The end of a year and a decade...

Is it just me, or does it seem like it was just months ago we were getting all bent out of shape, or at least some of us doomsdayers were, about the impending devastation of Y2K? How can it already be a decade since that letdown occurred?

With that I say a fond farewell to the year that almost was (I wrote this early Dec. 31)...2009. I must say right off the bat it will always be somewhat memorable for me because it was the year I finally launched myself into the BlogO'Sphere and from a creative standpoint it's been a godsend. Without it my mind would be brimming with useless thoughts and ideas, so instead it's all out here in the open for you to revel in its uselessness.

But as I look back, nothing too exciting happened to cause any alarm.

I don't know what it is about odd number years, but they always seem to be kind of ... blah. Give me a nice round number and I'm fine. I was born in an even-numbered year (1966), graduated from high school in a year evenly divisible by two (1984), got married in one as well (1996) and had my first (1998) and second (2000) children were on the level numbered years. The only thing keeping me from completing the Even Numbered Pick Six was my little guy Shea coming into this world in the year that was 2003. Might explain why he's seems a little bit odd...that's just a joke, relax.

Anyway, 2009 was kind of a year where the Hildebrandt household held steady. We didn't move, didn't gain or lose any immediate family members, didn't buy a new vehicle, again didn't buy a new computer for what seems like an eternity, and so on. I was able to maintain a weekly meeting (vacation time withstanding) schedule with my coffee peeps, which kicks ass and takes names. We also took a memorable family trip to Florida, so that's something to hang our sun hats on.

Besides this blog, one thing I'll also remember is it will always be the year of trying to reclaim my youth, or at least my early-to-mid-30s. I began an exercise kick in August and for the most part kept at it through the end of the year or until Snowzilla hurled mounds of white stuff as far as the eyes could see blocking my walking path. Teresa and I countered with a purchase of a treadmill for Christmas, 'cause it's the gift that keeps on giving ... provided you're willing to work at it.

What I'll also remember is that I really didn't enter the year with any high hopes or expectations because 2009 kind of snuck on me. In all, I'd probably give 2009 as a whole a C+ grade and with perhaps a little extra credit between now and when the clock strikes midnight in less than 23 hours it could move up to a B-.

Anyway, so long 2009. It feels like I hardly got to know you. Here's hoping the new year brings along much enjoyment and prosperity and may this blog continue to provide me with a outlet so as not to clog up the creative pipes and cause it to rupture somewhere along the way and spill out all over the place.

See you in 2010.

Car wash and wear...

Washing your vehicle seems to me like a bit of an oddity this time of year living in the land of 10,000 really big frozen chunks of ice, but given the amount of sand and salt put down to keep people in motion it's a necessity if you don't want your car to end up looking like the face of that guy John Travolta's character "races for pinks" in the movie "Grease".

While I know washing my vehicle is a necessity, I rarely wash mine as often as I should partly because I'm lazy and also because my propensity to procrastinate is heightened when the temps dip below freezing.

And I don't have to tell you how much of a self-esteem Debbie downer a trip to the car wash always makes me feel, especially these new brushless ones who bark commands at you like some out-of-control school marm with an itchy ruler finger.

"Put your money here. Okay, push this button...Are you sure you don't want to put in another dollar to make your car even prettier? Okay, drive in but slowly...slowly...slowly now STOP!!! Aww, dangit. Back the heck up you dumb ass. STOP!!! Now move back forward slow. STOP!!! Do I have to drive it in myself? Okay, now was that so hard? Whoa, whoa, whoa. We're not done yet. Are all mirrors and bug deflectors in? Okay, now shut those windows good and tight. Got it? You sure? Well, don't blame me if your water comes streaming through because I told you so. Okay if that's the way you're going to be, we'll just proceed. No skin off my nozzles."

As you curl up in a ball for a few minutes while the powerful jets purge the road demons from the side of the vehicle, you think about how close to failure you really were. Just about the time you are finally getting over from the tongue lashing you got from Car Wash heckler and your vehicle no longer looks the color of a powdered sugar and cinnamon-coated donut the orders start up again.

"Please exit slowly, but be sure not to back up into dryer. Okay now, will you hurry your ass up you only have 30 seconds left of drying time and there are at least four other vehicles waiting in line! You don't need all 30 seconds, it's just for show anyway. Scram! beat it!"

The ride home always cause more time for personal reflection and maybe recalling a few affirmations or perhaps even dialing dear old mom to try to boost your spirits cause in the end while the vehicle may look all shiny and new, your personal interior often feels like crap.

Vikings Vaudeville, Vol. I

As a way to help cope with the annual Vikings collapse, I've decided to embrace the culture of losing that is a Minnesota sports fan's birthright (two World Series titles withstanding) and put things in a more humorous perspective.

I've just come to the conclusion it's easier to make fun of than be made fun of so I put my Helga-Horn thinking cap on and came up with the following:

• Startling news out of Winter Park ... Tupperware announced Antoine Winfield is losing his endorsement deal with Tupperware given the fact he can't cover a thing.

• What do the Vikings and a corporate jet have in common? No coach!

• What do Carl Gerbschmidt and Brad Childress have in common? Both are recovering Brett Favre jock sniffers!

• Adrian Peterson inked a new deal to start doing PSA's for Minnesota fire departments emphasizing the importance of "Stop, DROP & Roll"

• Apparently one of the Vikings' player's moms gave the pre-game pep talk before the Bears game and the last thing she told them before taking the field was "Don’t play on the road!"

• This just in, several Viking defenders were treated at a Chicago area hospital early Tuesday morning for severe cases of frostbite after the bus they were riding on to the airport broke down and they couldn't “stop” anyone to help.

• How are the Vikings like a meth dealer? Both like to lure you in with just a little taste of something good before all hell breaks loose.

Feel free to send me more suggestions as I envision this being a fluid list or perhaps having multiple volumes, 'cause God knows we as Viking fans could use an outlet like this.

Holi'dazed and confused...

After scoring a convincing win over Ol' Man Winter (OMW for short) in the first round of my battle with the StormO'Century (vol. XXXIV....) and basically pulling out an even draw over the next couple of rounds, OMW went medieval on my arse and brought out the heavy artillery (i.e. heavy wet snow flakes) to pull out the late win.

If this snow storm were the Super Bowl then consider me the Minnesota Vikings or Buffalo Bills because after a strong showing leading up to the main (or was it mean) event, I went belly up when push (from a shovel perspective) came to pull (as in starting my snowblower).

