie’s moving slowly
Let’s speed it up you and me
I’ll let you direct the action
Take 1, Take 2, Take 3

We don’t need no dialog
So long as we don’t make a peep
No we don’t need no dialog
Just make some movie magic with me
Let’s move on to the happy ending,
Me kissin’ you, you kissin’ me

Babe this movie is a snoozer
It’s moving way to slowly for me
I said this movie’s moving slowly
Let’s speed it up you and me
I’ll let you direct the action
Take 1, Take 2, Take 3

You gotta be home already?
I wish the night wouldn’t end so soon
You gotta be home already?
Let’s stay here under the moon
The marquee lights are fading quickly
I wish you’d ride up here with me

NWA Pilot's Top Ten Excuses For Being So Damn Late

2009-10-23T15:16:00.011-05:00

You've probably heard about the NWA flight from San Diego that overshot MSP International Airport by 150 miles earlier this week. It's the talk of the town. Heck, even the Yankees are breathing a sigh of relief; thanks to the distracted media, nobody cares that the Yanks blew another shot to put away the Angels last night.

While the media and FAA are investigating the extended flight, I thought I'd offer up my own hypotheseseses to explain what the hell was (or may have been) going on in that cockpit. So, here they are, in the form of the always-popular Top Ten List (Thanks, Dave).

NWA Pilot's Top Ten Excuses For Being So Damn Late

10) We heard there was an earthquake in Minnesota, and we thought we'd wait it out.

9) The stars were really pretty, and the passengers voted that we take the scenic route.

8) We were watching American Idol in the cockpit.

7) Had to stop by Mickey Dee's for some munchies.

6) Cute little kid in Coach asked us to do a loop-de-loop.

5) I didn't feel like going home to my wife yet.

4) Sully Sullenburger bet us that we couldn't make a better landing, and we chickened out.

3) I finally got a chance to join the mile-high club.

2) I forgot to adjust my watch for Central Standard Time.

And finally, the pilot's number one excuse for being so damn late...

1) I thought we were going to Milwaukee?

What It Was Like to Take Meg to Her First Metallica Show

2009-10-14T12:10:00.008-05:00

Heavenly. Sexy. Crackling. Screaming thunder. Laser lightning. Pulsating. Hotter than fire. Blacker than the inside of a coffin. Sweaty. Extreme. Relaxing. Breathtaking. Memorable. Gigantic. Fucking liberating. Not smoky. Pounding. Unrelenting. Romantic. Unbelievable. Expensive. Brighter than the morning sun after a night at the bar. Spiritual. Crowded. Momentous. Surprising. Repeatable. Scary. Topnotch. Sandpaper on eczema. Whipped Cream on a puddle of maple syrup. Rockin'.

Here's a set list for the rest of your metal freaks:

That Was Just Your Life / The End of the Line / Ride the Lightning / Holier Than Thou / One / Broken, Beat and Scarred / Cyanide / Sad But True / Welcome Home (Sanitarium) / All Nightmare Long / The Day That Never Comes / Master of Puppets / Fight Fire With Fire / Nothing Else Matters / Enter Sandman

I Think I've Become a Chevy Man

2009-10-09T12:26:00.005-05:00

Thanks to Miss Sarah Easterwood, the Chevy pickup again has a CD player. It's nothing fancy, folks, just a hand-me-down, after-market Pioneer deck that got pulled from her junked Jetta a few years ago. She was kind enough to donate its use to the gaping hole in my truck's dash, and it even came with an old, burned CD left inside. Featured on the CD were Jimmy Buffet, Rascal Flatts, Hank Williams, Buckcherry and Kenny Chesney. There was no Metallica. But beggars can't be choosers, and I'm happy as a clam to once again be listening to KQ92 and 93X whilst behind the wheel.

To celebrate my return to the world of car audio, I trekked back in time and pulled my old CD book (remember those?) from the bottom of the closet. I look forward to reviewing and reliving the CDs I used to keep with me before the days of the iPod (circa 2002-2004). This morning I had difficulty choosing between Lenny Kravitz's Are You Gonna Go My Way? and RHCP's Californication, so I went with Metallica's Ride the Lightning. Fan-tas-tic.

I had the luxury of choice today because, much to my surprise, last weekend I was able to install the deck myself. Of course, I had to buy a wiring kit from Best Buy (purchased with my birthday gift card), procure a handful of wire clamps from O-O-O-O'Reilly, and I also had to root around Amazon.com for a chunk of factory dash to replace what was taken. I'm still missing the AC vents that go above the deck's face, but since my AC doesn't work it's really no big deal. I also had to steal some more wires from my own old and disassembled Pioneer deck that I keep in a McDonald's bag in my apartment. But, after all was said and done, I locked myself into the truck cab last Saturday during halftime of the Gophers' loss to the Badgers and installed that shit. Like a pro. With zero training.

While I was at the front of the truck disconnecting the battery, the hood up and my tool box in hand, a mustachioed stranger wearing a Ford Racing hat walked nearby. "Old Chevy won't start up?" he chuckled. He peered over my shoulder from the sidewalk and shook his head.

"Actually," I corrected him, "Chevy's working just fine. I'm just disconnecting the battery so I don't toast myself replacing the stereo." I ratcheted loose the first bolt. Lefty loosey, that's how it goes.

"You're putting a NEW stereo in this old thing, are ya? Sheesh." He rolled his eyes in disbelief, and his mustache seemed to smile at me in mockery. I spotted some mustard on the collar of his jean jacket.

"No, Sir," I exhaled calmly. "Some ^&$*% broke my window and stole my 11-year old deck the other day." I pointed at the cab so he could look through the window and see what I was talking about. "I'm putting in a used stereo that I got for free. To boot, I'm using some parts and wires that I ripped out of a dead Ford. Can you believe that?" I let loose a big old belly laugh.

"A dead Ford huh? That's too bad..." His eyes got round and he rocked on his heels. Then he walked away. Silently, with no climactic response.

So, alone again, I continued with my project, and in under ten minutes I finished. I reconnected the battery and had the wife join me in the truck for the christening of my new stereo. We noticed right away that old factory speakers sounded crisper and fuller, probably because of the new wires and fresh connection. She sat close to me and I put my arm around her cold, bare shoulders and grinned as I played her some music. I think it was a little Alice in Chains on the radio, and it felt kind of like we'd gone back five years only to find ourselves again sitting in some warm truck with the stereo going and "one more good song" keeping us up and out past our curfews.

The older I get and the more I look back at my fading youth, it seems the majority of my most romantic memories have happened in the cab of a pickup, and this last one was no different. I can't give all the credit to the truck and the tunes though, cuz me and that wife of mine, we make our own music.

And before you get all, "That's so damn corny" on me, you just think about how nice it is to have a lady that'll put up with an old beater truck and exhaust that's almost louder than 15 on the stereo. How nice it is to have a lady who'll listen to anything you put in the CD player. How fun it is that sooner or later, she'll be singing harmonies to "Rooster" or "Master of Puppets" or "Seek and Destroy." It's pretty much the best. Ever. And I wouldn't trade in the truck, or her for that matter, no matter how tempting that Cash For Clunkers crap seems.

Cuz I love my truck and I love my wife. And I don't want to have to rip out and reinstall another car stereo. Those wires make your fingers raw, and it's just mean spirited to make a Ford man feel stupid. Even if it is fun.

My Letter to a Car Stereo Thief

2009-09-28T09:08:00.008-05:00

Dear A**hole Who Stole My Car Stereo,

I hope this letter finds you in a state of discomfort and shame. I can only assume you have just made $5 by pawning my crappy car stereo, and I do not feel sorry that all this will get you is some terrible, plastic-bottle vodka. I hope it gives you gut rot.

If you did not pawn my car stereo, then you should know a few things about it before you install it in your baby momma's ghetto Chevy Caprice with loud pipes and the Checker-brand lift kit. These things are:

- The car stereo was my brother's, and he bought it in 2000. You really owe him the 5 bucks, and you should send it to him in sunny California. Better yet, drop by and deliver it to him personally so he can punch you in your fat face.

- You should know that several buttons have fallen off the CD deck, and several others do not function properly. You will need a toothpick to turn down the volume, and you will likewise need the same toothpick if you wish to adjust the FM tuner. You will need no toothpick for the AM tuner as it does not function at all.

- You will not be able to play CDs unless you can find a way to remove the burned copy of Atmosphere's God Loves Ugly. It has been stuck in there since 2006. However, since this is a great CD, you will be able to enjoy the sound of music without removing it. I, on the other hand, will not be able to enjoy the sound of music. Thanks to you, you wet fart.

I would also like to let you know that since you steal car stereos presumably for a source of income, stealing mine instead of a nice one from a nice car probably lost you money. You suck at analyzing potential profits and losses. We both lost money on the deal, and for that you should feel guilty. Guilty of thievery and of failure at being a decent criminal.

In addition, I would appreciate it if you could come by later this afternoon and clean up the shattered glass you left behind. It is all over my new seat cover and the floor on the passenger side. You should bring gloves if you do not want to cut your fingers, but I could not care less if you lose a little blood, you jackass. I have a shop vac you can use, but this will require my supervision as I do not trust you with my property.

Finally, because you steal sh*t from poor people like me instead of finding an honest job, I had to wake up my wife early this morning on her day off to bring me to work. For her lost sleep and the inconvenience, I charge you with the greatest offense of all. Your sentance will be to allow her to "chew you a new one" and "punch you in the damn nuts."

Sincerely,

The Guy Who Is Shooting You With Mind Bullets

A Trip I Took to Chicago, IL

2009-09-22T17:48:00.004-05:00

Here's something I wrote a few months ago to submit to a foreign (very cheap) travel writing contest. I ended up not winning the grand prize (a trip to Columbia and a couple grand in cash, which was presumably for purchasing lots of cocaine while in Columbia), but I have become the lucky recipient of daily spam from the Brandt Travel Guide of Britain. They seem very interested in booking all of my future (non-existant) travel plans! Anyway, I hope some of you take the time to read it and that it is enjoyable, because the real-life experience was quite memorable. I originally called my entry in the contest "The 'L' Train," but since I can be a little more creative on my own blog, I have changed it to...

The Honeymooner Who Effed Up

I squeezed myself through the Empire Builder’s narrow exit and stepped down to the platform at Chicago’s Union Station. Megan, my wife of one week, followed and gripped my arm. Trains, silver like giant cans of Diet Coke, sat idling along the half-mile of underground track and blew their hot exhaust into the midday dark.

The narrow platform bustled with activity. An amoeba-like blob of travelers hungry for luggage moved together toward Amtrak’s baggage handlers, and children ran playfully amid the chaos, paying no mind to the machines of death they had just deboarded. Cramped from the eight-hour ride from Minnesota, I stretched my legs and weaved through the crowd of shrieking kids and slow-movers with Megan.

We claimed our four bags of honeymooners’ luggage, covered in zippers much like tiny railroad tracks, and aimed our choked noses at the exits. I offered Megan the small bags and hefted the biggest. Despite it being new luggage, a crappy plastic wheel immediately buckled and bent under our portable wardrobe’s weight. While Megan nimbly dodged disoriented seniors and the go-karts carrying their bags, I fell behind quickly, cursing the bum wheel and my chivalry.
Minutes later above ground, the sun poured over my sweaty skin and we straightened our backs to study a map of Chicago’s transit system. Unfamiliar skyscrapers shot upward all around us, perhaps what was then named the Sears Tower among them, and after rotating the map like a Monopoly board between us, Megan and I set our course and began to carry our butts and bags to an elevated section of the westbound Green Line.

“Do you know where we’re getting off the train?” she asked as we labored along the sidewalk.
“Yep, I believe I do.” I recalled in my mind’s eye a local map of our hotel, the Carleton of Oak Park. It sat along the tracks near the end of the Green Line in Ernest Hemingway’s hometown. I had forgotten the name of the stop but convinced myself I would remember soon.
I banged my shins against three flights of stairs made from rusty, bent metal and felt rather like an Olympian after clean-and-jerking the suitcases over the turnstile. Up top, the “L” train platform featured old, white-painted wood just a few years shy of being recycled into death-trap rollercoaster parts. Megan picked a bench where she could wait and chewed her fingernails. In the shade of the wobbly platform, I rejoiced at being finished with walking and sweating for a while, but Megan looked less at ease.

“What’s wrong, Sweetie?”

“This thing scares me, Brendan. It looks like it’s gonna fall down!”

I endeavored to reassure her that trains rarely catch fire or jump off the track into random living rooms, and we looked at the city around us. Nameless skyscrapers casted their shade across our vista, and choppy Lake Michigan lay off in the distance like a giant, breathing cloud beneath the sky.

When our train arrived in all its sudden, clanking glory, we found seats at the back of a packed car. Blue-collar workers read the newspaper after their workday, mothers wrangled their children, minority teens daydreamed between iPod ear buds, and we huddled close to each other, hugging our luggage as we counted the stops until Oak Park, which was my best guess.
Slowly downtown gave way to quiet rail yards, the edges of first-ring suburbs blended with low-income, weathered brick apartments, and the train rocked its way through affluent neighborhoods marked by thick trees and expensive Audis parked outside Walgreens stores.
Megan’s look of discomfort worried me, and she avoided looking out the window. A young Puerto Rican man sporting a White Sox cap and a dark goatee empathized. He smiled and asked, “What’s all them bags for?”

“My husband and I are going to our hotel in Oak Park for our Honeymoon!” she responded with a big smile. “Do you know where the Carleton Inn is?” Her perkiness revived me.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “I don’t know it.”

Undeterred, they chatted for a few minutes about places to eat and drink, sights to see. I piped in when the conversation touched on baseball, and we avoided strangling each other despite our allegiances to rival teams. When an electronic voice announced our arrival at the Oak Park stop, we gathered our things and bid adieu to the kind stranger. Down on the dusty street, Megan appraised her first ride on the “L.”

“Thank God it got less scary. He was so nice to talk to us.” I agreed as I looked at street signs and building names. I didn’t see the Carleton anywhere and crossed the street warily. “Do you know where we are?” Megan asked, surely afraid of the answer. I silently asked for Hemingway’s help and kicked the suitcase’s broken wheel. She probably wanted to kick me.

Alice in Chains at First Avenue, 9/21/09

2009-09-22T08:18:00.005-05:00

I assume if you're stopping by this site, you know I'm an Alice in Chains fan. If you know Alice in Chains, then I assume you know why I'm a fan. I'll even assume you're a fan, cuz hell, the band has incredible appeal. And they're only getting better, as is evident from their raucus, sellout show last night at Minneapolis' historic First Avenue.

This is not to say that the 2002 death of Layne Staley (former lead singer) is a good thing. Quite the contrary. Were Layne still alive, healthy and able to perform with his bandmates, I am certain Alice in Chains would still be a talented, active band. I would enjoy them immensely.

But Layne's life was snuffed out. Alice in Chains was not meant to age gracefully together, and his bandmates and we fans are left with nothing but the choice to dwell on the past or look to tomorrow. Jerry Cantrell and his remaining musical brothers are leading the charge for the future.

To make a long story short, a slow but steady series of events started to unfold in 2005. A few reunion and charity shows led to the naming of a replacement singer (the incredible William DuVall), the making of a new record (to be released this Sept. 29) and the public healing of an amazing, historically withdrawn band.

Because of the deliberate pace at which AIC has tackled these challenges, and because they have continued to emphasize the importance of honesty and respect in their music and business dealings, they appear to have not just recovered from the loss of a great, individual singer; they appear to have aged and improved naturally and organically. They've had the rare pleasure of experiencing good things coming from sadness and heartbreak.

I have been lucky enough to witness Alice in Chains along this journey. I saw them at First Avenue in late 2006 when they introduced the new singer, and I enjoyed their concert at St. Paul's Xcel Center last fall until Scott Weiland (then of Velvet Revolver) started taking off his clothes on stage. With their third time through town last night, Alice in Chains proved that, armed with new material and the welcomed absence of Scott Weiland as a co-headliner, they have continued to evolve and can still produce new, edgy music that stands up to the rest of their catalog.

Their lead singer has grown more comfortable in the spotlight, he has continued to make the old songs his own by putting his own original character into the vocals, and the rest of Alice in Chains has grown visibly happier and more comfortable on stage together. In my humble opinion, they started out in 2006 as a band honoring the memory of their lost singer and friend. Layne's gaping absence could be physically felt at those shows. They have now become a band asserting themselves worthy of determining their own collective future. And thank God for it. These guys still have energy and talent enough to produce great tunes and share them with the fans. And now, instead of feeling the absence of Layne Staley, if you listen closely enough, you can still hear his voice echoing somewhere above Alice's signature vocal harmonies. He is with them in spirit.

For the geeks out there, here is the set list from last night's incredible show:

Rain when i die

Again

Check my brain (new tune)

Them bones

Dam that river

A looking in view (new tune)

We die young

Nutshell

Down in a hole (a pleasant surprise!)

God am

Acid bubble (new tune with two distinctive sections very seamlessly joined together)

Angry chair (one of Layne's own songs)

Man in the box

Would?

Black gives way to blue (new tune, tribute to Layne, will appear on album with piano accompaniment by Sir Elton John)

No excuses

Rooster

Finally, Another Story From a Journalist Who Happens to be an Asshole!

2009-09-21T16:48:00.003-05:00

Almost one year ago, I introduced what I had hoped would become a new feature for this blog. Sadly, there just aren't as many stories about asshole journalists as I had previously thought.

Fortunately, another finally appeared today.

I stumbled across the story whilst googling my way through the interweb during my lunch break. Seeing as I am excited to be seeing Alice in Chains tonight at First Avenue, I searched for AIC-related stories and stumbled across this piece (of crap) from City Pages. You can find my comments at the end (so long as they haven't been removed by the moderator).

You can also get up to date on my longtime love affair with Alice in Chains by reading my previous blog posts on the grunge rockers.

Check back soon for a recap of tonight's show. I expect it shall not disappoint!

More on Megan Fox

2009-09-17T09:34:00.004-05:00

Remember my photo collage from a few days ago? The one that outed me as the world's biggest (and possibly only) Megan Fox hater? Well, I am no longer alone. It seems some of the crew from the Transformers movies consider her to be "classless" and "dumb as a rock" (see photo below). Click here for more! And remember, I hated her first.

What I Think About When We Talk About the Metrodome

2009-09-16T13:08:00.011-05:00

Unless you're a cadaver with a toe tag (such as the personified play-off hopes of the Chicago White Sox), you're well aware that the Twins will be playing their last game at the HHH Metrodome in less than two weeks. If you haven't yet read or heard a story about the Twins' impending departure from the Dome, check your pulse and turn on the TV. Literally thousands of people, fans and media members alike, have chimed in with an opinion regarding either the wonder of the new park or the quirkiness of the Dome. Until this point, I have taken in pride in having resisted the urge to further saturate the interweb with another opine on the subject. But now the time has come for me to join the lemmings. I can no longer remain silent.

It occurred to me recently that I, of all people, have quite a bit to say about the old inflatable toilet. Now, I won't bore you with details you already know about the Dome, and I won't gush about the new park just yet. I haven't even set foot in the place yet, so I'm hardly qualified to have any feelings about it. No, my area of expertise lies elsewhere. I plan to list my favorite Metrodome memories.

Before you speak up and say, "Wait, Brendan. There's hundreds of those lists out there already. I thought you were going to do something fresh and new?" Relax. Read on. I am aware that you already know plenty about the biggest Twins/Vikings/Gophers moments at the Dome. There are too many to list, and it seems everyday another memorable play is made. Shoot, we may even see more occur tonight as the Twins take on the division-leading Motor City Kitties. With that in mind, I am not going to regurgitate the most famous Metrodome Memories that we Minnesotans all know about; I'm talking here about my favorite personal memories that happened to take place at the Dome. Because those matter more to me.

That building hasn't housed just a bunch of great teams and a couple of World Series victiories. It hasn't hosted just a bunch of ballgames and historic milestones. It has also served as the backdrop and meeting place for some of the most fun times of my life. And that's what this is about. Me, bitches.

The first thing you need to know is that I have spent a lot of time at the Metrodome, and after this season is complete, it is likely that I may never go back to the place. It takes a little air out of my lungs thinking about that. Here's why I will miss the Dome, in no particular order:

- I took Jabari to a Twins game at the Dome in '05. It was some time in June on a rare day off from working at Swatch, and the Dodgers were in town for the first time since 1965. I'm not going to tell you about the historical significance of the series, or that the Twins rocked the Dodgers with eight runs in the first inning thanks to Torii Hunter's grand slam, cuz you don't need me to tell you about those things. You have google. But, what you don't know and what google can't tell you is that I bonded with Bari that day. We ate lots of hot dogs. We talked for nine innings and grew to understand each other. The game was great, but the friendship that building helped cement is a little more valuable and enduring.

- I watched a game that same week with some random Norwegian kids that had bought watches from me at work. They were both about 10 years old and hadn't seen a baseball game in their lifetime. I got to talk endlessly about Joe Mauer and Torii Hunter and Johan Santana, and those kids made me feel like the God of Baseball (which I'm not, but I enjoyed playing). It's been said that baseball is a kids' game, and grown-ups just mess it up. That experience proved it to me. Kids are just more fun at baseball games.

- Every year in early April, no matter how shitty the weather, the Twins welcome the New York Yankees to the Dome. These games usually coincide with Meg K's bday, and so we have made a habit of putting on our YANKEES SUCK gear to celebrate her graceful aging. For us, the games don't matter nearly as much as the tradition. We relish the opportunity to see how the current year's team will stack up against the best of the best, and we get our fix on the Dome Dogs that we are forced to miss all through the winter. It's the start of baseball season and the marker of another year spent happily booing the Yankees together.

- Twins Fest allowed us to walk on the field with the players, get some much-needed exercise on the Dome stairs and buy cheap, close-out goods from the pro-shop. It's another lovely tradition.

- Back in the Summer of '02, Metallica hosted a massive concert down on the field of the Metrodome. They headlined with the Deftones, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park and Mudvayne. Metallica was performing in support of their terrible album St. Anger, but the album was so fresh and my love for 'tallica so strong, that I didn't care and went with my buds regardless. Besides, Metallica was introducing their new bassist Robert Trujillo and playing all the old thrashers. Who could skip that!? It proved to be a killer time, and Chad even lost his shoes while crowd surfing in the mosh pit.

- Back in '98, I watched an old friend sing The Star-Spangled Banner before the game, and the Twins introduced me to Interleague Play by smashing Sammy Sosa and the Chicago Cubs. Sosa, who was in the middle of his HR chase with McGwire at the time, knocked one out of the park, but my Twins still pulled off the victory.

- All the games with Meg. Not one stands out above all the others, but they all blend together like a (mostly) rosy-hued slideshow highlighting our best (and hardest) times together. We wore matching Bride and Groom jerseys one summer. She went to a game for her bachelorette party, and I have a pic with her head inside TC Bear's mouth. Of course, There was the last game of the season in '06 when the Twins clinched the division and ran laps around the field to shake hands with the fans. My legs shook from the 6th inning on, and Megan held my hand and kept me calm.

- There was also a game that same Fall when Megan and I learned of her close friend's death after the game had ended. I stood shocked and helpless among the crowd as they exited through the revolving doors, and Megan sobbed and wailed into my chest, beating my shoulders raw with her fists. The game didn't matter that day. The building in the background didn't either, really. But that is where we were when the world blurred and changed. And that means I will always remember the good times and the bad when I think of the place.

The story of the Dome, in my opinion, cannot be told in a linear fashion, and it cannot be told holding in regard only the sports-related moments that have occurred there. For me, that building is a touchstone for an entire period of my life. Just as a Church or an office or a back yard may be for you. It may not be that good things only happened there, but the Dome is where I sat when I made new friends. It is where I was living life most fully as I was falling in love with the girl I call my smokin' hot wife.

In that quirky, marshmallow-roofed building, I learned how much fun Megan could have and how big of a kid she could be. I learned what it was to be needed and helpless when it comes to influencing the outcome of life's events, be they baseball scores or the arbitrary broken heart. I grew up in those stands.

If I'm lucky, I'll have some more growing up to do at the new ballpark. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll get to be a kid again.

Simulate the Rest of the Season?

2009-09-14T16:20:00.012-05:00

Here we are on September 14th with about two weeks left of the MLB season. Some of the divisional and wild card races may go down to the wire, particularly in the increasingly interesting NL West, but here in the land o' the American Central, the standings are all but decided. To date, the Detroilet Tigers have a solid lead over the Twins and the Pale Hose, and even though a good handful of games remain between the three rivals, it's likely all those games will do is help decide which team finishes the '09 campaign in second place behind the striped pussy cats.

As a Twins fan, it is very hard to admit defeat before the fat lady sings or Elvis walks through the double doors. This is because my Hometown Team has made a habit of defying the odds and succeeding as the underdog in recent years. And although I still reserve a very modest amount of hope for the M&M Boys & Co., it's plain to see that this September, and this season really, is shaping up to be one of the most forgettable and yawn inducing in a long time. In order to spare myself some anxiety, and really just to speed up things so I can get on with enjoying the Fall and Winter Sports, I decided to fire up the Play Station and simulate the rest of the '09 season à la MLB The Show. I present to you the high(and low)lights that we have to look forward to in the coming weeks.

- Mike Redmond hits another triple, but this time he loses his shoes as they get stuck in the tar beneath his slow-moving feet.

- Joe Crede sneezes and pulls yet another muscle in his back. He finishes the season on the DL.

- Delmon Young tracks and chases after his first flyball of the second half. He misjudges it in the lights and allows it to bounce off his huge ass. Six runs score on the play.

- Jason "Wolfman" Kubel finishes his best season yet with a great surge in power. He homers in each of the season's final three games and proceeds to howl at the moon above Target Field.

- Joe Nathan notches his 40th save of the season and singlehandedly saves Rick Anderson's job for another year.

- Joe Mauer edges out Derek Jeter, who happens to wear ladies' underwear, and is named the AL's MVP with a .370 BA and 30 HRs, despite missing the final six games of the season with a tragic sideburn-related injury.

- Jose Morales solidifies his spot on the roster as Joe Mauer's backup next season. Mike Redmond starts a very successful career managing in the Twins' farm system.

- Nick Punto's official bathroom scale increases its weight capacity to 215 lbs. after his batting average skyrockets above the Mendoza Line.

-Scott Baker, Brian Duensing, Francisco Liriano, Matt Guerrier, Jesse Crain and Jose Mijares combine their efforts to no-hit the Kansas City Royals. Gardy gets ejected for arguing that this should not be possible.

- The Tigers clinch the Central and are promptly mauled in the first round. The Twins take second with a record just a shade over .500, and the White Sox finish the year wondering why the hell they bothered with Jake Peavy before the off-season.

- The Yanks sweep the Series from the Cards even though A-Rod goes 0 for 16 with -6 RBIs. Yankee haters take solace knowing that Joe Mauer has promised to stay with the Twins and tag out every Yankee that tries to cross home plate at Target Field.

- TC Bear tells Miguel Cabrera to go on a diet.

- While legging out a moonshot, walk-off home run during the Twins' final game at the Dome, Justin Morneau huffs, puffs and finally blows the house down.

Don't Pawn Your Fancy Calculator for Pot Money

2009-09-04T10:18:00.009-05:00

Autumn is almost here. Baseball season is winding down, Maple trees are yellowing and snot-nosed kids everywhere are shuffling their new white Reeboks back into the classroom. I despise those damn shoes with the effing wheels in the heels. It's times like these I count myself lucky to be among the employed citizenry; unlike students, grown ups rarely make you trip over your own feet in a crowded hallway.

Seems to me every time apple-picking season approaches, I'm reminded of day-long trips through Target. Nowhere does time tick by more slowly than when pushing a cart behind Mom or Dad at the department store (except maybe in the classroom). It was an annual Labor-Day ritual that we'd crawl through the aisles, me clutching some teacher's salmon-colored list of required supplies, and Mom striving to save a dime on a bundle of those rectangular, stinky pink erasers. You know the kind; they leave nothing but black marks on the paper and rubber residue on your hands. Just as in my adult life, the harder I tried to fix and hide a mistake in math class, the more obvious and streaked with shame it became. In my mind, giant, glaring black smudges cover the worn and torn paper that lists my f*ck ups.

One fall, maybe during my 8th grade year, Dad asked me what I needed aside from the usual looseleaf paper and plain, non-Lisa Frank folders. I told him my Algebra teacher, a sweaty Jewish chess instructor, required the purchase of a fancy TI-85 graphing calculator. "He says we can find one at Target for about 90 dollars," I told my dad.

"90 bucks!? You gotta be shitting me, Kid."

I shit you not, I thought. But I just looked at my feet instead, embarrassed that I should have to feel guilty for needing some unwanted mini-computer.

"Do all the kids have to get one of these things?" He asked, and I nodded. Then, "I have an idea, Kid!" He smiled and told me to get in the god-damned car.

He took me to a pawn shop in Saint Paul and stood me in front of a case full of semi-functioning calculators, right next to a pile of used vaccuum cleaner parts. One TI-83 had a cracked screen, another TI-86 was missing a few buttons and at least five TI-85s had their inner wiring snaking out from their battery compartments. I struggled to find one that would allow me to both complete my homework and survive the school year without being labeled as "The Kid With the Fire-Hazard Calculator." The clerk helped us settle on a $40 model that even

included an instruction manual. Aside from it being inexplicably larger than the other calculators, I was pleased that it had no noticeable flaws. I took it to school the next day and was ready to find some hypotenuses.

But that day, when my sweaty teacher made his way through the aisles, slowly like my mom at Target, he stopped beside my desk and pointed at my pawn-shop purchase.

"That TI-85 is hot," he told me.

"Hot? What?" Like sexy? I wondered. Does he want to slip the cover off my calculator and see it perform some functions in private?

"Stolen. Why do you have a stolen calculator?" He picked it up and explained that teachers' models came with a large compartment on the back for connecting it to an overhead projector.

"I-I-I got it at a pawn shop," I told him, visibly sweaty just like him. Only mine was anxious sweat. All the kids were watching it run down my forehead and into my stinging eyes. "I thought that big thing on the back was for a battery or something."

"Oh no," he told me. "Maybe someone ripped off a teacher and got a few bucks for this bad boy. Probably some drug dealer," he sighed. "In any case, I've got my eye on you if a teacher reports one missing." He walked away and I wished I could trip him in the aisle. The classroom vibrated with laughter, but I did not contribute. I just cursed my luck. Factor this, I thought, and I did my homework in silence.

Luckily, my embarrassment was limited. After class, other kids sought me out to ask if it was true that I'd stolen the calculator from a teacher. Of course it wasn't true, but I took credit for appearing cooler than I actually was. "Yes," I told them. "This is evidence of my awesomeness."

"Hey let me put some calculator games on there," a classmate offered. "You want Tetris? Frogger? Drug Wars."

"Please," I said. I took 'em all. I played Drug Wars every day in math class until I became the Heroin Czar of the Western Hemisphere. I became addicted to Drug Wars. I raced around New York's subways and racked up millions of dollars. I bought a private plane to charter around that little 3-inch calculator screen, and I pretty much owned a police force for protection. And when the school year ended, just like any good drug dealer, I went to the pawn shop and sold them back the TI-85. Instruction manual and all. I don't recall what I did with the money, but I know I miss Drug Wars.

Signs That Summer is Over

2009-09-03T13:26:00.003-05:00

The Vikings are playing football
I regretted leaving my jacket at home this morning
I'm a year older
The Twins are making a playoff push, but all anyone talks about is next season
The Knights of Bowlumbus are gearing up for another season at the Lanes.
I've eaten all my favorite State Fair Foods
I have four weddings to go to in the next six weeks
I've scheduled my Flu Shot
I smell leaves burning
My non-existant Irishman's Tan is gone for good
The weather is finally sunny, dry and not humid for more than five minutes
I'm planning to go fishing with my Pa for Labor Day
It's dark by 8pm
I've tested the heater in the pickup
I haven't had the AC on in the apartment for two weeks
Target got rid of the back-to-school section, and Christmas Decorations have appeared
TV Re-run season is finally over

Things That Make Me Think of Megan Fox

2009-09-03T08:02:00.003-05:00

It Is A Good Thing to Consider One's Mortality

2009-08-26T13:09:00.008-05:00

I turned 26 yesterday and celebrated in style, despite my reflective mood. After a good day at the office, Ma and Pa accompanied Megan and me to the Twins game. I had a Dome Dog, a Coke and some Swedish Fish. Delish. I pondered the tragedy of Tony Oliva's knee injuries, and I realized it might have been my last game at the Dome. But that was not as sad as I would have guessed. I find it tough to mourn the Death of the Dome when the grounds crew is installing gorgeous green grass across town at Target Field.

While at the game, we saw the short-lived, major-league debut of new Twins' pitcher Armando Gabino. He gave up a few walks, a few hits and a few-too-many runs in his short outing, but of course I couldn't really tell if he'll be an exciting pitcher at this level. He did appear at times to have a very deceptive and effective low-80s changeup. Regardless, the Twins beat Baltimore for their fifth straight win (which happens to be their longest unbeaten streak all year) and moved into a second-place tie with Chicago, just 4.5 games behind the Tigers.

Possibly to my shame, I wrote off the Twins less than a fortnight ago. The combination of bad pitching and inconsistent play had me convinced my Twins would struggle to achieve anything better than a third-place finish. Well, in true homer fashion, I will retract that bit about the Twins being toasted. Who knows now where they'll finish? They have, at least for the time being, delayed any further predictions regarding their 2009 season. Maybe they'll keep on keepin' on. I'm just glad they proved me wrong by displaying a few signs of life this late in the season.

In other sports news, the Minnesota Wild's new jersery got leaked about five days early. You can either wait to see it at the official unveiling with Boogaard at the MN State Fair this weekend, or you can see it here in all its green glory (go ahead, sneak a peak! It's kickass!)

Between my b-day, the Twins' season, the Death of the Dome and the promise of a new hockey season, I've got a lot of drama competing for head space. It's no wonder that my mind has randomly (maybe not so much considering I'm another year older) drifted to the idea of mortality. And legacies. Such as, what will the Twins do to help us remember fondly their last year in the Dome? What will the new field be like during the snowy, cold Aprils to come? And how will the new hockey sweater be looked at in hindsight? Finally, I wonder, what will I be remembered for if I, unfortunately, kick the bucket today at the ripe old age of 26 (and a day)? Will I be regarded like any of these people who died before their time?

Otis Redding and Gram Parsons died at 26. So did Joe C. (Kid Rock's rapping midget) and Hobey Baker. Since none of us has a flux capacitor, we have to depend on what google, wikipedia and our parents can tell us to determine how well these dead dudes used their 26 years on Earth. So, I must ask, what would google and wikipedia say about you? Can you skate as fast as Hobey Baker? And what would our parents say about me? Did they write me off too soon as I did to the Twins? Do they find me foul-mouthed like Joe C.? Or are they likely to remember me sittin' at the dock of the bay, singing some sad song about weary women?

I hope those who would eulogize for me would try a little tenderness, such as what Ted Kennedy for his brother Bobby at the time of his death. Seems he used his many years the best he knew how, despite the tragedy that it is to be a Kennedy.

We could all do worse, but we should all do a little bit better.

Mega-Man 3 Kicked Ass, I Think

2009-08-12T12:31:00.003-05:00

You ever notice that negative childhood memories can haunt you and stick with you, for no apparent reason other than to remind you of humiliation, confusion or senseless pain? Yeah, I thought you may have.

This morning I found myself thinking of Christmas 1990. My bro Patrick and I had recieved Mega-Man III for NES, and some of my happiest video game memories of all time took place in the week immediately following that X-mas. You know how it was back then, don't you? Christmas break lasted forever, and when you weren't outside building snowforts or plunking your little sister in the head with iceballs, you were downstairs in the dark playing with that new video game or whichever toy from Santa's bag had become your favorite. Mega-Man III was stellar. It is my favorite toy from an entire childhood, but I barely remember a thing about it. That's because after only one week with the game, I never saw it again. Here's what happened; what happened is this:

A few days after Christmas, Pat and I were talking to the older neighborhood kids about our gifts. One kid from across the street, a much older 6th grader we called Dickhead Mike, was thrilled to hear about our acquisition of Mega-Man III. So thrilled, in fact, that he followed us home that afternoon and asked if he could borrow it. My brother and I wanted nothing more than to say no and tell him to stick it, but our pa was standing by at the doorway to yell at us about something, probably about all the melting snow we were bringing in the house, and he overheard Dickhead Mike's request.

"Let him be a kid," Pa said, whatever that meant. Pat and I looked at each other in confusion. We had expected Pa to be our silent ally and tell the neighbor kid no and then challenge him to a fistfight. But he didn't. "Give him the game," he said. So we did, and Dickhead Mike trudged off through the snow toward his house. Pat and I retreated to the basement and played with some of our less-cool toys. Etch-a-Sketch (which has become much cooler in retrospect), Legos, Wrestling Buddies, etc... I silently thought about Mega-Man III and felt guilty in my gut, as though I had been disloyal to a true friend. "How could I have let it go with that jerk?" I thought to myself.

Fast forward one week, give or take a day. Pat and I managed, somehow, to make it almost seven days before going back for our game. I don't remember much about that week, but it was probably one of the lamest of my young life. I mean, all I had to play with was a wrestling buddy, and I was most likely grounded for bruising my sister's cornea with an iceball. It happened every winter. Regardless, the time had come to reclaim our Christmas joy from Dickhead Mike. Pat and I stomped across the street to his house and knocked on the door. Dickhead Mike answered.

"Hey Mike, we've come to negotiate a trade-back for Mega-Man III." Yeah, we talked like that when I was 7.

"Oh, I don't have it," Dickhead Mike said. "Brandon wanted to play it." Dickhead Mike pointed down the street to the house where Brandon, another 6th grader, lived. We followed his direction and dragged our feet through the snow in old man Giles' front yard. Then we arrived at Brandon's door and knocked. Brandon came to the door.

"Mike says you have our Mega-Man III video game. Please surrender it immediately." Pat and I felt pretty smart. Brandon shook his head.

"Sorry, I gave it to Adam." Brandon pointed at another house, this one further down the street. Pat and I shoved off the stoop and kept at our journey silently. I don't recall thinking much or panicking; this was simply what happened to toys lent out. I remember a red and white batting glove I had for Little League. I let another kid use it during a game and forgot to get it back after I fit a few dingers, made an unassisted double play to win the game and went to DQ. I had to spend the next two days riding my bike around the neighborhood trying to track down the glove. It had miraculously changed hands about six times before I got it back. I had learned, basically, that if you let another kid use your shit, stick with it, break some kneecaps and you'll get it back.

The news from Adam, however, didn't jive with my previous life experience. "I never had the game. I don't know what you're talking about," he told us.

"But Mike and Brandon said--" I started.

"Mike's a liar. He's probably playing your game right this minute." Adam closed the door and Pat and I turned back toward Dickhead Mike's place.

"Adam's probably right," Pat told me.

"Yeah, we'll get the game," I agreed. We walked and sweated beneath our snowsuits and long-johns. I believed we would eventually emerge victoriously, and I couldn't wait to get my hands wrapped around my Nintendo controller. I pretended my right hand was Mega-Man's laser gun and used it to liquify the snowbanks we passed along the way. Dickhead Mike answered the door before we knocked, and I kept my laser gun at the ready. We didn't even have a prayer.

"I told you goons I don't have your game!" He started before we could speak. "Get out of here!" He slammed the door. I cried and felt frightened. I dropped my laser gun and ran home with Pat trailing behind. When we got in the house we tracked our wet boots across the kitchen floor to where Pa sat at the table.

"Dad! Mike won't give us our game back!!!" Pat and I looked at him hopefully, praying for his help.

"What game are you talking about?"

"The video game you told us to let him borrow!" We cried in unison. Pa looked bamboozled.

" 'Let him be a kid,' you said." How could he not remember?

"I did no such thing," Pa said, honestly convinced he had played no party to the disappearance of our game. "I wouldn't trust that kid farther than I could throw him. Now go to your room and be quiet." Pa dismissed us and continued paying his bills with a scowl across his face.

Pat and I carefully lifted our jaws from the floor and retreated to our bedroom. We talked about what we'd do to get the game back and how we would find it. We made plans, and I remember dreaming about a covert rescue mission with flying machines and robotic rescue dogs. A mission that never happened. Not in the 20 years since.

I'm sorry, Mega-Man, wherever you are.

A New Take on Canada's National Anthem

2009-08-09T15:27:00.004-05:00

Oh MVP!
Our sexy First Baseman.
Thunder from above
With a quick glove hand.

With open mouths
And bulging eyes,
We see The North Star's within your reach.

With tar from Pine,
Oh 33,
Drop bombs over the Baggy.

Gardie's clean-up man
Always swinging free.
Oh MVP,
We love your AC/DC!