By the end of my maniacal pace to try and keep up with the three-day snowfall free-for-all , I said the H-E-double toothpicks with it and just waited until "I darn well felt like it" when removing the residual fallout from Hurricane Driftina on Sunday. To make myself feel better I put together our new treadmill before even casting a wandering eye outdoors to see what awaited me on the concrete surfaces which are instrumental in keeping the Hildebrandt family in motion during this nasty time of year.

While I give my snowblower all the credit in the world for trying to keep up, after awhile it looked like it was throwing up oatmeal with the mix of slushy crud that was spewing out of it at times. I even got nauseous at one point, but even though I knew I had been defeated I certainly wasn't going to let OMW know it.

Anyway, I've cleared the white stuff as far down as I can and now I have on my driveway what resembles the surface the Minnesota Wild play on at the "X" on game days. Hopefully what driveway salt I've put down will keep the Hildebrandt family from any class action lawsuit in the coming week or two.

While I am admitting defeat, I am only admitting OMW has won this battle but the Winter 2009-10 war is far from over and I now have a competitive edge -- a new treadmill to hopefully walk me into the winner's circle!

Round One goes to this guy...

I'm certainly hoping that all this talk about Ol' Man Winter making my snow removal ass his bee-otch this holiday weekend comes to fruition. After some meaningless "dress rehearsals" earlier this month, I'm up for a good ol' fashioned snow-down, throw-down.

These couple of inches of snow tease that got thrown our way surely must be a precursor to much loftier piles of the white stuff in the days ahead or I'll be as disappointed as the next woman to whom Tiger Woods says, "you're the only girl for me."

While I'm come to embrace the fact we're about to get hit by about the 100th storm dubbed as Blizzard of the Century in the last 10 years, something new has arisen as my little guy has become concerned that despite all the reassurances he's heard about Rudolph with his nose so bright, that maybe it won't be enough this year. I've tried to tell him that Santa could fly that sleigh with one arm tied behind his back, but he remains skeptical. I thought about telling him that everything is GPS these days and that the sleigh practically flies itself, but I'll save that for next year.

Anyway, we're bracing for the storm, remaining fluid in our plans to host my side of the family this weekend and hoping for the best. Stay tuned.

SoDak, here we come...

The Hildebrandt family is less than 24 hours away from our tires crossing the border into South Dakota for a weekend of card games, catching up, gift exchange games and of course ... tons of food.

My favorite line I like to use shortly after New Year's is to throw on a pair of jeans, turn my backside toward my wife and ask, "Does my butt make these jeans look big?"

It's amazing to think that this Christmas will be the 15th one I've shared with Teresa and her family and I remember all too vividly sweating bullets on the SUV ride out there for the inaugural Healy Family Christmas to which I was invited. Not knowing how it would go made me more nervous than anything I had experienced in my life. Watching three children being pulled from their mother via a pseudo kangaroo pouch (they were all delivered C-section) was not nearly as stomach turning compared to my first drive out to my then-future in-laws.

What I remember most is my then-toddler niece Jordan giving me the evil eye all weekend long, perhaps expressing her disgust that I had somehow driven a wedge between her and her auntie Teresa or perhaps tyring to convey to me, "watch your back mister, 'cause I got my eyes on you!". I also remember it seemed like we ate eight square meals a day that weekend and over the next few holidays after that.

It was breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner, lunch, snack, supper, lunch, snack with the possibility of another snack or two crammed in there somehow. You could try to reject one of the meals, but Teresa's mom was sneaky that way in she'd somehow coax you into "just one bite" which would lead to many more and the eventual belt loosening and then the eventual belt removal.

I really miss my mother-in-law, because she always seemed at her best during the holidays. The gleam in her eyes and the smile in her face would light up the house all weekend long as she hustled about. I only wish my kids could have experienced more holidays with her.

Nonetheless, I think about Teresa's parents often when her side of the family gets together, but especially her mother who went out of her way, despite the toddler Jordan's attempts to intimidate, to welcome me into the family.

The holidays are fast approaching...

and I always greet them with some sort of cautious optimism with all sorts of precedents in the history books to validate my careful approach.

Thankfully I'm long past the days when my net worth would double or even triple after raking in the Christmas booty (trust me, my net worth wasn't worth much back then), and I've lowered my expectations considerably on the ol' Christmas spread sheet as now the payables are always much larger than the receiveables which is a great place to be in life.

Getting a gift or two under the tree from either side of the family to me is a blessing. When I became a father giving became much more enjoyable than receiving because, let's face it, I'm a winner in that case especially as the kids get older and the games are no longer recommended for ages 0-4 and now are 5 & up! That means I get to play, too!

Family gatherings can be difficult to arrange and you almost need an event planner to organize because there are so many variables when you mix five siblings and their spouses and try to secure a date and time for said holiday gathering.

Eventually it all gets worked out, and a good time is usually had by all. Oh sure, there are always the little "conflicts" that seem to arise (like the time one of my young nephews thought it would be funny to call 911 and the Hartford, S.D. police arrived or, when my dad was still alive, the annual father/son/son card games would get a little out of hand due to the over-competitive nature of some of the participants...myself included) but no one got seriously hurt, mentally or physically. There is much deeper rooted mental scar tissue that acts as a buffer zone as I've gotten older.

Then there is the annual ritual of one of my sisters, who don't have children, making the wise crack either my way or towards my brother about, "just when I think I really want kids, I come down here, visit you guys and am happy with my life!"

This year I'm ready for them. If I hear either of them offer the aforementioned commentary, I'll offer "just when I think I really wish I didn't have kids, you come down here, visit with us and realize how happy I am with my life!" which would be followed up with a RickyBobby-inspired "Wow! That just happened!" I know, cruel, but as my coffee group friends would say, "that's good writing!"

As stressful as the whole holiday process can be, it really is an enjoyable time because as I've found out lately after losing some acquaintances who were relatively close in age, life is too short to worry about the stuff you can't control. And remember, this year's ugly sweater you got from under the tree on one side of the family can always be next year's white elephant gift on the other side!

There's rude...

One of the many useless conclusions I've developed recently is the fact there is rude ... and then there's Redbox rude.

Redbox rude is when you're renting or returning a movie to your neighborhood Redbox machine (for lack of a better term) and a person comes up behind you in a rush and does at least one of the following:

* Sighs heavily at least once every 10 seconds trying to get your attention.
* Sees you standing in the Redbox position (which is kind of like the missionary position without the personal space invasion) and gives one of those "clicky/smacky" sounds with their tongue on the roof of their mouth like you're inconveniencing them.
* Tries peering over your shoulder either to get a look at the screen or perhaps to sneer at your movie choices.
* Stands there tapping their toes as if their time is much more precious than yours.

When either the first or second occurs, I slow my selection process or return process way down. I might look at more movie descriptions on the screen or perhaps scroll back and forth knowing full well I don't care to see any of those on the screen but hope just maybe the impatient one will say something, anything so I can make a scene.

If it's the third (peering over my shoulder) I revert back 25-plus years to my high school basketball days and my coach's constant reminder to "Box Out!" under the boards. Even more amusing is getting your feet shoulder width apart, not Larry Craig wide, but far enough apart so you can shuffle back and forth to counter any moves your 'opponent' may attempt to get a clear look at the rebound or in this case, the Redbox screen.

If it's the latter (toes a tapping), a slow head turn and blank stare right at them usually does the trick. This philosophy also works for public restrooms when you're at the urinal and the guy next to you is trying to do a junk check. Nothing dries up a stream faster than eye contact.

Anyway, Redbox has created a whole new realm of rudeness and if you're not aware of it take notes the next time you rent or return a movie at one of those red bandits.

There's an art to a successful blow...

...Snowblowing that is. For many young males in Minnesota and other states where precipitation this time of year comes in the crystalized form instead of liquid, there is a rite of passage when you become chief of snow removal of your domicile.

I've worn that hat for approximately 14 years now and in my younger years a shovel was all I needed given I had the energy and back strength to keep pace with whatever Mother Nature (or was it Old Man Winter) threw my way. As the years went on, I greeted each snowfall with the anticipation of a dog whose owner was about to carry through Bob Barker's mandate shortly after the Showcase Showdown.

But about 9 years ago, my late father-in-law found a sweet deal on a snowblower at a garage sale somewhere out in the Sioux Falls, SoDak, area. After some TLC from Teresa's dad, who was a mechanic at the time, that bargain blower cut through snow like a hot knife through a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

Over the next four years or so, that snowblower helped me enter a brave new world -- the Royal Order of Snow Blower...Guys (ROSBG).

Just prior to when Teresa and I made the move to St. Peter and we knew we were going to be living in a townhome for awhile, I gave up the snowblower with the understanding that once we moved into a house again that I wouldn't go back to the old-fashioned shovel. Once we were free from making someone elses house payments and making our own, and free from our landlords reign of snow removal terror, I demanded we get a new snowblower and we did, albeit a much smaller version of the Snowminator I used to possess.

This thing only has about a foot of reach upwards so I don't necessarily blow the snow off my driveway and sidewalks so much as I do skim it off until I reach the hard surface below. Any snowfall 4 inches or less and I'm gold, barring hurricane force-driven snow drifts. Anything over that and I'm peeling the snow off like layers of an onion.

Nonetheless it's still much more enjoyable and less taxing than that hand-held manual alternative.

Each winter, the first significant snowfall of the season is kind of special for the membership of the ROSBG as you shake the summer dust off the ol' blower and take it out for it's maiden voyage. It's much like riding a bike, in that once you get the hang of it you never forget how to manipulate the wind angles to minimize "snow-i-cuss-come-back-at-your-face-i-cuss" and the subsequent "freezeth-thy-ass-off-i-cuss".

My little snowblower does have one distinct advantage over the much larger and more powerful machines some of my neighbors possess in that I can whip through the 4-and-under snows much faster than they can and operate it, provided the auger blades can keep up, at my own pace.

Anyway, I'm happy to report the first blow of Winter 2009-10 was a successful one, although I must admit my neighbor Mark came through in the clutch with a big time assist using his much larger machine to take out the end of my driveway after the city crews came through with their plows. Usually I get done clearing my snow when those guys come through, but our timing was impeccable this time and it ensured a memorable occasion.

So it snowed in Minnesota...

Big deal, right? I mean that's bound to happen when you live on the part of the globe that is tilting away from the sun at this time of year and various weather systems collide and such. It's inevitable and (paraphrasing Bobby Knight) I should sit back and enjoy it.

After 43 years of being tipped back away from the flaming sphere in the sky (Florida may be called the "Sunshine State" but come winter we're the "Sun Shun State") for anywhere from 3 to 9 months one would think a person would get used to it.

However, each first snowfall I experience is like a punch in the gut which kicks off a long, drawn out battle with old man winter all the while helplessly watching as my golf clubs become dust receptacles.

We didn't exactly have the blizzard of the century today, but waking up to the ground covered in white and temps that nip your nose and bite your toes (or is that the other way around...) was a bit distressing considering I know people who are probably wearing shorts today where they're living.

If I snowmobiled, skiied, ice fished, snowshoed, ice skated or at least was able to tolerate any of the other activities Minnesotans do to prove their hardiness I might have a differing perspective, but I like my ice cubed or crushed, in a glass, surrounded by some fruity liquor concoction with perhaps some salt lightly coating around the rim. Hell, throw a spear with some fruit in it, I don't care. As long as I'm not in danger of my butt cheeks making a sudden impact on top of it with one simple misstep, I'm fine.

For me ice is meant to chill beverages that can be enjoyed in much warmer weather under the beading hot sun.

But, like I do every winter, I'll piss and moan for a week or so all the while letting Old Man Winter make me his bee-otch. In due time I'll eventually adjust and get on to doing what I do that gets me through these next few months eagerly anticipating that first blade of green grass or bud on a branch forcing its way outward or uttering that first curse word as I shank another errant tee shot off the #1 tee box or miss a 10 footer for double bogey.

Who knows, maybe Brett Favre may even do something even more extraordinary then he already has and make this winter actually somewhat enjoyable. It'd be nice to actually have a Super Bowl party where I'm more excited about the game then I am the commercials or halftime show.

You know you're starting to get older when...

* the pro athletes you cheer for weren’t even conceived yet when you were in your athletic “prime.”

* you’ve finally gotten most of the words down to a FloRida song, which your kids now refer to as “old school.”

* you actually have an lengthy inner "pro’s" and "con’s" debate when a friend wants to meet you for a drink on a Saturday night and you’ve gotten clearance from the better half to go. Many times it’s a toss up whether you’ll go or not.

* the clothes you wear to work one week are snatched up by your kids the next week for them to wear as part of “Retro Day.”

* you try to sit down with one of your kids and bond through a “Peanuts” cartoon on TV and your kids aren’t interested or don’t “get it”.

* during a discussion about music the group Nirvana comes up and your son says, “they’re that old band whose lead singer committed suicide.”

* you realize there are NFL head coaches who hadn’t celebrated their first birthday yet the last time the Minnesota Vikings played in a Super Bowl which you vividly remember watching on TV.

* “Funky Cold Medina” comes up on the radio, you crank it up and your kids hiss and moan about “turning off that old crap.”