Oh MVP,
We stand to cheer for thee!

The Twins Fans' Prayer

2009-08-05T15:39:00.005-05:00

Our Mauer, who hit .400,

Hallowed be thy Game;

Thy swing is sweet,

Swift are thy feet,

Thy arm fires balls toward the heavens.

Give us this day game a pinch-hit at bat,

And forgive us our lack of faith,

As you beat those that scored against us.

And lead us into the Postseason,

But deliver us from the Yankees.

For thine is the fandom,

Power to all fields, and the Sideburns,

For ever and ever.

Go Twins.

My Favorite Things To Do With Coca-Cola

2009-07-24T13:02:00.006-05:00

When it comes to Coca-Cola, I thought I knew what to do with it. It's good for drinking, of course, but Google taught me today that it can be used for so much more. Here are some crazy things to do with my favorite beverage.

Remove rust by scrubbing the affected area with a cloth, sponge or piece of foil brushed with Coke.

Take out that pesky evidence of a bloody nose. The real thing will clean your shirt like new!

Prevent an asthma attack! I wish I'd known this sooner. Apparently, the caffeine in two cans can prevent the onset of an attack.

Clean burnt pans; let the pan soak in the Coke, then rinse. I guarantee I will try this the next time I burn Meg's eggs.

Neutralize a jellyfish sting (better than peeing on it).

Clean car battery terminals by pouring a small amount of Coke over each one. I've tried this and it works.

Relieve an upset stomach (aka “the runs”). Especially after a trip to Hooters for wings. Nobody wants to shart.

Shake up a can and pour it over your bumper or windshield to remove bugs and other crud. I guess this is fine if you're too lazy to scrub. Be a man, just drink the Coke instead.

Clean your engine; Coke distributors have been using this technique for decades. But what do the Pepsi drivers do when they break down? Call AAA?

Make a sweet BBQ sauce. Mix a can of Coke with ketchup and glaze your meat grub.

Add a can of coke to your pot roast to tenderize it and add extra flavor. Extra sexy flavor.

Pour a little in a cup and set it out an hour before a picnic, away from your site; it will attract wasps and bees so they’re not bugging you and your grub. I'll use Pepsi for this instead. I'd hate to see the Coke just sit there.

Remove stains from toilet. Ewwwwww.... I know a thing or two about this.

Add Coke to your laundry to remove bad smells, especially fish. What? Fish don't smell bad.

Supposedly, drinking an 8oz can of Coke every day can prevent kidney stones. I would love to prevent those.

Add it to sloppy joes, slop sloppy joes.

Add it to vodka, rum or bourbon. I prefer the rum.

Drink it straight from the can when cold, then make that satisfied "Taaaaaahhhh" noise from the commercials.

Survival of the Fittest

2009-07-11T15:30:00.011-05:00

Do you know how good it felt to sleep in Saturday? I'll tell you how good it felt. Like an upper-thigh massage. Sleeping til 830 is like that. Feel free to take a moment.

I usually wake up at 630 on weekdays, and I know that's not very early compared to the rooster or my old man the city builder. But you know what? Sleeping til 830 feels great no matter when you typically drag your ass outta bed. Unless you sleep til noon. Then you're a bum, and 830 feels as shitty as any other time of day. More on bums later.

Maybe the best part of sleeping in was waking up, showering and shaving (like a man with my pine-tar soap) and realizing enough morning remained to leisurely enjoy the still-cool sunshine and breeze. And to celebrate the utterly and perfectly empty Summer day at our disposal, Meg and I decided to put on our damn flippy floppies and head to the downtown (technically Lowertown) Saint Paul Farmer's Market.

Because it was our first trip to the Farmer's Market together, my excitement was bigger than Delmon Young's ass. So large, in fact, that I didn't even get discouraged when we got stuck on one-ways behind Idiots Without Blinkers. A parking spot was hard to come by, but we found an open meter on the edge of a dog park around 6th and Wacouta, and I didn't even have to cut off any other drivers. They just stared enviously. Problem solved.

The market itself was bigger, noisier, busier and better-smelling than all of my expectations. A live swing band played the hell out of standards, and people roamed from stand to stand all willy-nilly without regard to lines, traffic flow or my uncovered toes (note to self: wear tennis shoes when among a crowd). I forgot all about the strollers wheeling over my little piggies, however, when we smelled the bacon and brats cooking. Meg and I enjoyed a pretty sweet snack of cheddar brats, mine covered in cole slaw, and even survived an attack by some lady's domesticated shoulder bird (WTF!?) Yeah, I was surprised, too. Picture a yellow, rat-like feather bomb perched on some soccer mom in the middle of 2009. She wasn't a pirate, no peg leg or eye patch as you might have assumed, and the bird still could fly. I know because it flew at my neck. I guess the bird got spooked by some kid dropping a slushy nearby. Here's a tip, Bird Lady: Leave the kids or the bird at home; they both defy Darwin.

During the rest of our time at the market, I enjoyed the "Free Sampo Sampos!" I sampled chocolate sauce, raspberries, crackers with organic butter and some cranberry sausage. Gastric bliss. We loaded up with a ripe tomato, Yukon Golds, fresh strawberries, cinnamon-swirl bread, cheddar ham links, wild rice and jalapeno cheddar bratwursts, BBQ baby-back ribs and a full $5 bouquet of colorful lillies from the cutest six-year old florist you could imagine. A much better kid than I ever was, the little girl wouldn't even accept my dollar tip. I would have looked at the dollar bill and seen a cavity's worth of jolly ranchers, but she just said, "Thank you, here are your flowers for the pretty lady!" All this for under $50.

Eventually our shopping came to an end, and we happily made our way back to the ol' Chevy pickup, talking about our delicious dogs and heaping pile of lillies. I opened the door for Meg and loaded our goods as she slid in, and with a level of very embarrassing, suburban-grown discomfort, I kept the corners of my eyes focused on two drunk bums on the park bench nearby. (Ahh, yes. I promised more bums, didn't I?)

When I hopped in the truck and stuck the key in the ignition I literally thought to myself, "Drunk before one on a Saturday. F*ckin' classy." They laughed together, probably at the visibly tense, clumsy suburban white boy with the dumpy truck, and lounged on the park bench like they owned it. They sat straight up, though, when I turned the key and, instead of a loud motor coming to life, we all heard the echo of an empty click. Click. Click.

I sat in disbelief, sweat instantly gathering between my shoulder blades and butt cheeks. I worried about all the frozen meats thawing, going to waste and sweating like me. Meg did her job and played the part of concerned, supportive wife. "Should I call your dad and tell him your truck won't start?"

"No, thanks though. I already know what he'll tell me to do." So, I slid out of the truck, popped the hood and listened to my dad's constant advice as it replayed in my head.

Is it the battery? No, the lights work. Check your connections. Yeah, Dad, they're connected and clean. Get under the truck and bang on the starter. All right, I'll lay on the dirty ground with my clean shirt and clean shorts. I'll stick my arms between grease-coated and dirt-covered truck parts. Well I'm not gonna do it for you, Kid. (Dad's a smart mouth even in my imagination).

"Hey whatchoo doin' boy?" I heard behind me, and I jumped. A drunk, red-eyed and middle-aged black man had appeared at my side. His buddy still sat on the park bench, but apparently the man at my side needed to see what was going on. I saw Megan in the truck and her eyes were as wide as Delmon Young's ass. I couldn't find my voice. "I'm mechanic," he slurred. "You gotta dead truck? Need a jump?"

"No thanks. Lights work, so I think I need to get under there and bump the starter a bit."

"You need to get under there and hit the starter," he told me, nodding confidently. "I'm mechanic, so you've got to know I'm smart about this."

Good God, it took all my effort to hold in my laughter. If nothing else, this harmless drunk man who'd made me so uncomfortable just minutes before only relieved some tension by echoing my own decisions and narrating my actions. So I opened the truck door, leaned the seat forward and grabbed my pounding tool, a tough old tire iron. He greeted Megan and stood at my side as I folded myself onto the pavement and under my truck. I found the starter wedged between the wheel well and the engline block and gave it a couple gentle knocks, freeing loose from the truck's underside a flurry of hardened grease flakes. They landed in my eyes. "Fuck!" I said.

"You've got to hit the starter. It looks like a big pop can, you see?"

"Yeah, thanks for the tip." Fuckin' bozo, I thought to myself.

"He's got to hit the starter, you see?" He addressed Megan. I imagined her sitting above me, stifling laughter or fear, wishing to be anywhere else. I blinked away the stinging crap in my eyes and kept knocking until I felt I'd succeeded. I rolled out from under and hopped to my feet.

"Did you give it a good whack?"

"Yessir. Meg, start her up for me?" She reached across the cab and her magic fingers worked the switch. The truck roared to life, and I walked to the driver's side and tucked away the tire iron, curious if I'd need it for anything else.

"Look at that. I started your truck, didn't I? Told you! I'm mechanic."

"You didn't do shit," his buddy shouted from the park bench a few feet away. "Kid's covered in dirt and all you did was stand there yappin' like some professor."

I hid my smile and took my seat. The drunk man leaned in my window and continued to sell me on his mechanical aptitude. "How 'bout a five spot, Boss? For the trouble?" he asked.

"Sorry, not a dollar to spare." His vodka breath burned my nostrils and Meg squeezed my hand.

"Care for a lily?" I offered.

"What the hell would I do with a flower?" He shouted. I got anxious to leave and put the truck in gear. "I'll settle for a handshake," he said. Relieved, I offered my hand through the window.

"Thanks very much for your trouble. I'm Brendan." He gripped my hand and nodded.

"Wes," he said, and he stalked off to his bench to resume lecturing his buddy on his abilities.

I drove off with Meg slowly, wiping sweat off my forehead and black rust from my eyes. And I decided a drink sounded just perfect, in a few hours.

Sarah Palin Resigns, Time for Jokes!

2009-07-06T12:46:00.007-05:00

Let's see if I can get Letterman's attention with this list of...

Top Ten Reasons For Sarah Palin's Resignation

10. Training for Celebrity Boxing Match: Palin vs. Letterman!!!

9. Her daughter is pregnant again, and it's Palin's turn to act like it's hers.

8. Switching places with Tina Fey.

7. Vogue Magazine convinced her to return to the beauty pageant circuit (cover above should be filed under: backfired, practical jokes).

6. Duh, more time to go shopping.

5. Someone has accused her of embezzling state funds to improve her home's feng shui

(wait... this one is true).

4. Alaskan Wildlife officials caught her putting lipstick on a fish.

3. Got lost in her back yard and Russia is imprisoning her for trespassing.

2. Needs to gear up for campaign to be America's Next Top Hockey Mom.

1. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

Alice in Chains Releases Rockin' New Tune

2009-07-01T12:33:00.003-05:00

Howdy Rock n' Roll Ninjas, and welcome to another joyous day in the world of Alice in Chains news. Before I blow your mind with today's happy announcement, get yourself up to speed on recent rumblings from me and the rest of the AIC lovers on the interweb.

Yesterday, the last day of June 2009, AIC released via radio and aliceinchains.com their very first new song in over a decade. The song, entitled "A Looking In View," is the first of many killer tracks featured on their upcoming album Black Gives Way to Blue, which is slated for a Sept. 29 release. Head over to the band's website, enter your email address and they'll give you a free download of the sludgiest, grungiest most beautifully dark music to come outta Seattle since they threw away their flannel shirts.

The song, of course, is a masterpiece according to me. Clocking in at just under 7 minutes, it features loud bass, cutting lead guitar and vocals from all angles and depths, courtesy of the harmonically-inclined Jerry Cantrell and his nooby ass-kickin' lead singer William DuVall (dude looks just like Earl's crab man!). Along with the song, the band also released a full lineup of North American dall tour dates. They'll be busting down the doors of First Ave again come September! And that's good news, cuz I just don't have the funds to catch 'em in Dublin with Metallica. I'll blame Bernie Madoff, cuz that show would be a freaking thrill.

The Ten Commandments of Baseball

2009-06-13T10:16:00.004-05:00

Greetings baseball fans. While watching the feel-good, family baseball movie The Final Season this morning, I picked up on a reference to rule number six on the list below. I hadn't heard of it before, so after some googling, I stumbled across the rest of the gems.

Turns out these Ten Commandments have been floating around in something close to this form for over 80 years. I find them insightful, funny and applicable to many areas of life other than baseball. But, since I am a very devout member of the Church of Baseball, I will remember to not read too much into them and enjoy them for what they are. They're posted here for your convenience.

The Ten Commandments of Baseball

1. Nobody ever becomes a ballplayer by walking after a ball.
2. You will never become a .300 hitter unless you take the bat off your shoulder.
3. If what you did yesterday still looks big to you, you haven't done much today.
4. Keep your head up and you may not have to keep it down.
5. When you start to slide, SLIDE. He who changes his mind may have to change a good leg for a bad one.

6. Do not alibi on bad hops. Anybody can field the good ones.
7. Always run them out. You never can tell.
8. Never quit.
9. Do not find too much fault with the umpires. You cannot expect them to be as perfect as you are.

10. A pitcher who hasn't control hasn't anything.

Sweeter Than the Sweetest Soda

2009-06-09T20:25:00.003-05:00

Meg K. is a fine boxer. She throws a wicked one-two, and I'd call her hook mighty. Drywall test: she passed it. Put her fist through a wall and brought out a handful of scratchy, pink fiberglass insulation. Didn't flinch. She squeezed. Of course, this is no surprise to me, or to the many of you who've taken a stern sucker punch to the gut from angry/playful Miss Megan. (Kirk? Bari? Adam and Tim?)

Note the photo above (It sits on my desk at work as a constant reminder to stay on task). Even on our wedding day, she had up her Dukes. I will venture to say there's nothing quite as lovely as a Badass Bride. What amazes me most is that this photo looks genuine. Cuz folks, this is just a pose. Call it "Don't Fuck Around, It's My Wedding!" She's relaxed and ready. A real natural. Like somone just told her the cake ain't ready. Or maybe a groomsman said some stupid shit. Believable. Possible. But untrue. Untrue cuz the photo is just the result of a simple concession she made for the crowd (me and the photographer) between smiles and blushes. Just a little fun, you feel me? Thank God for fun.

I'm having my own fun right now. Meg's clobbering her virtual punching bag with Wii Fit, and I'm watching. Writing. Typing. Backspacing. Lying on the couch and sipping a delicious Cherry Coke. Caffiene after 8 is usually a mistake, but to Hell with the consequences! I'd like to stay up late enough to watch the West Coast Twins game anyway.

I have to celebrate this Cherry Coke, too. It's special. It's a surprise Cherry Coke. You see, I haven't bought a case of the stuff in about six weeks. I've had a pack of Coke sans cherry and a pack of Dr. Pepper since my last Cherry twelver. So, imagine my surprise when I opened the fridge and found this grenadine-enhanced beauty lurking behind a loaf of bread. ICE COLD! I will illustrate the scene for your reading pleasure:

"Woah, where'd the Cherry Coke come from!?"

Meg answered, "Been there." Huff. One-two. "Whole time." Uppercut. "Yeah BITCHES!"

"Agreed!"

I pulled it out, opened it up, took a sip and fell back into the cushions for a front-row seat to watch my lady rock Balboa. She moved quick and smooth, kinda like the way Cherry Coke slides into my belly. I think the TV flinched a little when she "threw it down," but she wouldn't punch it. Nah, she's got it under control.

As I sipped, I resolved to scour the fridge some more. Maybe for another hidden Cherry Coke. Who knows what I'd find behind the milk carton. Leftover Jimmy John's? Or beneath the wide packet of Market Pantry Swiss, perhaps some fruit salad? Or bratwurst just begging to be microwaved and gobbled up? Ahh, to relive the weekend in all its grilled glory...

If only we all spent a little more time exploring the possibilities available to us in the depths of our fridge/freezer combos. I'd be willing to bet there's a chilled Snicker bar or a refreshing soda somewhere in there for each of us. And we should dig in, I say. Cuz there's nothing like indulging your sweet tooth a little. Just work it off afterward with Wii Fit. If you need a personal trainer to motivate you, I know a great lady with a very aggressive and effective technique. She's mine.

Just Enjoying the Ride

2009-05-30T22:44:00.002-05:00

A beautiful damn Saturday, if I say so myself. My mind and belly are equally full after a long, trying week and a fabulous wedding reception dinner. It's late but I'm not sleepy, and I am in the mood for bullet points tonight. They're just so easy to digest. Kind of like my dinner of fried chicken with a vegetable medley.

Worked my last day at Swatch on Friday. Last day in the MOA to boot after nine full years in retail. The end came and went without much fanfare or drama, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I start my new job Monday. Outside of the mall! In my own cube! Normal business hours, business casual attire and finally a chance to get off my aching feet. As excited as I am, though, I'm surprised by how awkward I feel when talking about my new job. Probably not used to the extra attention. But I like it.
Watched Jay's last show last night. Nice and sentimental without being too sappy or pathetic. I'm stoked for Conan's return, and since I never really liked Leno I'm not sad to see him go. However, I'm really not looking forward to having to choose between my man Letterman and Conan. It won't be easy.
Meg and I celebrated our second wedding anniversary this week. We got a Wii Fit! And she got me a new iPod stereo and a bath robe. We also went to the Twins game and saw them beat the Red Sox, which was lovely. Lovely like every day since we took our vows. Also, the dill pickle flavored sunflower seeds were choice.
Accompanied Meg and the Bornholdt clan to a wedding today. Not a cloud in the sky or a care in the world. Got to cozy up and squish next to her in the back seat on the way to the ceremony, and we snacked on delicious sandwiches and Old Dutch's Jalepeno and Cheddar potato chips. I zonked myself out listening to new Iron & Wine and just about had the best backseat nap of my life. Made me realize that driving is overrated.
Watched a three-year old, red-headed little girl dance her heart out and butt off in the frilliest flower girl dress ever worn. Broke my heart and made me smile. Meg says we can't have little girls cuz they're brats, but I'm secretly hoping she won't eat our young if they end up female. Girls are cuter.
Had a few SPECTACULAR rum and cokes. Free. Ice cold. Calming.
Wore my brown leather Kenneth Cole Reaction shoes today. Equal parts manly, gorgeous and comfortable. I don't get to wear them often enough, but whenever I do I feel a little taller, a little fancier and a little closer to the version of man I want to become. Helps me appreciate why Kirk sells footwear. And damn he's good at it.
I've been using a new shave soap with my mug and brush this past week. It's Grandpa's Pine Tar soap, and it's giving me a closer, smoother shave among many other benefits. I'm thrilled to be shaving every third day instead of every second, and I'm experiencing zero skin irritation during the regrowth phase. Usually my neck is a mess of itchy red discomfort if I skip a day shaving, so you can imagine my happiness. Plus, the soap smells like a mixture of the outdoors and a smoky campfire, which is a welcome change in a bathroom full of lavender and lilac Lysol spray cans. Wifey doesn't mind the manly odor either, cuz it washes off completely and leaves me smelling just like my regular Old Spice after-shave lotion with none of woodsy musk stuck on my neck. So we're all aces!
I made a new Facebook enemy tonight completely by accident. I commented on a post with a grammatical error in it and explained how the conditional tense requires the use of the present form of "to be" in order to express the unreal or imaginary element in a given situation. A stranger followed my post with a personal, unprovoked attack featuring the F word. I am yet to retaliate, but I assure you I am thinking of the perfect response. You may wait in fear, Nick Geier.
The Twins are playing so poorly right now on the road that I do not even feel like blogging about them. I just hope Baker and Liriano shape up.
I am going to go hop in bed with my wife now. I'm getting lonely.

It Has All Led to This

2009-05-19T09:47:00.005-05:00

Last Friday, I accepted a new job and resigned as Manager of the Swatch store at MOA. Starting June 1, I will be working as an assistant editor for a sporting goods catalog here in the Twin Cities, and I am stoked!

The job-switch is a long time comin', and it's been dizzying for Wifey and me. I mean, DUDE, I've worked in the Mall for nine years (since I was 16!?). I literally haven't had any other work experience, cuz making slushies at the Eagan Theater when I was 15 doesn't count as work, and I have no idea how I'll react to even the simplest changes. For example, I will work sitting down from now on. And there will be no food court(s).

Heavy stuff. So, I turn to writing to help me sort out all the baggage.

Swatch has been my home away from home for four years almost. I left Fossil (my home at MOA for five years) for Swatch in November of '05, and I've been managing the store since right before my graduation from the U of MN in the Spring of '06. I've been married since then, gained about twenty pounds, no doubt lost more of my hair and learned quite a bit about what it's like to put in the "man hours."