* something doesn’t quite feel right about wearing blue jeans to Sunday Mass or other church service, but you do it anyway because other guys my age are doing it.

* the combination of words “possibility of bi-focals” is tossed into a conversation between you and your optometrist. I know, I know a lot of younger people wear them, it’s just that it threw me off guard.

* remember a trip to the movie theater didn’t mean having to take a small loan out just so you could also have a small popcorn and small soda.

* you see at least a two or three people in the obituaries each week who have blown out the same number of candles you did on your most recent birthday cake.

* a commercial free set of music on a “classic rock” or "oldies" station sounds a lot like the music that was playing at your high school’s homecoming dance.

* you have to update your laminated "list" of your dream babes because some have recently retired from show business to spend more time with their children and grandchildren.

* you still bitch about the price of a house or hotel on Park Place and Boardwalk.

Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree...

A yearly tradition at the Hildebrandt household is to put up our Christmas tree the weekend immediately following the Thanksgiving holiday, as many others probably do.

Come hell or highwater we get that baby up and decorated preferably on Saturday but no later than Sunday after Turkey Day, no matter how daunting a task it can seem to be and how much I procrastinate and try to fend off the begging from the kiddies. The key is to never look them directly in the eye or next thing you know it your up to your elbows in those big plastic tubs trying to find a certain strand of white lights or that certain ornament you and your wife bought together during that first holiday season together which "has to be there, so just keep looking!".

When my kids were much younger, decorating the tree was always a much longer process as they would often take matters into their own hands and put ornaments on the tree where they wanted and which usually meant the tree, if left alone, would have looked like mom and dad were totally inebriated when they decorated that year. Thankfully Mommy would just smile and "fix" things while the kids weren't looking.

Now that they've gotten older, they understand the protocol fairly well ... which basically comes down to "it will go where Mom tells you it goes...and if it doesn't she'll fix it later.

I don't know how she does it. How she keeps tabs off all that is contained within the four large tubs that are tucked away in a crawl space under our main entry way, is beyond me. She has some sort of system that must have been ingrained in her from her own mother or some other higher power because when she starts pulling out all the tubs from the crawl space I see chaos, but within minutes of her assessing the situation I know all will be well.

My kids are still at the age where they enjoy decorating and help Mommy put the ornaments up and I rue the day they either get "too old" for that kind of thing or simply aren't around anymore to help us out because they've got their own family's tree to worry about.

Nonetheless, 2009 Operation Christmas Tree is now complete and the tree is as beautiful as ever and is sure to make the next 4-5 weeks much more festive. I completed my ritual of helping string the lights around the tree and making sure the ornament to branch ratio doesn't get above 1:1. Mission accomplished once again.

The only thing I dread about the whole experience is it seems like whenever we're done putting up the tree it seems like I blink my eyes and we're tucking the tubs away again for safe keeping until the next holiday season when we'll repeat the process all over again.

A lot to be thankful for ...

It doesn't seem fair that we only take one day out of the year to give thanks for the things in our lives which are most important to us. Most people talk about the most obvious things for which they are grateful for, so I decided to list the least obvious things for which I am extremely grateful:

* That yellow line TV networks use to mark where the first down is during college and pro football games. Nothing better than seeing a player from your preferred team cross well over that during a crucial part of the games. How did we ever get any enjoyment out of the televised games before that?

* CBS Network for it's Monday night comedy lineup. I know some of the humor is sophomoric at best, but it's damned entertaining and allowed someone with little acting ability like Charlie Sheen to land his dream role and make a fortune. Gives me hope.

* The inventer of the cordless drill. It has made life much simpler for guys like me who have little or no repair/carpentry skills and at least has given us a fighting chance of not looking totally like a wuss and possible revocation of our "man" card every time a hinge gets loose on one of the kitchen cabinets.

* Owning Park Place and Boardwalk on a Monopoly board. Even when I was at my lowest point of my earning power in real life, somehow possessing those two properties made me feel like my crap didn't stink. Houses and/or a hotel on them? Nothing better knowing you can wipe someone out faster than a twister in trailer park should they have the misfortune of landing on either of those.

* The Detroit Lions and Kansas City Royals, because no matter how bad my beloved Vikings and Twins may stink during the season it could always be worse. I could be fans of those other teams.

* The Transformer movies. Three words Megan Fah Oxxxxxxx!

* Patrick's on Third (here in St. Peter) ... because it's the closest thing I have in my life that I can reference as "the local watering hole." Love that place.

* Those big bags of cereal ... because they've allowed me to enjoy at least variations of cereals I love at a fraction of the price of the big-name brands! If you close your eyes Colossal Berry Crunch tastes just like Captain Crunch!

* The sight of the driveway under my feet at the end of one of my long walk/jogging excursions. Just something extremely gratifying seeing that prematurely pitting surface as I'm doubled over trying to catch my breath after running up the Bunker Lane hill coming up the "home" stretch.

* The "Hermits" at River Rock Coffee. Those oatmeal and chocolate chip and whatever else they have in them cookies go perfect with a medium light roast and the usual coffee crew banter which goes on a weekly basis. Chewing on one usually gives my mouth muscles a nice little warm up as I prepare to keep up with my quick witted crew.

* My wife's patience, 'cause God knows I would have kicked me out of the house years ago if I had to deal with someone with the baggage I seem to possess at times.

We've got our highway back!

Anyone traveling through the St. Peter area has known how much of a pain in the derriere it has been the past five months with the Highway 169/Minnesota Avenue reconstruction project going on throughout the downtown area and beyond.

It's like the construction workers are open heart surgeons and they've performed an angioplasty on the city's main artery and for awhile there it seemed like the downtown at times was on life support. Now, after a wonderfully planned and brilliantly executed Holiday Celebration on Saturday, the road opened up for good by Monday afternoon.

As I and my fellow colleagues at work were standing on the Highway anxiously awaiting the arrival of the first vehicles (they opened the north bound lanes first), I half expected a John Phillip Sousa-inspired marching band to lead the parade or at least an Indy 500 pace car to precede the inaugural batch of vehicle to test out the new concrete surface.

Low and behold, we had one straggler make his way off the side street and onto the road before the main event and you could tell he was at least somewhat local as he seemed confused by this new route. Once he cleared through we could see off in the distance a rising cloud of dust as the first wave came rolling along.

Then, just as quickly as they came and they were gone returning the main thoroughfare to its rightful place as a bustling roadway as it was prior to the July 4th holiday. It took a few minutes for the downtown people to let out a "hooray!" and then get back to the business at hand ... trying to recover from the five-month stretch of descent on the ol' revenue charts.