Now, I know I haven't been layin' brick or providing for a family of nine, but working nights and weekends is no pic-nic. Neither is working a job I coulda had without having gone to college; it's been rough on the ego and has made me reconsider the value of my student debt. And, most importantly, nothing in my life so far has been more difficult than learning that I caused, either directly or indirectly, all my biggest challenges at work. I ignored my share of the solutions, too.

But I'm very, very grateful for the experience. I had a great team of friends and co-workers to pushed me, challenged me and taught me how to cope. How to manage. How to succeed, fail, fly under the radar and grit my teeth when necessary. Again, heavy stuff. The last two weeks will, I'm sure, go very fast and be bittersweet.

Thankfully, I have an exciting new job to look forward to. I am grateful for the opportunity, and I am very excited that I will be putting my experience and degree to good use. Sure, I'm anxious about health insurance changes, 401K rollovers and Paid Time Off accruals, but Wifey has assured me she has my back and that now is the time to take the leap. No house, no kids and no time like the present.

Anyway, stop by the MOA this week or next if you're around. Help me enjoy my last few days and give me a chance to enjoy, for the last time, the unplanned, welcome interruptions that come with a job at the mall. Bring cake, too.

Charlie Brown, Jacobean Poets, Cereal and Loud Power Chords

2009-05-15T14:09:00.007-05:00

More things than usual are tickin' me off today. I don't want to alientate any of you by giving vent to the flames, or by listing out the unique little pet peeves, minor annoyances and giant freakin' weights crushing my shoulders. That would just be self-serving and rude. The way I figure it, you were nice enough to drop by this blog on the Interweb, and with that in mind, I should strive to enlighten you instead of settling for the chance to bitch at you via the Times New Roman 12 point font.

My idea is to deal with these grievances indirectly and metaphorically. For example, if one my headaches had something to with work, I wouldn't want to talk about work. We all have work problems, and by bitching about work problems, I'd appear to think I'm freakin' special and you're not. Instead, it would be cliché and damn well proper of me to refer to the work issue as a round hole that my hollow square block of a head can't adapt to or sync with. See what I mean? That's a metaphor.

It's like when there's a smelly kid in class and nobody has the beans to tell him he stinks like Roquefort cheese. Or burning hair. Or my dad's frickin' rotten egg fart on a hot July day. Instead, some kid in class, perhaps the clown, says something to the tune of, "Hey Mrs. So-and-so, would you open the window? It smells like my mom's burnt food in here." And then he'd jerk his head in the direction of the stench, all the class would laugh, but Stinky would be none the wiser.

Or maybe your class clown kept his mouth shut and Miss Polite Goody Two Shoes walked up to the teacher's desk and asked to please be excused to the ladies' room. Forced smile. Barely noticeable nod toward the olfactory offender. Then the teacher catches on and suggests all students should take a potty break and wash up thoroughly afterwards. This scenario avoids the problem while solving it, sure, and it's more of a simile than a metaphor since I used the word "like," but I'm sure you're catching on here.

With these little illustrations, I'm trying to make my problems less specific and more universal so that you can see the parallels in your life and make my problems like your problems. Then we feel closer. We feel connected, we feel understood, validated, better. We become one and the same, our differences dissolved to the point where I'm Frosted Flakes and you're the Malt-O Meal brand that tastes exactly the same. And all this because of the miracle that is language and the written word.

You see, any number of things is possible when we recognize the humanity in one another. It's like realizing, "Hey, we all smell like B.O. once in a while. I can't hate so-and-so for forgetting his deodorant because that would be like hating myself." I'm reminded of John Donne's poem For Whom the Bell Tolls, which is quoted at the beginning of Ernest Hemingway's novel by the same name. It goes like so:

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manner of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.

I can't say it any better than it's said here, so take John Donne's word for it. Or read Hemingway's novel. He spends about 300-some pages extrapolating on the same idea against the scenery of the Spanish Civil War. It rocks.

Speaking of rocking, you should also listen to Metallica's "For Whom The Bell Tolls." It's on Ride the Lightning, which came out back in the 80's when heavy metal was an angry teenager in a ratty denim jacket. Now heavy metal is just an emo teenager with mascara in skinny jeans. Even though Metallica's song shares the title, it's really less about the humanity of the enemy or stranger and more about the pointlessness of war, violence and killing. So that makes it more like book and less like the poem, but I digress because I know most of you will only watch the movie if I'm lucky.

So, friends, we've reached the end of today's dissertation. I can't say I mentioned any of the things that are really bothering me, but maybe you kind of picked up on the major themes (missing childhood, uncertainty of how to address major difficulties, fitting in, finding one's place, dad's odor). I'd like to know what you think are the themes, but if you don't get around to commenting, no big deal. Cuz I feel better. That's the blessed gift of writing: I can say a bunch of things without really saying much, and at the end I feel like everything got aired out and squared away. Beautiful.

Illegal Drugs and the Metric System

2009-05-08T12:18:00.009-05:00

I was daydreaming at work this morning and somehow stumbled upon a line of thinking I believe to be blogworthy. First I was randomly thinking of cinnamon rolls, then of the beautiful weather outside as I drove to work (while eating my cinnamon roll), and then of the sexy fun weather at the beaches of Southern California. When my mind arrived at beaches, and their rolling waves, their hot sunshine on my blistering Irish legs, the plethora of stones to throw, I remembered a news story I heard yesterday.

It seems some average Joes walking their dogs and playing frisbee at a Texas beach along the Gulf Coast came across a fuckin' bunch of cocaine. The finders (but not the keepers) uncovered about 24 kilograms of the white powder, all individually wrapped in 24 1-kilo packages, and called the Po-lice.

It's pretty astonishing that nobody stole any of the coke or used any right there on the beach with Fido. I mean, it happens in the movies all the time. They did the right thing though and turned it over to some badge in a suit. Of course, I'd be tempted to take some and sell it, cuz I hear it goes for a few bucks, but then again I could barely sell Kool-Aid to a sweaty kid. I'm better off minding my own biz. Not really cut out to be the next B.I.G.

But, later I got curious about how much cocaine that really is. 24 kilograms, according to my friends at google.com, equals roughly 53 pounds. That's bigger than most dogs! No wonder the people left it alone. This isn't your small makeup bag stash we're talking about here. It's heavy lifting. I mean, what is a person going to do with all that cocaine? Call some hookers? Have a party with the Duke Lacrosse team? Govern Illinois?

The police at the scene believe that some smugglers at sea, who regularly use freighters to run drugs all over God's green earth, or should I say Poseidon's blue sea, probably got scared and chucked their cargo overboard when a coast guard vessel got too close for comfort. Understandable. Those guys on Miami Vice did it all the time.

So I'm stuck on the numbers still. Why do you think drugs are primarily measured according to the metric system? I can't think of a damn good reason since everything else here in the U.S. gets the clusterfucked yard-stick treatment. Maybe the U.S. wants illegal drugs to be measured in kilos and grams so the government can brainwash the populous to subconsciously believe that only internationals and illegals immigrants use and abuse drugs. Maybe I'm reaching.

I'll reach further. Drug abusers and street dealers are made out to be this huge, classless group of poor, uneducated people who, time after time again, make the wrong choices and pay for the consequences. Rarely do they bust out of the ghetto and achieve Josh Hamilton's level of success. Rarely do they do anything but, according to the news, shoot people and slap prostitutes in the back-handed fashion.

Here's the irony: this bunch of scallawags, the gangbangers and crackheads, the pimps and hoes, they understand the metric system. They live and breathe by the ounce, by the milliliter, by the gram. Meanwhile, I went to college and grew up in a shady green suburb covered with nicely manicured Kentucky Blue Grass, and I have no idea what an ounce of grass costs. Or should cost. Or how much fits in a snack-size ziplock like the ones I use for my Nacho Cheese Doritos.

I literally know nothing about how much an ounce or gram or kilo-whatever really looks like.

For these reasons, and maybe for a few others relating to muscle cars and tricked out low-riding Impalas from the late 60's, I admire the hustler. I've read books and have comprehended a great many of them, but I have not mastered the metric system like all those disadvantaged, entrepreneurial pharmacists out in that metaphorical gutter. They know what a buck buys, and I probably pay too much for my legal prescriptions.

The Re-Birth of the Rock Radio Wreckers

2009-04-28T12:11:00.007-05:00

Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Rock Fans, but it is my duty today to report to y'all that the 90's Uber-Christian, uber-crappy band Creed has officially announced a reunion. The reunion, which comes after a six-year breakup so wonderful that it may have been designed by God Himself, will include a new album (entitled Full Circle) and a massive summer tour across the US of A.

For the lucky ones out there who may have forgotten about Creed, they are the musical equivalent of a double dutch rudder: pretty gay, but seemingly spared by a serious case of denial.

Their three albums of Christian-rock crossover dominated the charts and spawned so-called hits such as "My Own Prison," "Higher," and "With Arms Wide Open." Even after releasing many bible-thumping tunes, it may come as a surprise that Creed's most embarrassing moment came when lead singer Scott Stapp, Jesus' Sober Homeboy, showed up drunk for a 2003 Chicago show. Fans were so pissed at Stapp for being pissed that they organized themselves into a class action lawsuit aiming for damages and refunds. A judge threw out the suit, but Creed disbanded shortly thereafter in '04 and its members pursued other work.

It's too bad about this reunion, it really is. Scott Stapp put out such a terrible solo album back in '05 that he's been mostly forgotten. Now we will have to remember him and see his fat face all over MTV again. In addition, the other members of Creed found another singer in Myles Kennedy and put out two decent, less preachy albums under the monicre Alter Bridge. Singer Myles Kennedy almost landed a spot on the Assembly of the Gods Led Zeppelin Tour last winter, and that's when Creed Reunion talks unfortunately started gathering momentum.

It has all led to today's news. The rebirth of the rock-radio wreckers. We Weathered their first three albums, so let's all hope we survive the shit storm coming up.

I Thought Chicago Was the Windy City?

2009-04-22T09:25:00.004-05:00

Looks like the New York Yankees' new stadium blows. A lot. According to bloggers and official baseball writers across the country, the record 20 home runs hit last week in the stadium's four-game opening series against the Indians may have been more than just some statistical fluke.

One writer, citing an accuweather.com analysis, argues that fly balls hit toward right field are getting an extra boost from the wind. He explains that a shorter upper deck and wider concourses have combined to give the park less wind resistance than the nearly identical old Yankee stadium across the street from the new Bronx dump. Since no structures are in place to cut down the wind coming in behind the plate, a mini "jet stream," so-called by coaches not certified by the American Meteorological Society, has developed and batted balls are floating out of the park on an unforeseen invisible wind tunnel.

Another writer subscribing to this same belief sites the ever-blowing flags at Yankee Stadium as evidence for irregular wind activity (Huh, I thought the Yanks were just waving the flags in an effort to surrender to the Indians after their 14-run second inning). Furthermore, Orlando Cabrera of the Oakland A's worries that the wind will become even stronger and more dangerous for pitchers once the House that Ruth Built is torn down across the street.

The writer says some MLB officials are considering storing all game balls in a humidor to make them heavier and less likely to fly out of the stadium. This has been done at Coors' Field in Colorado to combat the thin mountain air, with its cool, cold-filtered stream water, but I am skeptical as to whether it will help in New York. Their air isn't so much thin as it is hot and fat and stupid and high-fallutin'. Besides, says the writer, if the Yanks want A-Rod to hit some 900 homers, they may as well leave the wind tunnel as is until he breaks the record and retires. If the player can't take steroids anymore, you just gotta beef up the air instead.

Of course it's too soon to see if the unlikely pattern of dingers holds up, but I bet all those "ghosts" of Yankee greats gracing monument park in right field will start a Christopher-Lloyd-as-an-angel-cheater-type rally once the jet stream levels out.

Anyway, This is all good news for Chien-Ming Wang, as he may now have a decent excuse for his Hindenberg-sized 34.50 E.R.A. I'm personally excited to see the localized low-pressure system over the pitcher's mound the next time he throws for the Yanks; can you imagine the crazy hurricane potential when he sucks hard while the stadium's winds are blowing?

It'll be like A-Rod and Madonna all over again.

Jason Kubel Makes Me Weep With Joy

2009-04-18T13:45:00.004-05:00

Did you see the Twins game last night? Did you SEE the biggest game of Jason Kubel's career? I can't blame you if you missed it. The Twins, after all, haven't been the most exciting team to watch lately. And I certainly understand if you were watching the game but turned it off after the Angels scored five in the seventh; the bullpen's uncharacteristic shittiness frustrated me, too.

Luckily, I didn't change the channel. Not even when we were trailing 8 to 3, and not when we were trailing 9 to 4 either. I left it on because I realized in the 6th that my man Jason "More Cowbell" Kubel had hit a single, double and a triple. I wanted to see him hit a dinger in his last at-bat to complete the cycle, so when Wifey and I plopped into bed I left the game on at a reasonable volume.

Well, Kubel came up in the 7th and grounded out, unfortunately. I figured it'd be his last time at the plate and his last chance for the dinger, so I started dozing. The Twins weren't putting anything together anyway, so I had a good pool of drool up under my cheek within minutes (don't tell Wifey, I was sorta sleeping with my head on her back).

I sorta peeked at the TV with one eye closed when Span-Man drove in three runs with a bases-clearing double in the bottom in the 8th. That made the score 9 to 7, but the Angels brought in a new pitcher and got another out quickly. Two men were out in the 8th, so I closed my eyes again and missed a hit by Casilla, and I didn't even know the pitcher intentionally walked Morneau to load the bases and pitch to my man Kubel. Shame, shame.

Like noted above, Kubel had already gone three-for-four and was swinging a hot bat. Of course, I know I wouldn't want to pitch to the Canadian MVP Morneau either, but I'd be begging for trouble by loading the bases to pitch to a guy with more walk-off grand slams than anyone else since 2006. Shame, shame again.

So Kubel apparently took a curve ball for a strike and then got a meatball in his wheelhouse for the second pitch. I say apparently because I read that bit about the curve in the paper and didn't wake up until Dick and Burt (the announcers for the Twins) started screaming and making the speakers on my TV vibrate with joy. The TV volume was all the way down to 2, but the roaring excitement was THAT loud. They yelled and hollared because Kubel took the fastball and gave it a ride over the baggy into the upper deck in right-center. He capped the first cycle at the Dome since Puck in '86 with a mother-freakin' grand slam. And, God, it was heroic.

I woke up with a start and watched the floating white orb as it sailed into the stands. I exclaimed "Holy Shit," cuz that's all there is to say. Megan woke up and smiled, and before she rolled over to fall back into sweet, sweet sleep, she told me to harrass her mom (the Kubel hater) via text. Then I told my bro. And Al texted me with excited curses. And I texted Beef Kirky. And Burt said, "I bet the phones are just lighting up tonight in Twins Territory." They were glowing. I was glowing. Kubel and the rest of the Twins were glowing.

The victory was sealed with a single swing, and Nathan came out to pitch a perfect ninth and lead us to a dramatic 11 to 9 victory over the Angels. It felt like some of that '06 magic. Some of that scrappy Twins baseball that makes every summer so god damned special around here.

When I talked to Wifey this morning and asked if she remembered what happened in the wee hours of her slumber last night, she said no. I breathlessly related to her the details of the come-from-behind win, and I reminded her that she woke up and told me to rub it in her mom's face. She laughed and said she didn't remember; she was asleep, of course. She probably thought she had dreamt it. Well, corny or not, dreams come true. Baseball is full of 'em. And I can't get enough!

A Story a Journalist Wrote About an Asshole

2009-04-15T17:17:00.003-05:00

A while back, I blogged about a journalist who happens to be an asshole. At the time, I hoped it'd be the first of many posts on the subject. It turns out, however, that there are fewer assholes with pens out there than I would have guessed. Or, maybe I'm not looking hard enough.

Regardless, today I came across a story about an asshole. Or a bunch of assholes. It's really about an industry of assholes, come to think of it. And it's written by a journalist, of course, so it kind of fits the category, wouldn't you say? Maybe the journalist is a nice person; I'm certainly going to assume so for the time being. But I am taking away the benefit of the doubt from United Airlines' spokesperson Robin Urbanski Janikowski. She (he?) is without a doubt a real asshole. Here's why.

On behalf of United Airlines, the girl (guy?) with the enornmous, oversized name announced today that "seatmates of size" will henceforth be required to purchase an additional seat if they cannot "fit into a single seat, buckle their seatbelt with an additional seatbelt extension, or put the seat’s armrest down."

Of course, says the androgenously long-named Robin, the airline will make an attempt, at no charge to the passenger, to re-accommodate the passenger if possible. This means they will move the passenger to a seat next to another empty seat, or to a later flight with unoccupied seats, should the passenger still choose to fly with the fattist airline. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like they're penalizing fat people and then segregating them from the skinnies and athletic types. It's like match.com or e-harmony of the skies.

As if it makes things any better for the offended parties, Urbanski Janikowski mentions in her statement that other airlines have been following a similar policy for some time, and that the policy is being adopted for “the comfort and well-being of all customers aboard United flights.”
All of 'em except for the fat ones, I suppose.

American Airlines spokesperson Andrea Huguely (I bet it's pronounced Hugely) comments that American's similar policy has had little effect on business and that customer complaints are even lower than expected. Hmm. Their customers must have thick skin.

So, if there's anything to learn from today's news, fly Delta. I mean, Delta Burke is a bigger lady, so the common name must give the airline some kind of advantage in that department.

Big Booty Judy and Other Fools

2009-04-15T11:13:00.005-05:00

Today is the most interesting day of my week already, and it's barely noon on Wednesday. I'm halfway through a delicious coca-cola, my nine-day old sore throat has all but disappeared (all that's left is a raw sandpapery feeling when I swallow) and I've read with great excitement that Alice in Chains have finished their most recent album. It'll be released in September! That's the best rock and roll news I can imagine, even though it means they had to shave their beards.

I should mention this update comes to you thanks to the folks at Randy Lee's White Bear Lincoln and Mercury. You should check 'em out some time. They're located off Bob Dylan's favorite Highway 61 circa the Maplewood Mall, and they have this cozy lounge area where you can surf the interweb whilst waiting for you mom's car to be repaired. The leather chairs are sleek and pleasant against the arse, and their TV is tuned to the latest news regarding Obama's Socialist dog (it's a Portuguese breed). And did I mention the free cookies? I think they're store-bought, but I just don't care.

So, if you haven't gathered, today is my day off. I haven't had many mellow ones lately, and the workdays have been longer than ever. It feels great to get back into my blogging groove, and I bet it'll feel even more great to take the ol' bicycle for a spin later this afternoon, in the beautiful sunshine down by the river, once this car is fixed up. Dad asked me to be his errand boy for the day, so I drove mom's car up to this repair shop to have its wheels replaced and its tires rotated. Randy Lee is nowehere to be seen, but one dude in the shop looks a little like Jack Morris. I bet he works into the tenth and doesn't even bitch.

Being the errand boy isn't all bad. Pa deserves a hand anyway, considering he housed me for over two decades and still puts up with my inattentiveness and fidgeting. A recent example: he got a lap full of my spilled water at the bowling banquet the other night. When asked if it was his fault, I spoke up and told everyone, "No I spilled it."

But he still nodded and said, "Yep, if you go back far enough, it's pretty much my fault." Ah, Dad. Always joking. Always poking.

Despite lacking any decent transition, I'd like to tell you about a funny event that occurred yesterday at work. I let Jay-C leave the music player on the retro disco mix (I prefer the classic rock mix, but you can't always get what you want) and he started dancin' like little Michael. A few minutes into his routine, a trio of bow-wows came in from the rotunda to join him on the dance floor. He choked with surprise and thought about fleeing the premises. However, they roped him in with conversation and complimented him on his agile feet. Always the charmer, Jay-C laughed at them and told them they were nuts.

Well, the the mocha girl with thug life tattooed on her chest was taken aback and started stuttering "I-I-I j-just tryin' to be nice to ya." Her friend Stephanie a.k.a. "Call me Gabriella" calmed her down a bit, and the third wide-hipped girl started a comedic dance routine and announced "Yeah, I'm big booty Judy, y'all!"

The girls responded, in chorus, "Yeah you are!" And then they slapped her ridiculously fat bottom. Not even Freddie Mercury could have appreciated the display. Jabari quickly told them they were "In a family store" and that they should "Peace the f*ck out." So they did.

But they will always be remembered. Just like Phoenix Love with his used dartboard, the guy who didn't speak Swahili and the bully woman who asked me what kind of man would use the word yummy. Nope, I will never forget how foolish all of those people are. It's my job to remember, since I'm a novelist and I observe things. I just don't brag about it or act like a dick.

Watch The 40-Year Old Virgin again if you must.

Metallica is Coming to Town!

2009-03-26T11:15:00.007-05:00

METALLICA LIVES!

Just this week, the Gods of Metal announced that their newly-extended massive world tour will allow them to return to Minneapolis' Target Center on October 13, 2009. They are currently beating into submission all of Europe, Mexico and other foreign lands in support of 2008's kickass return-to-form Death Magnetic, and they'll play a bunch of other dates in the US this fall.

The upcoming show at the Target Center will mark Metallica's first appearance in the Land of 10,000 Lakes since they played the XCel Center during the second leg of their 2004 "Madly in Anger With the World Tour." That show, which was in support of 2003's disappointing St. Anger, included a surprisingly good set by Godsmack and Metallica's first-ever live performance of Queen's stellar "Stone Cold Crazy." Even though the concert kicked our asses, me and a bud waited in line til 3am after the show to meet Metallica at Minneapolis' historic First Avenue. They gave us fist-bumps and autographs and every reason to celebrate their impending return.

So, come April 4th at 10am, I will stop at nothing in order to buy tickets for my seventh Metallica show. I plan to take Wifey, cuz she's never had the pleasure of a Metallica ass-whooping, and I recommend you get some tix to welcome back our heroes of thrash. They're priced reasonably between $51 and $71 according to the Star Tribune.

LONG LIVE METALLICA!

St. Patrick's Day Miracle With Comcast

2009-03-17T17:11:00.003-05:00

Happy Saint Patrick's Day to all you folks floating around the Interweb. Instead of joining my Irish brethren at some parade (too rainy) or at some pub (too expensive), I've been enjoying a quiet day on the couch. I hope you've also had the opportunity to celebrate in your own way today, even if you're not actually from the Emerald Isle. Because Saint Patty's Day is a day for all of us. Even the Boston Red Sox!

Speaking of the BoSox, I spent part of this afternoon watching them wallop on my hometown Twins in a Spring Training exhibition game. They hit four long dingers in the first four innings, and they cruised to victory even though the Twins offense showed some life early on. Ah well, you can't win 'em all.

But now I can, in fact, see 'em all. Even the games, like today's, that are not televised locally on friendly networks like FSN or Fox. That's because I called up Comcast this afternoon to whine about not having access to the MLB Network, which is home to over 3,000 Major League Baseball games every season, including Spring Training and the World Baseball Classic! They told me I could sign up for the MLB Network for the low price of $16 bucks each month, but my heart sank because that's just not low enough.

I asked, "Are you running any specials?"

And Mr. Comcast replied, "No, I'm sorry."

And I asked, "Are you sure?" I repeated the question because my dad always does that with salespeople, and I always have trouble with customers who do it to me at work, too. It seems to throw the salesperson off-balance and mildly irritate them. Some salespeople will respond by "remembering" a special they "forgot about" and give it to you just to end the phone call. It's not the only way to get results, but it works nonetheless.

Mr. Comcast, however, stuck to his guns. He once again apologized and told me, "No, I can't give you any discount on the MLB network."

I just about gave up. In fact maybe I did, in my heart of hearts. But I expressed my disappointment. I said, "That's too bad, cuz I've been a customer for two years, and I'd like to stay with you and be able to watch the Twins, too."

Mr. Comcast pulled a 180. He said, "You know what I just remembered?" And he got excited, and I got excited. I felt sunlight through the clouds, and I heard birds singing. Fraggle Rocked. He told me, "I can upgrade you to the next package up, which includes the MLB Network, and it'll only cost you six dollars more per month."

"Well, that doesn't sound all bad. What else comes with it?"

"Oh, roughly 60 other channels, including HBO and STARZ, and it'll make your internet faster."

"Faster?"

"Faster."

"Noticeably faster, or just 'faster' ?"

"Noticeably faster... like a rabbit. Shaved. On ice. With a jetpack. Going downhill..."

"I've seen the commercial."

"Oh, right."

"Good, let's sign me up yesterday."

I heard a few keystrokes, and before I knew it Mr. Comcast told me, "All right, you're good to go. The MLB Network is on channel 272. Thanks for calling."

And that, my friends, was better than a glass of Jameson chased by a bottle of Finnegan's. Hard to believe, I know, especially on Irish Heritage Day.

But there's a part I didn't get to tell you yet. That part is on tonight at 6pm on the MLB Network. It's an elimination game in the World Baseball Classic between USA and Puerto Rico, and it's not on any other channels. I get to watch with Wifey. And I don't miss A-Rod.

A Manly List

2009-03-06T11:04:00.005-06:00

Things Every Man Should Do Just Once and Never Mention Again

This list is by no means cumulative. Please add your suggestions!

Puke out the window of a moving vehicle.

Play strip poker.

Skinny dip in the daylight/Go to a nude beach.

Play motorboat.

Learn a recipe from Martha Stewart or Rachael Ray. Execute.

Take a bad bet. Lose like a man. Learn something.

Get a drunk friend home safe. Hose him off.

Expect him to return the favor.

Shoot an animal for food.

Change all the preset stations on someone else's radio.

Wear a ridiculous hat covered in fishing lures.

Fart in a crowded elevator. Own up to it.

Offer to clean up after a stranger's party.

Get a stupid haircut. On purpose.

Perform in a musical (such as Fiddler on the Roof).

Get a stupid tattoo (such as Ziggy on your ass).

Go to a nude beach with a camera.

Solve a Rubik's cube.

Go to a strip club. Don't go back.

Blow your paycheck at the bar.

Drink and drive the lawn mower.

Get into a fist fight. End it amicably.

Go to confession.

Clean the bathroom.

Take a dump outdoors.

Dress up like a cowboy.

Wear a loin cloth.

Listen to Endless Love in the dark with a friend.

Karaoke. Just once. Make it great.

Go on a blind date. See it through.

My Visit With Letterman

2009-03-01T15:33:00.008-06:00

I recently imagined that I was invited to be a guest on The Late Show With David Letterman. I wore a new suit and sported a fashionable haircut, and Mr. Letterman was a most gracious host. He offered me an ice cold Coca-Cola, and he even insisted that I stretch out my legs behind his very own desk (I wish wholeheartedly that I could have had my picture taken from back there!).

We talked at length about my plans to visit Cuba, tour the neighborhood pubs throughout Ireland and pen the next great American novel. He noted my uncanny resemblance to British actor Jason Statham, and Letterman also confessed to admiring my extensive knowledge of situational pitching in Major League Baseball. The compliments weren't all one-sided, however; My mama didn't raise a fool. I took the opportunity to let Dave know just how much I love it when his staffers drop things off the roof of the building.

One of my favorite moments from the show took place during the commercial break, and it really was a shame that it wasn't televised with the rest of the program. Ah well, sometimes there's just nothing you can do about bad luck. Anyway, what happened was this: Paul and the band were"playing out" to the commercial, and I recognized quickly that they were performing a brassy version of the "Gimme a Break" Kit Kat Song. As strange as it may seem, I let the mood take me and I led the band and audience in an extended rendition of the jingle from atop Dave's desk. Quite a thrill!

All in all, I had a great time visiting his show. I would do it again in a heartbeat, but unfortunately I had to make a deal with the other Late Night variety programs that stipulates I will visit their shows before I can return to Letterman's. Something about Ratings Equity, I suppose. Anyway, in case you missed the broadcast, you can find below an abbreviated transcript of our televised conversation. Enjoy!

David Letterman: Welcome to the program, Mr. Kennealy. Did I pronounce that correctly?

Me: Ah Dave, you can say it however you'd like.

DL: (muffled by audience laughter) Are you very Irish?

Me: Yes that's correct, it's an Irish name. I plan to visit the homeland in the coming months and do some extensive beer sampling. Colin Farrell has agreed to join me.

DL: Oh boy, he's quite the drinker. Are you worried that you'll have trouble keeping up with him?

Me: It's funny you mention that Dave, because he actually asked me the same thing about coming to do your show.

DL: He asked if you'd have trouble keeping up with me? I doubt that entirely.

Me: I said the same to him, Dave (wink).

DL: (muffled by audience laughter, again). So beer sampling, then? What criteria will you be using?

Me: Well, pretty much the only criteria that matters: does it work?

DL: Does it work? What do you mean does it work?

Me: I surmise your cocktail did its job?

DL: Oh, boy. (audience laughter)

Paul Shaeffer: (singing) It's raining men, Hallelujah! It's raining men.

Later in the program...

DL: I read your latest work in Esquire the other day. You know, the article where you wrote about the role of your gut in making important decisions on the baseball field. Very entertaining piece. Tell me, was it very difficult to write about a subject that so many people seem to know everything about?

Me: To be completely honest with you, as is my policy, it wasn't very difficult. Of course, I was intimidated. Completely and utterly intimidated. But, you see, I had to just follow my gut, if you will, and trust that what I had to say is at least a fraction as interesting as the game itself. Thankfully, it turned out that lots of people have given me much more credit than I'm afraid I deserve.

DL: Oh, I'm sure you're being modest. You most certainly deserve it.

Me: Oh, thank you very much.

DL: What do you plan to write next?

Me: I'm currently working on a fictional piece that highlights the need for increased relations between Cubans and Americans.

DL: And what inspired you to do that? Rum, cigars?

Me: Both of those, actually, and the whole mess that was Elian Gonzalez. Poor kid. Did you hear he's now 15 and throws a wicked changeup?

DL: You must be making that up.

Me: Well, I said it was fictional, Dave. Hey, could I get another Coke? With rum maybe?

Again, later in the program...

DL: All right folks, that about wraps it up for us tonight. I can't believe we let time get away from us like we did.

Me: Yes, Dave, please apologize to Regis and Bono for my interview cutting into theirs. I sure didn't mean to bump them.

DL: Don't you worry about it, Mr. Kennealy. Bono never coulda nailed that Kit Kat song like you did. And you're much more interesting than Regis.

Me: (audience laughter) Aw, shucks.

DL: (amid applause) Mr. Kennealy, it was a great pleasure to have you here tonight. Come back again, and keep up the great work. Ladies and gentlemen, Brendan Kennealy! Expect great things to come from this exciting, remarkable young man.

Me: Oh, oh wait Dave! I promised my wife I'd say hello during the show. Hi Megan! You see, Dave, she's right there in the front row. Isn't she gorgeous? Megan, come on up here and let everyone see how great you are!

DL: Yowza! What a babe!!! What a lucky man, too. Good night!

Let There Be Light

2009-02-19T19:29:00.005-06:00

Today at work I changed light bulbs. Many, many light bulbs. We have thousands of watches in my store, since we sell watches, and light bulbs are really the only other thing we have in large quantity. Little spotlights cover every inch of the ceiling, and we have lighted cabinets and windows and display towers, and we also have track lighting around the store's edges. It's a good thing we don't sell bulbs because I ran out of them a few months ago.

I ran out because a bunch went dead over a relatively short amount of time and I neglected to order more. I dragged my feet at ordering more for a few reasons. One reason was laziness. Another was that I doubted anyone would notice a few darker, shadowy spots in our otherwise well-lit store. Also, fewer lights = lower energy costs. I can list the benefits of low energy costs by throwing a few self-explanatory buzzwords at you: Recession. Green. Simplification.

Mood lighting has its perks, too.

Well, recently the shadows seemed bigger and darker. My reading light above the cashwrap grew fainter, and it became more difficult for customers to see product. I noticed one day last week that a customer actually took a watch from one side of the store to the other so she could get a better view under some still-functioning lights. She didn't say anything about all the burnt-out bulbs, and she didn't have to. She didn't buy the watch, and I'm sure that the darkness clouded her ability to make a choice. You could say in that moment of darkness, a light came on in my head.

I ordered some damn bulbs right after she left. I had to get some big ones and some little ones. Various wattage, various voltage. I even had to remove some dead bulbs just to read their product codes so I could fill out the order form. Up and down the ladder. Back and forth across the store. Back room to trash room. Bag after bag of worthless glass. I got sweaty at work for the first time in months. Literally.

As I already told you, I changed a bunch of bulbs at work today. Probably close to 40. You can deduce that my light bulb order came, but it has to be said that I did not order enough. It goes to show how many dead bulbs I had in my store that I ordered 35 bulbs and still couldn't change out all the dead ones. But the lighting is now much better.

Jabari said, "It looks like when we first opened." I agreed, and I thought about going out to my truck for my sunglasses.

It's strange how much difference some new bulbs can make. I felt more happy at work today. I felt good about having completed a task, I felt good about the appearance of the store and the result of my work, and I would venture to say that the many sales we made early today may have been a result of all the sparkly lights. I mean, it's like night and day.

What's really strange, though, is that too little light and too much of it can both make your eyes hurt. I still have frickin' sun spots.

More on The Light:

Led Zeppelin guitarist Jimmy Page once worked as a studio guitarist in Britain before launching the greatest rock and roll band the world had ever seen. He was actually quite good (duh), and many bands and musicians sought him out to help write, produce and record their albums. He made friends with many of the world's greatest rock and rollers, and when they asked him why he didn't have his own band, he would tell them of his plans to create one.

He envisioned a band that would make "music full of contrasts between heavy and soft, quiet and loud, fast and slow, light and dark." He invented the idea of simple verses and giant choruses, paving the way to stadium rock as we know it.

At the beginning, however, Page's ideas were met with skepticism. In a conversation with Jimmy Page, John Entwistle and Keith Moon of The Who told Page his band would "either take off or fall like a lead balloon." Well, they got it half-right, and they helped name the band that gave us musical sex noises ("Whole Lotta Love" drum solo) and an idea of what God would sound like if he had a voice ("Over the Hills and Far Away," "Immigrant Song" and "Going to California").

I don't think I'm like Jimmy Page, but I wouldn't mind if someone said so. I did, after all, help highlight the contrast between the sun and the shade. And I didn't even have to go to England to do it.

Let's Be Sappy for Just a Little While, Just This Once

2009-02-11T16:49:00.004-06:00

I was sitting around today, doing my best impression of a decomposing corpse on the couch, and I got to thinking about how Wifey and I met and started dating. It's already been four years since I convinced her to spend some time with me, and as far as I can tell she has no regrets. It's been all rock & roll on my end, that's for sure.

It didn't all start that way, however. Matter of fact, looking back at how everything began, I never would have guessed we'd share so much romance and happiness together. Megan surprised me though. I suppose every couple has its own unique "How we met" story, and ours is no exception.

Back in '05, I was a pretty lousy dater. That's not to say I was bad at getting dates. Rather, I just had a ton of bad ones. I kept picking the wrong girls, the wrong activities, or the wrong times, and I didn't think I had much in common with the females fate was throwing my way. So, in my infinite wisdom, I started looking in new places for potential love connections.

My co-worker at the time, Miss Sarah, knew lots of single ladies, and they came to visit her at work on occasion. One chica in particular was noisier than the rest, and when she came in I made it a point to give her high fives and make her laugh. Sarah would tell me to get lost or get back to work, but she eventually gave into my questions and needling and gave me her friend's number.

I remember her telling me, "B, I'll let you call Megan. But if you do anything stupid, weird or even think about acting like yourself around her, I promise you'll never have any children."

Threats have always been a very effective tactic to keep me in line, ever since I tried stealing my brother's laffy taffy and he reminded me of my poor balance at the top of the stairs, so I used serious caution when calling Sarah's friend. After all, she trusted me to be a gentleman. If I didn't keep in line with expectations, I knew working with Sarah would be awfully akward, and I'd keep getting stuck with lame dates. So, I called. I got Megan's voice mail, and I remember exactly what I said:

"Hi, this is Sarah's friend Brendan. I asked Sarah for her cute friend's phone number, so if you're Sarah's cute friend please call me back. Even if you're not Sarah's friend, call me back if you're cute."

I waited for Megan to return my call, but she didn't. Two weeks went by, and I remember asking Sarah if she knew what her friend was up to. Sarah told me, "I told her she'd better not call you. I told her you're too bald for her." Sarah laughed, and I'm still not sure if she was messing with me or telling the truth. Regardless, I only ended up talking to Megan after all by accident.

As fate would have it, after weeks of waiting, I bumped into Megan by chance while we were both on separate excursions to the Albertville Outlet Mall. I was shopping with Kirk for shoes (no surprise) at Nike Town during my spring break, and Megan was abusing her Old Navy discount with her friends Nicole and Casey. I've been accused many times of planning that random encounter in Albertville because it's "totally something Brendan would do," but I can't take credit for being that clever. As much as I would like to claim that I set my sights on Megan and made her fall for me, it ain't the truth. She spotted me in the parking lot, she yelled out my name and invited me to use her discount, and all I did was wonder why my luck had changed so suddenly.

Thankfully, my luck stayed with me for the long run. Even though her take-charge attitude scared the shit out of me from the get-go, I asked her to bowl with me that night. She agreed. She also agreed to a movie the next night (our first cuddle), and to numerous other social outings every night for the next week. We sat for hours at Hooters with our friends telling jokes, she was brave enough to show up for a date in sweat pants (which I thought was refreshing), and we introduced each other to our brothers, sisters, and parents in record time.

Our first "official" date came soon after. I'd spent the evening getting her older brother's approval at a place in Richfield called the Starting Gate. Once that was secured, I told Megan it was time I manned up and took her out proper. We agreed on dinner at Axel's the next night. Megan showed up with a new haircut, a sassy blue shirt, and dimples you could spot from a mile away. We spent the night coloring with crayons on the paper table cloth, and I felt like one lucky SOB when I dropped her off at home with her leftover fettucine alfredo. She let me walk her to the door, and we had our very first kiss in the cool dark on her parents' doorstep, surrounded by budding lilac bushes and our own steamy breath. (Who needs fireworks when you remember the smell of lilacs every time you kiss your girl?)

Those first weeks with Megan were the very definition of the word rush. We were a rush of fun, highs, laughs, attraction and junior-high level akwardness. At Friday's one night, for example, I leaned over to ask her friend Nicole if she thought Megan would consider being my girlfriend. Nicole said, "You should ask her," laughed at me, and told Megan five minutes later. Just the way I planned it.

And I did ask her. I asked her very soon after as we sat at a dark table in Uptown, sipping our hot chocolates at Uncommon Grounds. Damien Rice was singing to us from somewhere above, and Megan had her head on my shoulder. I asked her to please be my main squeeze, and she said yes without even lifting her head. We just sank deeper into the high-backed booth, into each other. And we stayed there for hours talking, listening, dreaming and swimming in whatever thoughts we had. We've barely been up for air since.

We spent a night in the hospital together less than one month later, I bought an engagement ring weeks after that, and before we'd been dating for four months I'd put it on her finger. We've been married since May 26, 2007, and Megan's friend Sarah is still checking in on us. Threats are a very good tactic with me.

Be a Man and Grow a Beard

2009-02-10T09:12:00.003-06:00

The folks over at MSNBC News reported today that recession-weary men across the nation are spending less of their hard-earned money on expensive shave gels and razors and are letting their faces go "au naturale." When it comes to growing a beard, any reason is a good reason, so I'm stoked to read that our stinking economy has made it the newest trend for dudes.

The writer of the article says that growing a beard will do more than just help men save money when they need it the most; it will also help reverse the feminizing impact of metrosexual culture. I know I'm not the only one sick of seeing skinny jeans and $50 product in a man's hair, so if Beards Across America can help hairy men feel better about the dirt under their nails and their unwaxed eyebrows, then let that hair grow, Man. Let it grow.

Now, it should be noted that I'm not some bandwagon beard backer. On this very blog, I've written multiple times about the benefits and masculine beauty associated with what the Spanish call "La Barba." In fact, you can see some of that very reporting here and here. Furthermore, my favorite writer of all time could grow one helluva beard, and Hemingway's fuzz only adds to his grandfatherly appeal. You see, I could be considered an authority on the subject, just like Hemingway is THE authority on dialogue.

So, my peoples, if you needed a reason to unleash your inner caveman, consider what I've said above. Also consider that it's cold outside and a beard is warm, that a beard will help you stand out as "tough" and "honest" among your fellow man, and that you'll stop getting carded at the liquor store. All plusses, my friends!