Nonetheless, we're now the proud owners of a brand, spanking new street and like any new parents, we're more than happy to show it off and welcome you back to the new and improved 169!

Parent teacher conferences...

Any parent will tell you there is a certain amount of dread you feel when you go to parent/teacher conferences, especially the first one of the year. No matter if your son/daughter is a brilliant student or not, there's always a little bit of doubt in my head thinking maybe the monster who battles with his/her younger sibling at home finally has reared their ugly head inside the North Intermediate School building. Maybe, just maybe, this conference will be more intervention than discussion as parenting experts are brought in to tell you you've done a horrible job raising the particular child in question.

Luckily, other than a few small tweaks to the study habits for the two put on display tonight, we came through unscathed and there were actually smiles exchanged with my kids' teachers.

I guess, judging from what we've heard through our kids, those reactions are to be expected, but there's always that lingering doubt that perhaps you might not be the parent you think you are and your nurturing and child-rearing ways might better serve in the development of young, terrorists-in-training.

Things went so well, in fact, we decided to do our part to boost the local economy and take all three of them out for dinner. My six-year old was more thrilled than his two older siblings who were up for scrutinity tonight, even though he rode their coattails all the way to the chicken finger kids meal at Patrick's on Third.

But, the little guy's turn is a coming. His first quarter of kindergarten seems to be going well and it doesn't appear that he has brought home any disparaging correspondence from his teacher telling us otherwise. His conference is set for the day before Thanksgiving.

I'm sure his conference, too, will go fine, but I prefer to take the ol' wait-and-see approach on that one so I'm not too surprised if the teacher greets us at the classroom door with an, "Ohhh, so your the one's responsibile for this little engine that won't."

When is a holiday tree not a holiday tree?

I see the Internet propoganda machine is humming along nicely thanks to friendly little reminders that have popped up on my account telling me several of my Facebook friends are "mad as heck and not going to take it anymore" because they've been told (without verification mind you) that President Obama has demanded "No Christmas trees on his White House watch! The Obamas will call them Holiday Trees!"

Just a simple Google search can quickly denounce that little diddy as a hoax (try http://www.factcheck.org/2009/10/holiday-tree-hooey/ for starters), but hey it's more fun to spread lies and false accusations because after all that is what ...

To paraphrase something a wise old man once told me, "If it looks like a hoax, smells like a hoax, tastes like a hoax, feels like a hoax, sounds like a hoax, and has the letters H-O-A-X tattooed to its butt cheeks, THEN IT IS A HOAX!"

But, people only believe what they want to believe.

This goes both ways. The extreme left share's center stage as the extreme right when it comes to winning accolades for over use of scare tactics.

It's the simple things in life that matter most...

As you get older, the more complex one gets and the more difficult it is to try and figure out what it is exactly that make you happy on a moment's notice because most of the time you don't think about it...because there's usually a sense of spontaneity that goes with it and as quickly as those moments pop up they disappear in a flash and are quickly forgotten.

For me, I decided to do a sort of personal inventory of my own simple pleasures and here they are:

* The sounds of one of my children giggling in another room when I've become too preoccupied with a task that simply isn't all that important.

* As a born-again athlete (or at least one in the transition phase) the feeling of aching, tired muscles I've gotten from my wogging or jalking (I do a combination of jogging and walking at least 5 nights a week) as I try to blog or work on some other writing project.

* Walking into River Rock on Wednesdays or Thursdays to have coffee with the gang.

* Even better than the previous entry, getting the opportunity for "bonus coffee" on a Friday with the guys which usually sets the tone for a great weekend.

* The sounds of the wind whirring through a cottonwood tree. It just sounds different than any other tree. One of the best things I discovered after buying our house is a large cottonwood tree just a few lots away that I can hear from my deck.

* As much as I'd like to sleep in on Saturdays, I love the fact my 6-year old son is always up before 7 a.m. and always in a playful mood when he hops in our bed and that usually ends up in some variation of a wrestling match and mommy wanting us out of the room. Perhaps it is knowing these days are coming to an end fast that I'm cherishing them so much.

* Any plate appearance by Joe Mauer. It's almost like life stands still sometimes as my eyes focus on the screen (or in the batter's box if I'm actually at the game) to watch the magic of this man's hand-eye coordination.

* Knowing that every time Brett Favre shows up on the TV screen in a Vikings' uniform there's a Green Bay fan somewhere whose blood pressure is moving skyward.

* A good belly laugh while watching a movie. If I lose slight control of a bodily function, even better!

* The sound of anyone of the my kids calling me "Dad". At one point in my life, I never thought I'd ever deserve that right, so it's truly an awe-inspiring experience to have someone call you that.

* The sound of the garage door opening after you've pushed the button knowing you won't have to spend any time scraping ice off your windshield before going to work.

* How a 10-minute power nap can transform you from one of the walking dead back to a productive member of society once again.

* A Facebook friend request from a long-lost friend or acquaintance. It's enjoyable to make friend requests and have them accept it, but they're just a bit more enjoyable when they've initiated the contact.

* Having the entire family in the van on a long trip and some pop song (good or bad) with a good beat playing on the radio which the family knows most of the lyrics to and jamming out ("So I put my hands up! They're playin' my song! The butterflies fly away! Noddin' my head like 'Yeah'!Movin' my hips like 'Yeah'!") Like her or not, if you have young kids like I do in this day and age, you can't help but get to know the words to at least one Miley Cyrus songs.

* The sound of my wife's laughter when my Whiny Boy mechanism kicks in and I begin rambling incoherently about some little matter of even little-er importance.

For most Viking fans, it's not if, it's when...

We've arrived here on "bye week"...a time when NFL teams take a break from their weekly grind of first-class travel and hotel accommodations, hefty meal per diems, room service, manicures and pedicures, massages, ego stroking, etc., etc., and, oh yeah, playing basically putting their bodies through a series of violent car crashes each week for the sake of entertaining the masses and getting themselves a big, shiny ring and earning way too much money playing a kids game.

But, hey, we'd trade places with them in a second. The favored pieces of laundry (copyright Jerry Seinfeld) a vast majority of us Minnesotans follow on a regular basis, the Vikings, happened to have their bye week this year coincide with the halfway point of the season.

The 2009 version of the purple and gold-clad squad has amassed an impressive 7-1 mark and some purple Kool-Aid drinkers would probably argue the fact the team should be 8-0 in that they handed the game to Pittsburgh with two turnovers the Steelers converted into quick points, all the while forgetting about the Ravens' kicker having an inopportune case of the yips when he hooked a game-winner the previous week.