25 Random Things About Tom Selleck

2009-02-08T16:00:00.002-06:00

Unless you live under a rock, you've noticed a little fad floating around facebook called "25 Random Things About Me." It seems everyone and his brother has posted their own version of the survey, and I have to admit I fell folly and did one of my own early in the game. I've since regretted it because I fear I may have contributed to the spreading of completely pointless and incurable stupidity. I also regret having participated because my post was more boring than a PBS telethon (Haha, I had to delete an unnecessary "G" at the end of telethon; finger just kept typing!).

Aside from being lethally boring, these surveys are dangerous because they invite something known as the overshare. You know what I'm talking about. It's like the gas station cashier who won't hand you back your credit card because she's too busy thinking aloud about Tom Selleck's sex appeal, or the girl from class who apologized to the group for not doing her share of the work because she had "killer bad cramps and bloating" all weekend.

I won't name names, but some of the overshares I wish I hadn't read on facebook are below:
"Omg I didn't know what the word C-*-N-T meant until college!"
"I drool in my sleep so bad that I could probly, like, drown. Lol!"
"I've read every Harry Potter book and I love them SO much!!!"
"I'm 22 and still a virgin, I know I'm so lame."

Now, you may be thinking, "Ahh, those aren't so bad..." and you're kind of right. You're right provided that you don't know the person who said them. It all goes downhill and becomes nightmarish once you're able to place faces and names alongside these quotations.

What amazes me about the 25 Random Things is that they include topics and statements that would rarely be shared with one's religious leader in confession or with one's therapist. But somewhere along the line it became socially acceptable to broadcast one's most embarrassing secrets on the world's largest social networking site. Perhaps it's just a game of one-upmanship among increasingly un-shy perverts. Perhaps we all feel the intense desire to tell the world about our herpes or our crush on said gas station cashier so that we can connect with other unfortunates just like us. Not one of us wants to be alone, so I understand. Perhaps.

Maybe it's time to get rid of facebook and get back into the world of face-to-face interactions where there's behavioral codes, social standards and consequences for unwelcome overshares such as a punch in the face.

I'd start a new trend, something like "25 Random Things I'll Do Instead of Facebooking," except I'm just as hopelessly addicted as you are to reading the overshares and looking at the embarrassing weekend party photos.

Cornell's SCREAM is Hip-Pop, Not Hip-Hop

2009-02-04T15:56:00.007-06:00

Shortly after his 2007 split with Audioslave, Chris Cornell teamed up with hip-hop dude Timbaland to remix the second coming of his solo career. Audioslave and Soundgarden fans, myself included, responded to reports of the collaboration with confusion and reluctance for the most part. Likewise, hip-hop fans probably asked questions such as, "Who?" and "Why?"

Just as the answers to those questions may never see the light of day, multiple delays last fall made both lovers and haters of the project wonder if Cornell and Timbaland's baby, entitled Scream, had been shelved for good. News broke early this year, however, that the album would not become the next Chinese Democracy and that it would be released on March 10, 2009. Now that the album can be found leaked on the interweb, it's safe to assume that we'll all be able to buy, or not buy, a copy in the near future.

Now, I realize you may only be reading this blog because you want to know what I think about Cornell's new album. I promise I will tell you soon, but right now I'd like to reflect on all the recent flip-flopping I've done RE: Chris Cornell. You may even find it entertaining.

In February of 2007, I announced "RIP THE 'SLAVE!" and accused Chris Cornell of "breaking my heart." I wrote that I would miss Audioslave's "chunky, chugging, riffs... that have the power and agility to turn on their heels and gallop along with Cornell's vocals as he reaches skyward."

I argued that "optimism should lie in his solo album (2007's Carry On)," even though it wouldn't sound like the "bleeding and atmospheric Soundgarden [or the] heavy-hitting, epic ballads of Temple of the Dog." I predicted it would not top his first solo album, 1999's stellar Euphoria Morning, which is "a disc of shining, polished, acoustic lullabies covered over by layers and layers of delay and echo effects [with] no shortage of lyrical brilliance."

I then, for no apparent reason, called Cornell soulless and mourned the loss of songs such as "I Am the Highway" and "Cochise." My best point was that "Audioslave was Cornell's best bet to remain relevant and churn out worthwhile tunes." Then, at the end of my rant, I shouted from on high that "Cornell's career [would] probably never impress me again," and that I would have to depend on Axel Rose to release his album one day and "fill the void." (Can you believe that actually happened!?)

Weeks later, in March 2007, I retracted a few bits of my stinging criticism. I announced my desire to take back, among others, the following passages:

"Chris Cornell has left Audioslave... He has broken my heart in the process."
"It seems rock is now bereft of its shining pearl, Chris Cornell."

I wrote, "The reason, my friends, for my change of heart is simple. I said some strong things without thinking of the possibility that I would have tickets to a SOLO CHRIS CORNELL SHOW at first ave." It appears I decided Cornell was okay, after all, because I knew I'd get to see him on tour again, and I was stoked to hear his rendition of Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean."

After having seen the show in April 2007, I wrote the following:

"Cornell ripped into a brainmelting opening song, which those of us in the know like to call 'Spoonman.' ...Highlights came in the form of the 'Like A Stone' solo, which was on par with Morello's original masterpiece, and the band's flawless performance of 'Hunger Strike.' Awesome show!" I also posted the setlist on my blog and claimed to have had a seizure during the "Rusty Cage encore. I don't remember the show too well any more, but I know it was a good time and wifey loved it.

What's more important, however, is that the album that came out in the weeks after the show really disappointed me. Carry On sounded nothing like anything he'd ever done before. It was sort of unsure of itself, in that one song had nothing to do with the next, and there was no "overall theme" like those that I had come to appreciate from other Cornell albums. I mean, Cornell's a guy that used to be happy to take 13 songs just to reflect on death or misfortune; I had come to expect some insight, and he didn't deliver.

Alas, hindsight is 20/20. What didn't make sense to me at the time now makes perfect sense. When you look at his theme song 2006's Casino Royale, "You Know My Name," and that entire Carry On album, you can see them for what they are: a bridge from the rock in his past to the sorta hip-without-the-hop work he's doing now.

He slowly started subtracting guitar solos and distortion, and as you can see from the album's cover art above, he has finally smashed all rumors of guitars. He blended the hard lines between soft verses and big choruses that have been the basis of rock n roll since Zeppelin so that all that was left was a constant, cool groove for more background-ish vocals. I'm not going to compare the guy with Miles Davis if I can help it, but Cornell seems to have set out to remove the emotions from his rock music and, instead, sing from a more detached and hook-friendly place. Whether you like it or not, Timbaland helped him achieve this end.

The final result is an album of 14 tracks in which Cornell does not scream, as the album title would have you believe, shout, strut, swell, or do much of anything besides sing. You can tap your foot to the beat, and you can even remember a few catchy melodies, but you can't catch yourself riding some emotional arc; no, the weird effects of the drum machine are too distracting for that. All you can do for the first 13 tracks is listen and maybe recognize the voice of a guy who used to sing with his guts.

The last track, however, is one I'd like to hear more of. It's called "Two Drink Minimum," and it was actually co-produced by John Mayer. That may explain why the song leans toward a more bluesy and subdued side and why it has harmonica. Since it doesn't fit with any of the songs that precede it, I'm left wonder what the album would have sounded like if Cornell had written more songs just like it. Maybe in a few years we will find out. I will try not to change my mind about the artist too many times before that day.

Donde Esta Kirk?

2009-02-02T09:41:00.007-06:00

Kirk and Melissa invited us to their place last night to watch the Super Bowl. Wifey and I picked up some snacks, and we arrived at Kirk's between 4:30 and 5 as instructed. Circa 4:30ish I knocked on Kirk's front door. Nobody answered, and it was cold, so we got back in the car.

"WTF is Kirk?" I wondered aloud.

"WTF is Kirk?" Meg echoed.

"I'm going to call Kirk," I told Meg.

"Find out where Kirk is," Meg said.

I called Kirk.

"Hey, Kirk. Donde estas?" Kirk understands very little Spanish, even though his fiancee knows enough Espanol to save his broken ribs at a hospital in Mexico.

"Oh, Sh*t. Are you already there?"

"Yes."

"We're at H&R Block and just wrapping up. We'll be there soon."

"Bueno."

"He's at H&R block," I told Meg. "Should be here soon."

"Ok."

"I missed a text from him earlier. He wants chips, queso and coca-cola. Should we go grab it while we wait?"

"Ok."

So we went to Walgreen's and grabbed the chips, queso and coca-cola. We made it back to Kirk's circa 5pm and parked in the driveway again.

"He's still not here," I stated.

"He's still not here," Meg echoed.

I sent Kirk a text. It said, "We broke into your house, but your cat got away."

"Kirk doesn't have a cat," Meg says.

"And we didn't break into his house," I tell Meg.

We spaced out for about ten minutes, listening to Shinedown and Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Kirk hadn't replied or arrived. I prepped another text.

"Found your cat... Under the car tire... Sorry about..."

"What should we call his cat?" I asked Meg.

"Frisky," Meg said.

I laughed until tears coated my cheeks and Meg told me to breathe.

I continued the text. "Sorry about Frisky." Send.

Circa 5:15 we still hadn't seen Kirk, and he still hadn't called or texted to inquire about Frisky.

I called him again.

"Hey, Kirk. Donde estas?"

"This guy at H&R Block is taking forever. You want the garage code?"

"Nah, I don't really want to go into your house without you there and go through your underwear drawers. Want to meet us at Champp's instead?"

"Yeah, we'll meet you at Champp's. They have unlimited apps for under 8 bucks."

"Adios."

"We're going to meet him at Champp's," I told Meg. "They have unlimited apps for 8 bucks."

"Aye carrumba!" Meg said. "Let's go!"

So, we made it to Champp's in time for the kick off, but Kirk and Melissa did not. They did, however, arrive shortly after. We enjoyed potato skins, chicken wings, pulled pork sammiches and tons of chips and queso.

"Sorry about Frisky." I said to Kirk.

Kirk laughed. Megan laughed. I laughed. Melissa said, "Huh?"

And then I won five bucks during penalty payback. And the Steelers won. And after the game we played Wii for a few hours and Meg schooled us at MarioKart cuz she has her own pink wheel, and Kirk showed me how to execute a spinning backhand punch two-hit combo on his new punching bag. It was like Street Fighter for SNES except my fists hurt and there were no fireballs being thrown.

By the way, Bruce Springsteen rocked that Super Bowl Halftime Show like it was the rocking chair in his sitting room. "Born to Run" has got to be the most romantic rock song in the history of time. And no, I am not forgetting about "Total Eclipse of the Heart." That's number two, and it ain't even close to the Boss.

Doc Brown Says the Cubs Will Probably Never Win the World Series

2009-01-30T11:25:00.006-06:00

Do you ever think about time travel? You don't have to be a sci-fi geek to imagine yourself in Marty McFly's DeLorean (see above) or in George Carlin's phone booth. Case in point: I really can't stand Star Wars or Star Trek or Starship Troopers (I can't deny that Starbursts rock), but I think Back to the Future kicks ass. I watch it whenever it's on cable, even though I own the trilogy and I've seen each movie a hundred times.

I don't watch it because I wish I could go back and make money for the 21 year old version of myself (not really me in this pic), and I don't fantasize about hanging out with my teenage mother back in the 50's. Hell, she wasn't a teenager until the 70's anyway. I just watch it because it addresses a question that's pretty entertaining to ponder: What would I do if I lived in another time? Such as the Old West? The 80's? Or the fast-approaching year of 2015 when the Cubs are supposed to lose the World Series to a now-fictional Miami team (according to Back to the Future 2)?

Well, the Cubs could lose the world series any old time, if they were to make it that far, so I don't really think 2015 is going to be all that special in that regard. I would, however, like to see WTF I'll be doing with my life in six years. I guarantee you that I have absolutely no idea.

I wonder how I'd stack up against a pre-industrial revolution version of myself. Against a guy who, at my age of 25, is probably middle-aged and less educated and bogged down with a couple of rugrats kickin' up dirt in the soddy. Or what about my pre-potato famine doppleganger who is still living in the old homeland, working as a poor tenant for some rich landowner with a red-haired daughter named Mary and a couple of old stubborn mules? How would I do in a fist fight with that angry whiskey drinker?

I doubt my line of thought is foreign to many of you. I doubt it because it's fun to escape and daydream and picture yourself doing something more interesting than looking at a computer screen or listening to the clock tick. It's fun, and it may well end up becoming something constructive to do, given our current economy. (How's he gonna tie all this together, you ask?)

You see, most successful people have a pretty well-developed skill set. The guys who could best provide for their families back in the day knew how to work a field or re-shoe a horse. They could change a belt in the Ford, reshingle a house, build a barn and lay brick or pipe. I can literally do none of those things. It's not because I am physically or mentally unable, it's just for lack of trying and training. A general lack of purpose.

As it is, I'm a product of a pretty pointless book-based educational system. While I know how to analyze Shakespeare and talk about Romantic British poets, I've learned very little about getting my hands dirty and doing work that could keep me employed through recessions or historical time periods like the Old West.

I sell things, I train others to sell things, and I keep my shop clean. Now, you may think not everyone is cut out for that and that I may do a decent job at it, but that's generous and beside the point. Point is, my profession relies on the whims of people with disposable income. If people are broke or have no whims and don't need more than one watch, I'm not going to get much of a pay check.

If I hop in the DeLorean, or if the MOA goes down the tubes and retail disappears, I'm going to have to learn some trade, such as tailoring or hatmaking, or I'll be forced to forge further west to some new settlement where they still need a proprietor for the town's one and only General Store. If I were to time travel to the Old West and live, I'd have to sell sundries and confectionaries, and every day I would regret the choices I'd made in my life while watching the cool dudes (sherriff, deputies, outlaws) ride around on horses as they chase away dishonest travelling snake oil salesmen.

It's possible that, even without the aide of a flux capacitor, the past ways of life may one day reappear. Thanks to greed and corruption and economic collapse, I may have to find a more realistic and necessary (read: productive and satisfying) profession in order to feed myself and keep wood in the furnace. I'd love to be a writer or a newspaperman, but there are already plenty of those, and that profession doesn't really guarantee a decent retirement, considering illiteracy is a given when shit hits the fan.

I guess if I had to choose an old-school and dependable career, I'd like to give it a go as a gold prospector. That way at least I'd have the iron shoulders and fists tough enough to rumble with the angry, whiskey-drinking Irishmen that planted the old family tree.

Go ahead, make a leprechaun joke.

What Updike Did For Me

2009-01-27T17:33:00.004-06:00

John Updike, a two-time Pulitzer Prize winning American writer, died today of lung cancer. He was 76. He is best known for his short stories and many novels, and he worked for many years as a writer and critic for The New Yorker.

I first came across Updike as a junior at the U of MN in 2004 when a fiction writing instructor had us read one of Updike's most famous short stories, entitled A&P. It's about an innocent teenage boy who comes across some pretty ladies while bagging groceries in a small town market. In one passage, which I will remember forever, Updike describes the "two perfect scoops of vanilla" that fill out the top half of a teenage girl's bikini. The boy in the story ultimately quits his job in a failed attempt to impress the girl attached to those breasts, and in the process he learns his first lessons on real adult regret and stupidity.

If that passage does anything to remind you of your teenage years, or of the hungry, inexperienced teenager still hiding inside somewhere, then read some of his short stories. Then move on to his quartet of Rabbit novels, then on to Couples, and maybe mix in some of his stories about Henry Bech. These will teach you about the forces within that can make you fight against the mundane realities of adulthood. These will help you laugh at yourself, at your neighbors, at suburbia, and they will allow you to reflect on that same real adult regret and stupidity. Beautiful prose can cut deep.

Maybe my favorite lines from any of Updike's work can be found in 1960's Rabbit, Run, which was his first published novel. When reflecting on mortality and parenthood, the main character Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom realizes that life's "Fullness ends when we give Nature her ransom, when we make children for her. Then she is through with us, and we become, first inside, and then outside, junk. Flower stalks."

Not just your average insight, not your average story, and most definitely one of the greatest American story tellers of the 20th century. He may have seen his years after reproduction to be full of a general decaying and wastefulness in natural terms, but he certainly continued to produce right to the end.

His most recent book, released in late 2008, is called The Widows of Eastwick. It is a sequal to his mid 1980s novel The Witches of Eastwick, which was made into a very worthwhile movie.

Screw Structure, Forget Transitions, Just Bring the Meat

2009-01-19T15:20:00.012-06:00

I return to bullet points.
Meg's pa hooked us up with a 42" Sony and some oak furniture to boot. Gopher basketball just looks sexier. I've never had a big TV before, and my life will never be the same.
I sneezed and hurt my back over the weekend, and then I aggravated it more when I was dragging furniture and TV's around the apartment with Meg. I'm skipping bowling tonight cuz I'm afraid of feeling my age. Or worse, feeling older.
The St. Paul Winter Carnival has started! I love the WC! When I was just a little shit my pa used to take me to watch the contruction of the ice castle and to look at the ice sculptures. To this day, he makes a point to buy me a Winter Carnival button every year, and I wear that button on my coat until it falls off.
Out of the blue, I got the urge this year to go balls out and participate in the WC Medallion Hunt. I may have to finally buy some winter boots to give it a go, but some cold, wet feet ain't gonna keep me from trying to win. Neither will Meg's rolling eyes or that little whisper she says in my ear that sounds something like "Dork."
She's mine, and you can't have her.
I remember winning the Where's Waldo medallion hunt at my elementary school. Twice. I've got luck in my blood. And now there's more than some Waldo puzzle to win. They're handing out stacks of cash!!!
Less than one month until pitchers and catchers report to training camp. I can smell the grass. And the hot dogs. And leather, and dirt, and sweat, and cheap beer. Smells like love.
Obama takes the oath tomorrow at noon eastern. I thought the whole Inauguration was sposed to take place tomorrow night, so I scalped some Adele tix for her show at the Fitz. I made some bank, but I'm not sure that matters now that I know I coulda watched Obama put his right hand on Lincoln's bible and still have made it to the show. Ah well, we live and learn.
There's places that will do an oil change while you wait. In the car. It's pretty awesome.
I'm skipping Twins Fest this year, and we may go to Albertville instead. Reason being is the Twins announced that their single game tix will be going on sale in March along with the rest of the MLB instead of at Twins Fest. Boo.
New Jane Monheit comes out tomorrow, Jan 20, 2009. Apparently the release date was announced in November, but I didn't hear word one until just last week. But that's okay, cuz I don't have to wait so long this time around. CD's called "The Lovers, the Dreamers and Me," and it features songs by Fiona Apple, Paul Simon, Corrinne Bailey Rae and a cover of Kermit the Frog's "The Rainbow Connection." Lovin' it.
Last week the temperature stayed below zero for over three days. That sucked.
Beef stew helped me survive.
There's new music out there to be heard. Check out new Springsteen (Waiting on a Dream) cuz it's romantic like Magic and like Born to Run, and we need some more damn romance. It features a song called "The Wrestler" which provides the soundtrack to Mickey Rourke's kickass new movie. Very nice acoustic bit.
Also check out John Frusciante's The Empyrean. His solo work is never like his work with the Chili Peppers, so don't go in expecting a single. The songs are longer and freer in form, his vocals are shadowy and mostly just provide filler between chord changes and solos. Nice grooves, interesting instrumentations, and very, very Pacific.
Watch Vicky Christina Barcelona if you like Woody Allen, Javier Bardem, Scarlett Johannsen or Penelope Cruz. Or if you like the idea of Scarlett kissing Penelope. Or if you like movies narrated by a character you'll never meet onscreen.
Don't bother checking your mailbox today; it's MLK Day.
Starbucks coffee that I've tried, ranked from first to worst: Cafe Estima, Sumatra, Thanksgiving Blend, Pike Place Blend, Christmas Blend, anything decaf or fru-fru.
Recently I wrote a letter to Esquire commending their analysis of regional Chilis. Part of my letter was printed in the Feb 2009 issue, but they didn't give me a byline or nothin'. I don't mind one bit, cuz that's just one more life goal I can check off the list.
I've been dancing with Mr. Brownstone, and he won't leave me alone.
There should be more cartoons like ProStars and C.O.P.S. from the 80's. Why was Wayne Gretzky always so damn hungry anyway?

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."

- Shakespeare, Will

I Should Hang Out With Clint Eastwood

2009-01-10T10:40:00.003-06:00

The world outside is noisy and busy, chaotic and beautiful, unfriendly, inspiring... But I'm turning inward right now. Taking a mental vacation. Checking out, tuning in, drifting off. I'm daydreaming again, and I'm thinking about how I'd spend money if I had it.

If I could hire someone full-time to make my life easier, he'd be wise and 65 and would follow me around, mostly unnoticed, and encourage me to indulge every passing whim.

He'd say things like, "Hey, you been lifting weights?" Or, "You want to go see a movie? Fine! I'll do the dishes and make you some steak. It'll be ready when you get back."

He'd ask, "You want to take a nap? That's fine. I'll put on some Miles Davis until you fall asleep."

Or, "You don't feel like going to work today? Don't be a pussy. Take some of this Coca-Cola and beef jerky I got from the Butcher's."

My generous and supportive butler/man-servant would encourage me to take vacations with Wifey. He'd pack us picnic baskets and load up the car with beach gear. He'd tell her jokes and make her blush so she'd know I'm not the only one who thinks the world of her.

He'd cut my hair and shave me with a straight razor, talk about baseball and books and rock n' roll, tell me stories about his time in the service or a trip to the bullfights. He'd be a friendly Grandpa-type with bartending experience who'd tell me which suit to buy and what cigar to smoke and to always buy American. I'd call him Reggie or Reg or Pops or something, and he'd call me Chief or Boss or Mr. Kennealy.

He'd have a hidden agenda, hidden from me anyway, to make me more confident and less cautious. He'd push me to try harder, to hold back less.

He'd encourage me to drink more, to say "Son of a Bitch more loudly," but not at all in the presence of a lady, speaking of which, he'd call ladies "Lass," or "Dame," and he'd teach me the secrets of handshakes, toasts, fistfights, harmonicas and packing a suitcase. He'd have a low, gravelly voice and tan, wrinkled skin.

He'd have a knack for getting to people to agree with him, and he'd give me a sweet-ass Hamilton pocket watch and tell me it was his grandfather's or something.

Shit. He'd be Clint Eastwood.

Thanks to the One-Minute Writer for the inspiration.

My Favorite Facebook Status Updates

2009-01-07T08:41:00.002-06:00

What's up my ninjas? Below you will find a collection of some of my favorite status updates. Please comment on your faves and leave some of your own!

X is in another castle, sorry Mario!
X is a proper noun.
X is probly drinkin coffee and smokin big cigars.
X is dividing by zero!!!
X is gathering rocks to throw at his enemies.
X is the next contestant on The Price is Right!
X is making the biggest paper airplane ever!
X is known to cause cancer in the state of California.
X is traveling forward in time.
X is going, going, gone!
X farts in your general direction.
X is thrusting in the direction of the problem.
X is away right now, so please leave a message after the beep.
X is havingtrou blewithhis spacebar.
X reminds you that objects in your mirror are closer than they appear.
X had a million dollars and blew it all on McDonald's fries and a wild night in Reno with your mom's Bridge club.
X is the best of times and the worst of times.
X is brought to you by the letters W, T and F.
X will believe it when his shit turns purple and smells like rainbow sherbert.
X hates it when you write on his wall with crayons.
X is sniffing glue, going to the zoo, gonna free all the kangaroos. Suck it Dr. Seuss!
X always thought "googling yourself" meant the other thing...
X had something very important to do today, but he can't remember what it is... NUDEY MAGAZINE DAY!!!
X is down with O.P.P.
X is playing Scrabble; it's crack for the literate.
X's mama said knock you out.
X saw your mommy kissing Santa Claus.
X took your mother out for a nice seafood dinner and NEVER called her back!
X is Wii-tarded.
X can't win with his hands around his throat.
X is one quarter cup bacon bits, two tablespoons brown sugar, and all parts delicious.
X always drives faster than conditions allow.
X finds needles in haystacks. For fun.

Sort of All Over the Place

2008-12-30T17:41:00.004-06:00

Folks, the year 2009 is upon us.

At this time of year, I'm sure I'm not alone in my desire to reflect and project. No, I'm not talking about looking in mirrors and judging others for shortfalls and foibles I am guilty of myself. I'm just talking about taking stock and planning for the future. Maybe not the retirement-home era of the future, but definitely the leather recliner, a few gray hairs, did I forget to water the lawn? era. You never know how soon it may make itself the unwelcome guest at the party that is your life. And you can never get that guest to leave at a decent hour so you can wash the dishes and go to sleep. Best be prepared.

And preparation is not my strong suit. Probably explains why I shoot mind bullets at people who seem more clusterfucked that I am. Projecting is easy. But writing out things like this is not easy. I'm no hearty veteran when it comes to wordifying (made that up) things that encapsulate my thoughts and feelings at a particular moment or stage, things I intend to reference in the future, but I've been trying recently. For example, I stole a page from Freeman and Nicholson and made my first Bucket List a few months ago, and just last week I tried to summarize for Santa Claus the many, many things I hoped to recieve for Christmas.

You get points for the effort, they've told me.

So, to take that little idea one step further, to try to make myself a few strides better at commemorating things and taking stock and keeping track of myself, I will resolve to make Resolutions. And not the silent, half-realized kind; only the real deal. Only Resolutions that are signed, sealed and delivered to this here blog, or that there piece of paper, or to some accessible computer file that will be opened and closed and re-read so often as to make me fully accountable for my most possible shortcomings.

Only in this way can I hope to remember the meaning behind each wrinkle I'm sure to start acquiring, the story leading to each accomplishment, the torture of each fight, the pleasures of reconciliation, and all the names and places and faces that are destined, despite my best efforts, to end up twisting and collapsing and relegating themselves to the shallow dustbin that will one day be my memory.

So, then! To make good on the Resolution! This year, I resolve to put up or shut up. Shit or get off the pot, they've told me. Don't just talk about it, be about it. If you're a painter, then paint. If you're an ice sculpter, freeze some water and get a chisel. If you're a writer, then write.
Every day, I nurse this little voice inside my head that tells me to write stories and explore themes and develop characters by telling it, "Oh, I don't have time today," or "I just wrote so-many pages yesterday," or "Insert lie here." Sometimes I try to ignore the voice, but it sticks with me. It is me, I suppose.

I want to write a novel one day. I want to call myself a writer. I want people to read about me in lecture halls and talk about my stories and make my name synonymous with hard work and humor and empathy and insight and, shit let's shoot for the moon, rebellious brilliance.
Thing is, I have no idea if my name is synonymous with any of those things. I can only find out by writing.

I made strides last year, a power move or two if you will, by writing for the local newspaper and by entering my first short story contest. Since it's silly to resolve to get a novel published this year because I'd just be setting myself up for failure and disappointment, I will start modestly and try to build on success by resolving to enter at least five more short story contests with NEW material. I will to publish five more articles in the local paper. I will actually start work on that novel and get it up to the 20-page manuscript length necessary to shop it around and see if something sticks. Or stinks. Or sings. Or sells.

You see, I feel better already having just put these things down. Having them wordified makes them real and will hold me accountable next December if I haven't kept up my part of the bargain. But, when I do my best and accomplish these things, I can add other things to the list of New Year's Resolutions. Things such as spend extra income from writing on a new-used vehicle, take a vacation to Europe, quit your day job, buy a house, start a family, etc...

You see, you have to start at the beginning. You can't just start with the kids and the house and the car and have no source of income. Unless you're an heir. That would be cool. Unless you're Paris Hilton. That would mean you're slutty and vapid. I'd rather be an heir to some Eastern European throne that controlls all the granite in the Ural Mountains. Or something. Low profile and impressive all at once. Sort of like a big farmhouse on a rolling hill with a tire swing out front. Sort of like a guy selling watches at the mall who's on the verge of bigger things. Sort of like holding the minor league career home run record. Crash Davis style.

A Foggy Funeral

2008-12-26T21:53:00.002-06:00

We buried Meg's Grandma today in Primghar, Iowa. The fog sank down into our skin and blanketed the ground from sunrise to nightfall. It cloaked trees and buildings and most everything past arm's length, but I saw just enough after all.

Last-Minute Letter to Santa

2008-12-24T07:47:00.003-06:00

Hey Santa,

How are you? Mom is fine. Sorry I didn't write sooner. I've been trying so hard to stay among the NICE that I haven't even had time to think about crafting a wish list. I hope it's not too late to send this now. I know you have lists from all the Tommies and Suzies already, and there's probably been a spike in Grown-Up Christmas Lists this year due to the dying economy, so I understand if you can't track down some of these items. It is Christmas Eve, after all. So without further delay, please see if you can find any of the below in your Magic Pleasure Sack.

Brendan's Christmas List (items in no particular order)

- New F150. Black, 4X4, manual transmission.

- House. Brick/dark wood combo, lake view, surrounded by cedars and pines, spacious yard,

fire place, two-car garage, lots of windows.

- Coca-Cola, beer and/or fresh coffee.

- A perfect game on league bowling night.

- Night vision goggles (for fun!)

- Trip to Cuba.

- A good cigar and a cold beer while on the beach in Cuba.

- A shit-ton of money.

- Vacation to Europe with Meg K.

- New pancreas for wifey.

- Healthy, happy kids one day.

- Tissot Touch watch with a white or blue face.

- New Twins hat.

- Twins season tix 4-Ever.

- Chance to compete on Wheel of Fortune or an episode of Jeopardy focusing on Baseball,

Shakespeare, and Metallica.

- Irish Tweed Quilt from Hanna Hats in Donegal County, Ireland.

- Bottle o' Jameson.

- New wiper blades for the truck.

- Pair of Zubaz in MN Wild colors.

- MN Wild tix.

- Hair. On my head.

- Generous advance for my unwritten best-seller from some trusting publishing behemoth.

- Twins logo tattoo.

- Heat wave.

- Job security.

- Winning powerball ticket.

- Diplomatic Immunity.

- More horsepower.

- More time to golf.

- Coffee bean grinder.

- New suits. Charcoal, navy, and/or black. Double breasted.

- No more lower back pain.

- Metallica concert in Mpls.

- More mornings in bed with wifey.

- Ice fishing trip with Pa.

- My own hound dog to name Huckleberry.

- A hammock.

- McDonald's breakfast

Thanks for reading, Santa! Travel safe and warm, and tell Rudolph he's the coolest.

Visiting a Thief

2008-12-04T16:41:00.006-06:00

Tripp sat down on the other side of the smudged glass. The little black guard who escorted him in turned and left without a word. He took the cream colored phone in his shackled hands and greeted me. His face looked as though it hadn't been shaved in weeks.

"Orange looks good on you, Bud." I tried to look confident, relaxed, but the whole situation made me anxious to be gone. I didn't like being this close to a jail cell. I hated seeing him, and I hated imagining myself in his place.

"Thanks, Tom." He smiled, looking down at his chest, and smoothed his inmate ID patch. It read No: 0102. "Did you do what I asked?" His voice sounded tense and distant, even though he sat three feet in front of me and his dark whiskers hid any sign of worry.

"Yeah, sure. The files are gone. Your computer is scraped clean." Tripp looked at me in disbelief. Normally, I would have felt good knowing I'd helped, even though what I did was probably illegal enough to put me on the other side of the glass with Tripp. Hell, I'd done even worse. And I didn't want any of that. He was always willing to go a little further than me. He liked to remind me of the time we were set to pound and rob a fat Jewish kid, Seth, who was selling stolen Playstation 3 systems from his dorm room at our school.

"What's the big deal?" Tripp had asked. "Seth stole these things, so it's not like we're really ripping anyone off. 'Sides, he's a jackass and thinks he's some hot shit. Somebody should teach the clown a leason."

I'd told Tripp I couldn't do it. I couldn't risk the trouble that came with fighting and stolen goods and expulsion. I ended up playing watchdog as Tripp gave Seth a black eye and a fat lip and made off with four PS3's and Seth's leather coat. The coat didn't even fit Tripp's skinny frame.

Ever since, Tripp had expected me to chicken out of his schemes. I almost did this time with his computer deal, but I'd thought I couldn't stand the idea of him sitting in some jail cell over stolen music. I thought it was like the PS3's all over again. Someone else stole the music and made it available; Tripp just helped himself to it. I wished I'd never helped him out, but I knew I'd never lose my nerve again.

He spoke up. "Thanks for doing that. Hopefully it'll keep the charges to a minimum." His blue eyes were round and seemed to show his gratitude. "Hey," he said. "You know what they call these things in Español?" He lifted his hands and shook the cuffs. "Las Esposas. Haha. That's the same word they use for husband or wife. Haha." His laughter shook his whole body. Tripp watched me for a smile, so I gave him one. It was pretty sad looking, I'm sure. I let the moment linger for a moment before I leaned forward.

"I got a question for you, Tripp." The ticking clock echoed against the cement like knuckles popping. He watched me closely. "You must've known I'd find your 'Top Secret' file on the computer?" I exhaled into the reciever and heard an earful of fuzz.

"Woah, Tom, Buddy." Tripp sat straight up and pointed at me through the glass. "You didn't open it, did you? You... You wouldn't have, right?" He pulled at the hair on the back of his head.

"Of course I opened it. I deleted the pictures, but I opened it first."

"You really shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have seen that." Tripp gritted his teeth and I could see his jaw grinding them together. The color went out of his face. "You must be pretty damn pissed, eh?" He wrinkled his forehead.

"What's done is done." I thought of hanging up the phone then, right at that moment, since he wouldn't be able to chase me out. But I stayed. I had more to say. "You can bet when you get out of here, though, that you'll have to knock that shit off. She's gone for good."

"But I can't do that. She's all I got, Man." He pleaded with me.

"Come on! She's all you got? She was my girlfriend, Tripp!" I pictured the two of them, together, like I'd seen in the pictures, and I realized I was biting through my lower lip. I tasted blood.

"What do you mean she's gone for good?" Tripp looked genuinely worried, and he seemed sorry.

"I'll be waiting for you when you get out," I said, and then I hung up the phone and waved to the guard to let me through the door. I walked to the doorway and looked back, and Tripp had his face buried in his hands. Buried deep.

Top Ten Gifts to Give This X-Mas If You're Broke

2008-12-03T14:50:00.003-06:00

10) Pirated music

9) Tap water

8) Siphoned gasoline

7) Hope for a better tomorrow (also known as a knuckle sandwich)

6) Your phone number (if he/she is cute!)

5) Kirk's phone number (if he/she is not)

4) A homemade coupon redeemable for a free foot rub

3) Loose change from a payphone - If you can find one!

2) A re-gifted breadmaker

1) an IOU

Keep in mind that these gifts work even better if you have no intention of ever giving a real gift when you fall into some money.

Sammy the Killer Parrot

2008-12-03T11:14:00.003-06:00

Ray finally gave in and bought his daughter a brightly-colored parrot for her birthday. He was a single dad and a sucker for her happiness. The lady at the bird store, Alice, seemed thrilled to sell the bird and assured Ray it was perfect for a little girl. He had his reservations, especially since the parrot seemed exceptionally quiet, but Alice promised it would start talking again once it became comfortable in its new surroundings.

While Lisa slept, he placed the bird in her room among the National Geographic photos of Macaws and Toucans taped to the sunny yellow walls. He left a blanket over the cage and started to leave the room, but the bird squawked and woke her. Ray stopped as he watched Lisa rise from bed and run to the cage. She screamed with glee like a child possessed. "Daddy Daddy Daddeeeeeeee!!! Thank you!"

She slipped away the blanket and looked with wide eyes. The bird sat perched and opened its shining green and blue wings as if to greet his new admirer.

"What's its name," Lisa asked.

"I don't know baby. You're the birthday girl, so why don't you pick?" Ray smiled warmly and crouched beside his daughter, straightening her fine blonde hair with his fingers.

"I'll call it Samantha. Just like Mommy!" Lisa reached her finger in the cage. The bird touched his beak to Lisa's thumb.

"I'm not sure it's a girl, baby. Why don't you pick another name?"

"No, Mommy loves birds and parrots especially. Samantha will remind me of Mommy!"

The bird moved its neck rhythmically.

Just what I need, Ray thought to himself. "Lisa, let's call it Sammy then. At least it'll be more gender neutral."

Lisa looked at him, puzzled, and she agreed.

"I can't wait to show Mommy! Is she coming to my birthday party?" Lisa danced in her pajamas and sang to the bird, her voice high with excitement.

Ray encouraged Lisa to get dressed and brush her teeth. He gave the bird, now known as Sammy, some water and pellets, and Lisa spent her day begging it to talk and playing games that revolved around the bird.

Later that night when Lisa showed her mother and her boyfriend Sammy the bird, Samantha scolded Ray. "Nice job. Do you really think she's ready for this kind of responsibility?" Ray remained quiet and nodded to Lisa, reminding Samantha to be careful with her words.

Sammy spoke up for the first time as Lisa rattled his cage. It said, sounding nasally like an old man, "If you ever tell anybody what you saw, I'll kill you."

Lisa looked horrified and commenced crying immediately. Ray gathered her up in his arms and shushed her. He was shocked and asked himself what he had brought into his home.

Samantha let go a string of curses and insults, telling Ray what she thought of his ill-planned and irresponsible gift.

"If you want to tell me how to raise our daughter you shouldn't have left." Ray could feel sweat running into his eyes. Samantha stood in the bedroom with the sunny yellow walls with her mouth agape.

Sammy continued being devilish and spoke again, repeating his mindless threat. "I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll kill you."

Lisa cried and asked Ray, "Why would Sammy say that? Why would he kill me?"

"Oh, it's okay baby," Ray said quietly. "He's talking to your mother, not to you."

Yesterday vs. Tomorrow

2008-12-02T20:50:00.005-06:00

How do I choose between Yesterday and Tomorrow?

I worked yesterday. I have tomorrow off. I choose tomorrow.

It was cold and snowy yesterday, and I didn't have to deal with it because I was indoors at the MOA. Tomorrow will be cold and snowy and I will be stuck in the house because I won't want to deal with the elements or mittens. I still choose tomorrow because I can sleep in, play Wii, drink coffee and maybe sleep some more.

"Yesterday" has the Beatles and G N' R. "Tomorrow (Never Knows)" just has the Beatles, but the song isn't as good as "Yesterday." George Harrison's guitar is subtle and perfect, and their take on love remains hopeful despite heartaches unknown. I pick yesterday.

Generally speaking, yesterday represents the past and tomorrow the future. The past years have rocked, what with school and baseball and marriage, while the future is scary and full of uncertainty. House? Career? Economy? Kids? Health? Question mark? Tomorrow has promise, but does that outweigh all that I don't know? I gotta go with yesterday again.

In the realm of James Bond movies, yesterday rocked. Yesterday boasts Connery and Brosnan and all the rest. However, Tomorrow promises more Daniel Craig. That's a plus. But, Tomorrow also brought us "Tomorrow Never Dies," which sucked hard. This one is probably a toss-up.

So we're sitting at a tie between yesterday and tomorrow. Each category has won rounds and lost others, yet each has emerged from another with no decision. That leaves us right between yesterday and tomorrow, like always, and today is up for grabs.

Take a day off, watch a good Bond movie, listen to some old rock and roll and decide for yourself. You may end up picking today. Billy Corgan thinks "Today is the greatest day," and since he's bald like me I have to at least give the weirdo a chance.

Bowling For Attention

2008-11-26T20:35:00.000-06:00

This is where the magic happened on Monday 11/24. I bowled a personal best 212. Combined with my stellar handicap of 84 pins, that's good enough for a plus-perfect 306. With a score like that, they'll start calling me Kingpin. Maybe it's time for a comb-over?

I Did Not Attempt To Break Into My Own Apartment

2008-11-25T16:10:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I made a bank run to get change for the store cuz we go through fives like trailer park high rollers at the bingo hall. The store banks in Highland Park, right up the road from my apartment, so on my way back to work at the MOA I stopped at home for a sammich.

After I got in the apartment and pulled off my coat, I popped some pulled-pork in the microwave, cracked open a cold Coke, and went to the mailbox. I returned, disappointed by the boring mail, and relaxed in the bathroom before tearing into my grub.

When I finally got around to eating my delicious sammich, in mid-scarf mode no less, my apartment door swung open, banged into the wall, and a low voice proclaimed the presence of the Saint Paul Police. I swallowed, set down my book, and came out of the second bedroom to see WTF was happening. I figured I'd find my landlord grinning from my doorway, on some thermostat-related errand and proud of his prank, because I don't know any of my neighbors or the boundaries of their comedic antics.

To my surprise, I did not find my landlord filling the space of my doorway, or the face of a prankster neighbor. Instead I found a very cautious cop hovering over the mess of shoes that is our welcome mat. He had has flashlight level to his jaw, pointed straight at my eyes, and his gun was drawn and aimed at the floor. He told me he wanted to see my hands so I showed him.

"Do you live here?" he asked.