Needless to say, there hasn't been this much optimism since...dare I say it...the 1998 season and we all know how that ended...with the dreaded Falcons 'dirty-birding' their way across the Metrodome turf to steal a berth in that year's Super Bowl.

A couple of "ironical" points to make when comparing the 1998 version of Red McCombs' Vikings to the Zygi Wilf squad is that at the midway point of the season both teams were 7-1, both lost games they should ould have won (the '98 Vikes lost a toughie at Tampa Bay), both had signature wins at Lambeau Field and both years the Super Bowl destination for the NFC and AFC champs was Miami.

Any long-suffering, diehard Minnesota Vikings fan (and we've done diehard many more times than Bruce Willis) will be afraid to admit it, but it's looming there in the back of our minds. It's the deep-down sense our beloved gridion heroes are going to find a way at the most inopportune time to trip up and dash our hopes once again.

It's as predictable as the sun rising in the east in the morning and setting in the west at night. We just assume it's going to happen.

But maybe...just maybe...with our knight in shiny gray armor to match the color of his hair who goes by the name of Farve but spells it Favre, but that's okay because Favre, Viking, MVP and Super Bowl Victory all have a "V" in them no matter where you put it...okay, I know it's a reach...but we're 7-1, right? A kid can dream.

The next 3 games the Vikes take on the Lions, the C-Hawks and the Bears. You'd find more resistance from the Swiss Army and at the end of that trifecta of good luck, we (after following this time for 37-plus years, I've earned the right to say "we") should be 10-1 and just about have the North division wrapped up with visions of home-field advantage dancing in our heads and...

As a true Viking fan I should know better than to dance with that partner again. After 4 Super Bowl trips in my first 10 years of life, we've gone down this path only a few times since then only to be denied entry into the Super Bowl party.

We should resist the urge to get too excited because it makes the inevitable disappointment much easier to stomach...but...

There's that Favre guy in charge now and it's much more fun to dream and be disappointed than to not dream at all.

Some mental housecleaning...

Every once in awhile the ol' noggin' becomes clogged with thoughts, ideas and other mental baggage and sometimes it's just best to purge them and as a writer there's no better way than to blog.

The following are some random thoughts, me thinking out loud, some jokes that have come up or mindless drivel that I wanted record of and felt the need to spew forth:

* I've decided if reincarnation exists then I want to come back as a piper 'cause they're always getting paid.

* The economy has gotten so bad that when people die, they don’t buy the farm anymore, they sublet at the poor farm.

* The economy has gotten so bad, that people can no longer afford to pay attention, they put it on lay away.

* If you buy a CD and suddenly realize, “hey this sucks,” and eject it, do you have to pay a penalty for early withdrawal?

* If laughter is the best medicine, then I want to be reincarnated as a hyena because they’ll live forever.

* If laughter is the best medicine, then the Mayo brothers should have built comedy clubs in Rochester instead of that little clinic thingy. Might have worked out better for them and maybe made a name for themselves.

* People always talk about how much they appreciate our forefathers, you know those that moved to America and branched out to find a better way of life. But to me they’re nothing but a bunch of underachievers because after all, aren’t they referred to as settlers.
They settled here, they didn’t aspire to be here.

* Why do they refer to the American version of football as football, because it seems like the only time the foot and ball interact, is when you’ve failed. Why honor that? Thank goodness Dr. Naismith didn't have that kind of rationale or the NBA might stand for National Brick Association...although T'Wolves fans probably think it already does for their favorite team anyway.

* If there is such thing as intelligent design: Why NOT put eyes on the back of our heads? Why not put 10 fingers on each hand and 10 toes on each foot. Would make that saying "I can't count on one hand the number of times my husband has remembered my birthday" a little more flattering. Why didn't women get the testes since they obviously have the pain tolerance to deal with them.

* (Beer drinkers, this is just in fun) I'm a beer drinker, but not because that's my beverage of preference. It's because it's the only alcoholic one I can stomach consistently. People that really bother me are those who say, "I drink beer because of the taste." No. you drink beer in spite of the taste. The beer you end up drinking the most is actually the beer you end up hating the least. If beer tasted so special, how come you don't have lager-flavored candy or pale ale schnapps? That's because it tastes like crap. Show me a man who really thinks there's nothing better on a hot day then a cold beer and that same man would obviously prefer a glass of hot water on a cold day strained through a week-old sweatsock.

* After more than 43 years of life on this earth I’ve come to the realization, that while money and material possessions can lead to happiness, what life is really all about is accumulating acronyms. The more acronyms you have when you’re pronounced DOA, the more likely you won’t be SOL when your family and friends gather to hope you RIP.

You have to walk before you run...

As I've mentioned in a previous blog, I've been kind of on an exercise kick the past few months. It started when I decided my elliptical machine had overstayed its welcome as a clothes hanger and a dust collector and I jump started my once sedentary lifestyle into that of a man of action.

It took me about a month to wear the elliptical machine out and took it as a sign from God that the day after receiving an article from a colleague of mine about over-exerting one's self via exercise (and subsequently not taking a break from time to time) that my elliptical machine ... my new lifesaver ... had a major malfunction that I could in no way jimmy-rig up to simply get me by.

When I determined the prognosis was beyond my repair capabilities, I broke down for a moment thinking "now what in the heck am I supposed to do" and was overcome by an empty feeling...a feeling that Sir Lazy Boy had won the battle. Soon it suddenly dawned on me that I could actually accomplish a lot of the things I was doing on the elliptical by...egads...actually going outside and taking advantage of the complex system of trails and sidewalks the generous taxpayers of the city of St. Peter have provided for me and the other nearly 11,000 other residents of this fine community.

It started out with 2-mile to 3-mile walks around the neighborhood and nearby industrial park and evolved back into a 5-mile route I discovered a couple years back when I went through a pre-mid-life crisis that lasted about a month. This time I've almost become obsessed with staying on course. I said almost.

A good friend of mine told me not too long ago that it takes about 30 days to create a habit, and since I'm into my 4th month of somewhat regular physical activity, I think it's now safe to say I've graduated from creature of habit and into animal of routine.

Every time little bytes of self doubt creep into my mind about how much easier it would be to just take it easy for awhile and try just dieting I fight it off with pictures of me from past vacations where I may not exactly look like Fat Bastard (of Austin Powers' fame), but I could have played his stunt double. Nothing more motivating than to be known as the guy always saying, "Get in my belly!"

I'm now happy to report I've now progressed to the point where I'm actually ... hopefully you're sitting down like I used to be so good at not too long ago... jogging!!!

The past month or so, I've jogged an occasional two-block stretch towards the back of the industrial park on the city's far north side, away from any traffic and far from the peering eyes of any nearby housing development. Years ago...no decades ago...no, a generation ago I used to run high school track and rattling off a few miles was old hat. In my very early 20s, I remember after a night of imbibing in a libation or two of running my hometown's 4-mile road race on a whim on a hot summer's day and completing the entire race without walking after no training at all.

Unfortunately, I let myself go to the point where if anyone had seen me running even a few weeks ago they would have called the DNR with claims of a short, fat, sickly and obviously rabid Sasquatch limping his way around the north part of town and would they come put it out of its misery.

But, this past weekend my oldest sis, Jen, (who's still more than a year my junior) came to town and while out for a Friday night stroll she coerced me out of my comfort zone and actually jogging in a longer-than-two-block-stretch of road with houses on both sides and semi-regular traffic and you know what...I made it through.

It went so well that I even tried a little more running the next day on my regular weekend 7-mile walk and that went so well I've gone even further and have logged a mile of jogging three of four days this week...not all at one time, because I fear my lungs might explode, but nonetheless, I've felt almost euphoric reaching my goal each night.

Who knows, maybe I'll return to my hometown next summer and run that 4-mile race once again, only this time more well prepared and not sweating out fermented hops in the process.

Stay tuned.

Whiny Boy: Chapter V - Political Whiny

Independent, liberal or conservative, Whiny Boy is one faction which has infiltrated all sides on the political landscape. He dominates both of the major parties and all of the other minor ones as well.

Take a peek at the origins of this county which I, and now 299,999,999 others, call home and you’ll see Whiny Boy had his finger prints all over that parched paper. One of the fundamental rights our forefathers laid out for us – freedom of speech – was written, probably subliminally, with Whiny in mind.

People like Rush Limbaugh, Don Imus, Bill O’Reilly, Al Franken and, yes, Anne Coulter, are synonymous with the Whiny World and make a helluva lot of money in the process. We have to toss Anne into that mix because, as hard as it is for some in the Whiny World, what she does gives her the rare honor of full privileges as a Whiny Boy without the requisite extra body part.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a gun-lovin’, fetus protecting, money-grubbin' Republican who wonders, “where the hell’s my half of the glass of water” or a pacificistic, life-hating, socialistic Democrat who ponders, “who has the other half of the glass of water and how can we tax ‘em,” or somewhere in between.

If you’re breathin’ and your heart’s a beatin’ you’re part of the Whiny World.

The propensity to whine about the other side is a birthright not shared by citizens of a lot of countries in this world and can get some people killed in those places where Whiny isn’t allowed to be outed. But here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Whiny Boy and politics go together like cheap beer and college.

Come election time the airwaves, TV screens and newsprint are filled with examples of Whiny at his ranting and raving best. The election process has become a Whiny Boy talent contest and while to the victor may go the spoils, it’s not too long before those spoils aren’t enough and Political Whiny wants more.

Washington, D.C., and state capitals around this country are filled with the only the most qualified of the Whiny world. The terms “political debate,” “filibuster,” and “veto” are sweet music to Political Whiny. It gives him the right to kick, scream, cry or act like a sniveling child so he can get his way, which is just the way Whiny likes it.

Political Whiny does have power that other parts of the Whiny World can only dream about because if they don’t get their way there can be hell to pay for someone – even other Whiny Boys.

There’s also the bastion of Political Whiny that is known for its passive-aggressive behavior where feelings of “Why should I vote, because it doesn’t count anyway!” is the rallying cry. This group sometimes has even more power because their efforts, or lack thereof, can have a major impact on how this country is governed.

Even though this group is accepted into the club, others sometimes shun them for their inactivity or at least don’t outwardly claim them as their own. But, nonetheless, they are Whiny Boys and when the dust has settled we love ‘em all the same.

Whiny Boy: Chapter IV - Whiny loves his sports

There is nothing that permeates and promotes Whiny’s cause more than athletic endeavors. It’s a creative outlet for us to let loose that Whiny beast within us.

Whiny Girl has some existence in this, but the thing that separates her from Whiny Boy is she has this part of her life under control and actually keeps sports in proper perspective whereas Whiny Boy lacks the ability to follow that example.

Find me a Whiny Boy who has found perfect balance in their sports life, and I’ll show you a liar.

Sports exist because of Whiny and nothing else.

TV networks don’t fork out billions of dollars for broadcast rights because it’s cool. It’s because they and their advertisers love Whiny Boy. They need Whiny Boy.

The beauty of the connection between the Whiny World and sports is that it can make him feel oh, so good about himself, and then as fast as a 2-0 fastball sails out of the park or a half-court shot clangs through the rim it can rip his heart right out, toss it on the floor and stomp all over it.

Sports talk radio exist because of Whiny. ESPN exists because of Whiny. Sports blogs and forums and message boards exist because of Whiny.

You get the picture.

Even though Spectator Whiny far outnumbers the rest of the Sports Whiny clan, athletes and coaches are admitted into the club with no questions asked.

Spectator Whiny loves seeing Athletic Whiny or Coaching Whiny melt down on the playing field. But, Spectator Whiny also loves to see those two succeed on the field provided the color and logos on their uniform happens to match those of that jersey they forked out a couple hundred bucks out for at the start of the season.

For every happy Spectator Whiny, there is a sad and disgusted one out there somewhere furiously typing on his www.fire(insert coach’s name here).com or www.trade(insert athletes name here).com website.

Athletic Whiny is one part of the club that is harder to get into and members from this faction aren’t as easily detectable as others.

Take Tiger Woods, for instance. Normally not a guy you’d associate with such a sub-species, but if you examine this marvel of golfing talent closely you’ll see his inner Whiny.

Tiger had thoroughly dominated professional golf the first few years of his career but most wouldn’t realize he’s a member of the club. What happened to him is a classic case of Inner Whiny winning out and hereby altering his swing.

Yes, his swing.

He was winning tournaments at a blistering pace early in his career more than any mortal had ever done so in history. Yet, it wasn’t good enough.

Tiger’s Inner Whiny took over the best of the greatest golfer in the world. It happens to the best of them.

Coach Whiny’s poster boy is none other than college hoops coaching legend Bobby Knight. He has made a very comfortable living for himself with his Outer Whiny, but he has even higher value to the Whiny World when Bobby’s Inner Whiny boils to the top.

Baseball managers are also classic examples of what Coaching Whiny looks like. Watch them argue a close call and it’s like poetry in motion with saliva flying in one direction and the expletives in another.

Sportscasters and sportswriters are the emcees of the collaborative whine fest for Spectator Whiny. They are our great enablers. The only thing different is they actually get paid to state their whining publicly.