"Yes sir," I answered, but I could barely muster a whisper. I learned at that moment, for the first time in my life, that when confronted with danger and confusion I am not the cool, clever, bonafide Bruce Willis type I always imagined I was. I'm more of a wide-eyed, slow-moving, so-quiet-as-to-seem-asleep type. The police officer asked me to step outside and pointed at a man in the hallway.

"Is this your neighbor?"

"I don't know, Officer." I'd honestly never seen the man before me, cuz like I've stated I don't know most of my neighbors. I didn't know what to make of the cop's question, and I was busy concentrating on not doing any of the thousands of stupid things I've seen criminals do on Cops. Like getting themselves shot. My alleged neighbor spoke up.

"I'm not sure he lives there. I've never seen him." He looked at the cop, and the cop looked at me.

"We're looking for a burglar who was trying to break into apartments on this floor. A skinny white kid with facial hair." I became immediately aware I fit their description, felt momentarily flattered for being called skinny, and finally understood they thought I was their suspect.

"I've got ID. I live here, and my ID says so." I reached into my pocket for my wallet. Slowly, cuz that's how the cops like it. Slowly. As the cop looked it over, another neighbor came around the corner and surveyed the situation. The cop jerked his head at me and looked at the new-comer.

"Does he live here?"

"Yeah, he's cool," he answered and smiled at me. I recognized him, thankfully, because one time I had to go to his door with some mail I'd gotten by mistake. He looked nothing like Bruce Willis, nothing at all, but he exuded all the calm and control I was lacking.

The police officer handed me my ID and said the neighbors had reported a burglary attempt in progress only ten minutes earlier. I thought of myself mindlessly walking down the halls to the mailbox, maybe unknowingly deterring or barely missing a mirror-image intruder as he tried the locks on the doors around my floor. I felt fucking weak. I hadn't seen anything that could help the officer, so I thanked him and turned to go back inside my apartment.

"Sorry about opening your door and barging in," the officer said. "It was open a crack and unlocked. I thought I had our burglar cornered."

"No problem, Officer. You're allowed to do stuff like that." I tried to smile, and I closed my door. I locked the push button on the knob. I turned the sturdy steel lock and heard it click. I took the chain off the peg and slid it into its track. I did all this and swore to myself that I'd done just the same thing only minutes earlier after getting the mail.

I really hope I forgot.

Hanna Hat Haiku

2008-11-21T12:28:00.004-06:00

I wrote a haiku about the wool caps from I order from Donegal County, Ireland. I also buy them from Irish Indeed in Saint Paul, MN. I love them very much, cuz there ain't a warmer, more comfy hat out there. Here she goes:

Simple, soft, warm, dry

Irish Tweed from Donegal

Cold, bald head no more.

Maybe it'll get me a free hat? Or a big ol' patchwork quilt. That would be delightful.

Dirty Money

2008-11-20T10:13:00.007-06:00

"Honey?" I called out, unsure that my own voice was coming out. I remembered to breathe and squinted out into the yard, trying to find Ann pulling weeds from her row of carrots.

"Hunnnneeeeee? You won't believe what I just found in the garage here."

Ann appeared in the doorway, her knees and hands caked with mud from her mother's old garden, with the afternoon light shining behind and blurring her edges. She flicked on the light switch, and immediately her eyes and mouth grew round when she saw the dusty pile of cash laid out before me among the spades and flower pots.

"You mind telling me what you have there, Lou?" Ann cleared a path between the lawn mower and rakes and knelt beside me. She put her hands on a stack of twenties.

"I have $40,000 here, I think. I counted it about 19 times, but I'm not thinking as clearly as I'd like..."

"What's it doing here, Lou?" Ann sounded more steady than I felt. She was kind to coax an explanation from me as slowly as she was. The cement floor of the garage was killing my back, but I remained seated while the room spun. I pointed out the old Red Wing Boots box I found the money in.

"I was going through your parents' old stuff here, and the box was behind that cupboard, covered in dirt and spiderwebs. These bills were tidy, packed tight in there. Look at the dates. 1982 series."

"That's strange. That's a long time ago."

"Yeah, it has. Look at this note. It was taped to the bottom of the box." Ann took the yellowed note in her dirty fingers, smudging the edges, and read aloud.

10-10-85

JP-

When you find this money, I'll be gone. Don't try to find me; I've made that impossible. Take the cash and start over. It's your money, anyway. All the money I begged and stole from you while I was using, it's all here. Take it and go someplace warm and safe, far away from all this confusion and anything that reminds you of me. There's still hope that you can do something better for our daughter without me. Forget me.

-S.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Ann gathered up the money, helped me to my feet, and we went inside. Finally I asked Ann what she thought we should do.

"You saw the note," she replied. "My father Stephen left that money for my mother Janet. She's gone now, so it's our money."

"I always thought your mom and dad were divorced," I asked.

"Well, they were sort of. Dad just disappeared one day, and Mom never heard a word about why."

"She never found the money."

"We stayed here the whole time."

"What does this change," I asked.

Ann didn't answer.

Chinese Democracy!!!

2008-11-19T10:30:00.005-06:00

Today's writing prompt over at the One Minute Writer has inspired me to tell you about the lovely, organized noise I'm listening to right now.

This very minute, Axl Rose (of GNR) is singing new songs from his upcoming Chinese Democracy to me in my own apartment. He'll do the same for you soon, because you'll be able to the new GNR album buy exclusively at Best Buy this Sunday 11/23. Whooda thunk that after 17 years since our last GNR album this day would ever come?

I mean, that's a long time ago. Garth didn't even have pubes back then.

Well, the dudes over at Dr. Pepper apparently thought otherwise.

My good buddy Derek also wagered me two weeks ago that the album wouldn't arrive, and it's looking like he'll lose that bet. He shall be sentenced to henceforth pronounce the word WIGGLY with three syllables, just like a lady.

And I lost a dollar. To myself. Cuz back in 1998 in the halls of Metcalf Junior High, I said something to the affect of, "Axl Rose is a schizo. A talented dude, but still a nutjob. I'll gladly wager this milk money that he'll end up naked in a ditch before he releases another album."

You know, though, I'm glad I was wrong. Cuz since that fabricated event, I've seen Axl live with Buckethead and the 2003 version of GNR at Target Center. It rocked. Kirk made out with a girl all through "Sweet Child O' Mine," and the girl he set me up with that night turned out to have a boyfriend but none of the 90 bucks she owed me for her ticket. Axl was so kickass I didn't mind one bit.

And I still don't mind, cuz now I'm hearing the songs he promised me back in '03 at the show, the same songs he promised in March of '07, and the same songs he's been promising since like, what, 1993? Shit. He made good.

There's so much guitar sex and vocal triumph on these tracks that nobody should be allowed to bitch about the long wait.

I even read about a rumor in the Rolling Stone that Chinese Democracy is going to be the first installment of a GNR trilogy of albums slated for release before 2012. Anyone care to verify for me? Maybe Axl himself?

Go buy the album, sign up for a free soda at drpepper.com, and be 14 again. You'll be "Sorry" if you don't (cuz track 10 of the album, "Sorry," has a wicked solo).

The Watch of My Dreams

2008-11-14T20:25:00.007-06:00

Ladies and Gentleman, if I'm not mistaken, this is the first time I've ever bothered to blog about a watch. Maybe that's no big deal to the average blogger/reader, but I must remind you I'm not, after all, very average.

It just so happens that I sell, size, polish, arrange and gush over watches for a living. I've been doing so since the year 2000 when I took a job at Fossil, and in 2005 I dove into the world of Swiss watches when I took over Swatch at the MOA.

As far as the watch industry is concerned, that was a sweet move. I've increased my watch collection, helped Wifey start her own, become pretty well-versed in loads of watch jargon with which I will choose not to bore you, and managed to stay pretty much immuned to market woes (Swiss company = stability.... so far).

One of the coolest things about working for Swatch is the fact that my employer, the Swatch Group, owns and operates dozens of other watch-making companies worldwide. Most of these companies are Swiss, such as Omega and Tissot, and some are even American, such as Hamilton. Prices range among these brands from 50 bux to well over a few hundred thousand dollars.

Now, like the majority of you, I can't even dream of being able to afford much more than a Mickey Mouse watch without my employee discount. However, due to some happenings I won't divulge, it has become possible for me to get my first Hamilton (pictured above).

Hamilton is a classic American brand, started in the mid 19th century, and has been part of the Swatch Group since the early 1990's. At that time, Hamilton moved its base of operations from its home in Pennsylvania to Switzerland. Thankfully not much else has changed. They still live up to the standard they set for affordable wrist and pocket watches that helped Hamilton become the first brand ever certified as accurate by the once-upstart American railroad companies.

I won't go much deeper or geekier than that because I've probably already lost you. But, that's just a gloss-over really. I like Hamilton because it has American roots and because my dad always talked about the cool old pocket watches with trains engraved on the covers. I'm stoked because I'll be getting my first. Hopefully it'll be an investment that lasts and one that I can use to alienate myself from my own kids.

The Start of a Bucket List

2008-11-14T15:06:00.010-06:00

I'm going to put it down in writing here and now that I will do my damnedest to accomplish the following before I die:

Write a book, get it published, make money.
Not just any book, mind you, but a generously-praised, well-known, career-making piece of literature. The make money clause isn't even all that important, so long as the book is at least partially about rock n' roll, love, pickup trucks, the scent of cedar, and other manly stuff.

Visit Cuba.
Once Communism dies, I hope to vacation on the island and see Hemingway's former residence. I'd like to have a good mojito at a bull fight (if they still have those?), eat the island's famous self-named sandwich, and catch a big ol' fish.

Get Meg a house and fill it with kids.
I want a lawn to mow, a hammock between some trees, preferrably cedars, and a big ol' fireplace.

Props to the One Minute Writer for getting me thinking today.

I Feel For Palin, Even Though I Voted For the Other Guy

2008-11-12T15:03:00.003-06:00

I'm at an in-between place. I'm here literally, metaphorically, unintentionally yet unsurprisingly. I've arrived here not hopelessly, thankfully, but probably more than partially aimlessly.

To put it simply, I'm 25. I'm 25, and I'm feeling like most of what I've accomplished to this point was either easy, by accident, or the result of a gift.

Maybe I'm like Palin, unsure of my future and even more unsure of my recent past, just waiting for an "open door to plow through." (By the way, I've seen people plow through closed doors. That's not easy. But, when the door is opened for you, we call that a gift).

But isn't that what we all want? Some opportunity given to us, some door opened for us, so all we have to do is walk through at the right time and act like we made it happen? I'd like that. I really would love a free pass, because it beats the alternative.

It tops waiting and wondering, muddling through, daydreaming, sweating, feeling trapped, never going anywhere.

But the boardmembers and CEO's and Democratic voters out there are telling Mrs. Palin, and the rest of us maybe, "Sorry, Sarah, your ship has sailed. Better luck next time."

Now, I know I didn't make the ticket yet. And I stress yet. And I know I really have nothing in common with the Alaskan governor. Hell, I didn't even vote for her. But, that doesn't mean I don't know exactly how she feels with Matt Lauer asking her questions in her kitchen.

And I know how it feels to wonder if my day will ever come. I wonder if I'll ever achieve the mallworker's simple dream of moving on. I wonder if I'll ever have a house and a yard and a dog and a new truck. I wonder if my bowling average will ever improve. I wonder if I'll ever do some real writing. I wonder if I'll ever see Ireland, and I wonder just how much longer uncertainty is going to play the leading role in my life.

Well, at least I have tonight figured out. I'm seeing the new Bond movie, and it hasn't even officially come out yet. I suppose that's an achievement of some sort. Perhaps I'll build on that. Maybe I'll come home and just go to bed. Either way, it's kind of exciting to be kept guessing, isn't it?

A Little Self-Promotion

2008-11-10T10:00:00.002-06:00

Hey All,
Head over to my MOA blog some time and give my most recent post a quick read-through.
It may save your life.
Or not.

Mickey Mantle is Golden

2008-11-09T16:57:00.004-06:00

There's an old quotation I picked up somewhere, maybe from the back of a baseball card or in some bathroom-friendly baseball trivia book, it doesn't matter really, and I'd like to share it with you for a few reasons.

First reason being it offers some valuable insight into baseball and practice and persistence and good, old-fashioned, mulish stubborness.

Like so much of that ancient baseball wisdom out there that makes baseball wisdom so damn likeable, and possible, it embraces that "Less is more" and "Keep it simple, Stupid" philosophy that made baseball a game consumable by the dumb and insightful alike.

Second reason being is that, like baseball itself, and like all great Americana, the quotation is applicable to so much more than just baseball. It's applicable to life and work and mojo and relationships, and maybe even to patio furniture.

It's as solid as Dad's advice to "Keep your eye on the ball," and perhaps I like it even better because it isn't so damn ubiquitous as to have a diminished relationship with baseball istelf.

So, here it is. Use it wisely, and don't kill it.

"Never Let Anyone Monkey With Your Swing" - The Mick

Best revelation, saved for last of course, is that it isn't even imperative that this quotation had to come from baseball. Sinatra could have said this to some studio pianist in between takes. It could have been the advice of some Amish woodworker who installed a simple yet sturdy playset in the backyard of some suburban home in Levittown.

Better yet, Vince Vaughn could have said these very words to perpetual-downer and self-doubter Jon Favreau in "Swingers" just after screaming at him, "You're so money and you don't even know it!"

You wouldn't ask a monkey to stop swinging from limb to limb, would you?

No, and Vince Vaughn and the Mick are like this (insert image of crossed fingers, Sonny & Cher, or Bob Barker and one of his lovelies), and they know damn well when to leave well enough alone.

James Lipton Interviewing Me

2008-11-07T17:21:00.004-06:00

If this interview were ever to go down, I thought it prudent to have my answers prepared for at least a few simple reasons. Those reasons include:

A) Saves time.

B) May keep me from saying anything particularly regrettable.

And C) It's very likely this interview will, in fact, go down.

What is your favorite word?

Fundies

What is your least favorite word?

Maybe

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Sincerity

What turns you off?

Lack of effort

What is your favorite curse word?

Son of a bitch

What sound or noise do you love?

My wife singing

What sound or noise do you hate?

Ringtones that come pre-programmed on phones

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Con-artist

What profession would you not like to do?

Telemarketer

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Tell me a good joke.

Check Your Baggage

2008-11-06T09:24:00.004-06:00

When Staci the flight attendant invited me to move up to first class at no charge, I should've said, "No thanks, Chica, I'm straight." I should've said, "Hey, this Delta flight from Tokyo to Minneapolis isn't that long; I can deal with drunk Grannies and sick kids back here in coach."
Those would have been polite, yet slightly untrue, things to say.

But I didn't say those things because, in fact, the lady with Bloody Mary breath was cackling in my ear, and the toddler who puked in my lap was still erupting like a mini-Mount Vesuvius. I didn't say those things because I had every reason to believe first class would be an improvement. So, since I didn't have much leg room, and since the drink cart kept banging my shin, I believed Staci was doing me a solid by offering a cozy spot up in rich-man land. I acquiesced.

I got an aisle seat near the cockpit and drink cart. I had more than enough space to stretch my legs and protect my shins, and nobody noticed that I'd be able to, from my new seat, covertly steal the little one-shot liquor samples that cost everyone else six bucks a bump.

What I didn't have, however, was room for my carry-on in the overhead bin because some jackass had golf clubs and three pieces of alligator skin luggage stowed above my seat. I looked down at the man occupying the seat next to mine, presumably the owner of the pieces in question, and saw to my surprise none other than Kanye West himself.

"Mr. West, Mr. West? Wake up Mr. West?"

He stirred and looked at me irratibly, sans sunglasses.

"I b-b-believe your b-b-bags are c-c-c-clusterfucking my carry-on situation."

"Say what?" He laughed at me condescendingly. "You sound a little starstruck, so I'll make this simple for you. Why don't you put your bag in this empty seat next to me, and ride out the rest of the flight in that cozy bathroom right there. I'll watch your bag for you. I'm a nice guy, I know." He showed me his high-beam smile.

I couldn't find the words to answer. My hands trembled, but probably not as perceptibly as I thought at the time. Kanye watched me closely, obviously wondering what I was thinking.

"Well?" he asked, clearly ready to get back to his headphones and nap.

I grabbed a few shots of Jack, gathered up my courage, and told Kanye, "Sorry Broseph, no can do. Why don't you start shoving these golf clubs, one by one, up your ass and get 'em out my way?"

Kanye rose to object, but I bitch-slapped him so fast that he fell down concussed. I stowed him in the bathroom and enjoyed two first-class seats all by myself. When he woke up, I even had Kanye clean the puke off my pants. He was glad to do it, you know, since I watched his bags for him and everything while he slept off his smackdown.

Now, whenever we see each other on our flights, he's like my humble man servant. And I can dig that. I even have a pic here of him carrying my bags for me. Can you believe that?

This is What I Dreamed Last Night

2008-11-05T13:10:00.008-06:00

A bunch of dog owners got together with their German Shepherds at the park in the next town over. They planned a picnic, doggy obstacle courses, water balloon fights, tug-of-war, and a few K9-Cop tricks for the kids. All the families were excited, and the German Shepherds sat mildly in the shade with their chew toys, scratching themselves and peeing on trees. Picture perfect summer day with man and boy's best friend, if I say so myself.

But then the Zombies showed up and scared the shit out of all the pups and kids and mommies and daddies. I don't know where the zombies came from or why they even showed up, maybe they smelled the hot dogs. Fact is, we'll never know where or why. We'll never know because a) zombies grunt, they don't talk; and b) the German Shepherds stepped up to the plate and ate the zombies. They were heroes that day. No real people were hurt or harmed.

But the poor damn dogs.

You see, you become a zombie if a zombie bites you. Everyone knows that. Nobody knew, however, that German Shepherds become Zombie German Shepherds when they eat a zombie. The infectious Zombie disease is probably in the boiling blood or the rotting flesh. And it got in the dogs the day they saved their families.

The change was pretty sudden, so I understand. Before zombie digestion was even complete, before the dogs could even pop a squat and fill the pooper scoopers, they started drooling blood and growling and snapping and turning against their masters. So, the masters dropped the leashes and fled, leaving the bloodhungry, mangy, zombie dogs to fend for themselves.

The dogs invaded my town. They came in through main street and started chasing my Goodyears. All the citizens hid in their homes and watched through their windows as I drove through the neighborhood in complete terror with killer purebreds on my tail. I could have sworn I had bacon in my BVDs, but I didn't. It was shit in my pants, and I was scared shitless.

I drove to the police station and put my head out the window and yelled, in a pretty deep and powerfully brave voice, "Someone shoot these Zombie dogs!!!" Well, the cops are pretty partial to German Shepherds, and despite my visible danger, they couldn't bring themselves to come to the rescue. Officer Koharski tossed his handgun and a box of bullets at me and told me, "You gotta save yourself, Man. Save yourself!"

I never had any formal gun training, but I'd consider myself, steady hand and all, a natural crackshot. I put the truck in park and cracked the window, and started taking aim at my tormentors. One by one, I picked off the purina pups with shots to the head and saved myself and my townspeople. As much as it pains me that I had to kill a bunch of hero dogs, I know I did the right thing. I couldn't just let the zombie dogs make another chew toy out of me. I saw Old Yeller, and I know you did, too.

I just hope one day zombies will be dead for good.

Halloween of My Youth

2008-10-29T10:40:00.003-05:00

I went to the 7th grade Halloween dance dressed as the UnaBomber. For those of you unfamiliar with the UnaBomber, he was a mad scientist/domestic terrorist (captured and imprisoned in 1995) who sent lethal mail bombs to Universities and Airports across the US from his rural mountain shack in Montana.

His capture made news headlines, the Times and Post ran his manifesto, and his face was all over the TV for the weeks leading up to Halloween that year. Since I owned a hoodie, dark sunglasses, and could grow facial hair at the age of 13, I decided it was the perfect costume to win me prize money and the attention of junior high chicks. All I had to do was carry around a cardboard box labeled "UnaBomb" to complete the transformation, and I certainly looked much cooler than the people dressed up as Cheri Oteri and Will Ferrell before he was funny.

Needless to say, I won 50 bucks prize money and a dance with some blonde named Shannon (dressed as a spooky Courtney Love) that night. I blew the money the next day on cherry slushies and tokens at the arcade, but the memories of my "Best Halloween Costume Ever" have stood up against the advancing years.

Unlike Ted Kaczynski, whom everyone seems to have forgotten about.

And Cheri Oteri, too, but there's no shame in forgetting her stupid face either.