Fantasy sports could be the one mitigating factor in the possibility that Whiny Boy may someday become extinct. We herd to fantasy drafts like dodo birds and think this somehow qualifies our opinions as worthwhile. If these meaningless conglomerations of clueless rubes (which I’m proudly a part of) are ever made illegal, it could mean you might want to settle up the score with your maker of choice because the end is not far off.

Face the fact, as long as sports exist, Whiny Boy will have something to satisfy his hunger and quench his thirst.

I don’t even like to consider the possibility of sports ever going completely away, because Whiny more than likely would shrivel up and die or at least there would be a lot fewer of us in the world.
That’s a world of which I would want no part.

Likewise, if Whiny Boy were ever to become extinct, sports, as we know it, would meet an equal demise and I shudder at that possibility, too, although many would embrace it.

But, it’s a safe bet neither will happen so we can endure without hesitation for at least a few more decades.

Whiny Boy: Chapter III - The Breakdown

In an earlier blog, I talked about the origin of Whiny Boy and a little background on him to provide some depth on him and then I talked about accepting your Whiny Boy status.

Now before you dive into any sort of self inventory, you must come to grips with the fact there are two different levels and many different sub-levels of Whiny Boy.

Like belly buttons, there are Inner Whiny Boys and there are Outer Whiny Boys. The biggest difference between belly buttons and Whiny is that one collects lint and the other wants to know “how the hell did that piece of fuzz get down there?!”

Then there are the rest of us who are combination of both. I definitely whine on the outside and let my feelings be known, much to this dismay of many around me. There are also times I whine on the inside but never reveal those thoughts for fear of letting my true self be known and of letting people know sometimes how much of a butthead I really can be from time to time.

There are many other sub-types of Whiny, but there are just the two levels. Those who are purely Inner Whiny Boys are the scariest kind because in an instant, they can become outer Whiny Boys all at once and that isn’t a pretty situation. They make horror movies for the big screen about this kind of guy or, worse, devote a 15 minute segment to him on “60 Minutes.”

Ain’t nothin' funny about that.

Sometimes in cases like these, the collective Whiny Boy world also takes a vote (go back to http://www.whinyboy.com/ to get your username and password) and basically kicks that guy out of our non-exclusive club.

Outer Whiny Boys can be just as hazardous, but since they spew forth their whine constantly there is no build up of pressure. However, the danger in this guy is the constant whining becomes intolerable and like the little boy who cried wolf (a text-book case of the early stages of Whiny Boy) he loses any credibility. This guy doesn’t usually risk getting voted out, but being shunned is a distinct possibility.

Getting shunned by the Whiny Boy world is hard to do and the chance of re-admittance is about as likely as someone taking this drivel too seriously. It’s at this point we might see Outer Whiny Boy become subject matter for Court TV and that ain’t funny either.

The key to longevity in life, I’ve come to realize, is a balance between Inner Whiny and Outer Whiny.

It’s good to have a little of both, and never too much of one or the other. Whine a little on the outside and whine a little on the inside, but never do it all just one way or you’ll be sorry and the rest of the world will be entertained.

Whiny Boy: Chapter II - The Acceptance

Admitting to being a Whiny Boy, one first must realize that there is no set of blueprints or designs that make up of this creature of habit. Whiny Boy comes in many shapes and sizes, colors and textures, and has a variety of ideologies and beliefs … or at least pretends to have them.

The beauty about Whiny Boy is you can’t stereotype him. He may look exactly like that neighbor of yours always insisting incessantly that he pays too much in taxes or could be someone a thousand of miles away from you that you’ve never met who constantly rambles on about the head coach of said favorite football team constantly creating a vacuum.

If you have the ability to communicate at all and have male plumbing then, “Welcome aboard Air Whiny!” You can pick up your e-boarding pass at www.whinyboy.com.

Whiny Girl exists, too, to an extent, but that is a much smaller subspecies compared to their male counterparts and not one I care to even try to offer any insight for fear of retribution. And besides, what the hell do any of us know about women?

Having an innate ability to whine is nothing to be ashamed of, and, in fact, gains you admittance into a non-exclusive club which, I must warn you, yields no special privileges or handshakes, but damn it, there should be! (We can work on those later.)

The quicker you admit to that fact, the easier the rest of your life will be or will at least validate why it sucks up to this point. Every male in this country and throughout the world whines in some way shape or form. Accepting this fact makes it easier to continue on with this lifestyle.Still not convinced?

I feel pretty confident in stating the Pope whines.

Why in the world do millions upon millions of people on this planet hinge on his every word? Because they want to know what the old guy has to say on war, politics, human rights and life in general such as any tips he might have received on who might win this year’s Super Bowl or World Cup.

“What’s the under your Excellency?!”

Something comes up out there in the world that goes against the Catholic religion, His Excellency pops open a window and in multiple languages basically says, “Gosh dang it! Now cut that out!”

Heck, I’m quite confident even the late and dear old Mr. Rogers whined from time to time if you looked closely at his neighborhood. I mean, c’mon! That guy was typecast the minute he put on that sweater and those sneakers.

You can’t tell me he was happy all the time having some solicitor constantly ringing his doorbell or conversing with hand puppets. Sure it paid the bills and then some, but anyone with an ounce of creative talent doesn’t want to feel stifled, even Mr. Rogers.

Baby Boomers, Gen Xer’s, Millennials, and basically every generation before them have done and will do their share of whining. It’s what defines us and makes us so damned irresistible and damned offensive all at the same time.“We are Whiny, here us roar!”

I love sports, but football can be an obsession...

All my life I’ve been a big-time follower of football, baseball, basketball and, being from Minnesota, I’ll even watch a hockey game over say, raking the leaves, shoveling snow or any other menial chore on the ol’ honey-do list.

The funny thing is people always say they enjoy sports because it gives them a release for all that real world crap, but I know people, and at times I’m their leader, who get so damned worked up about a stupid sporting event that it can ruin their whole week. Especially in football.

Football is great because it’s a once a week thing during the fall and winter where you spend all week getting fired up for the big game and if you’re team wins it's a feeling of euphoria even though you had no part in the game planning or action taking place on the gridiron. You're on the computer checking every website, blog, photo, audio and video highlight you can get your hands on, reaffirming what you already know..."my team's better than your-r-rs, my team's better than your-r-r-s!" or at least better than one team that particular day. It can get so out of hand for some obsessed fans, even the porn on many people's history log gets pushed off the drop down menu if your team wins. (At least I've had friends of mine tell me that.)

On the other hand, if your team loses on a Saturday, if you’re a college fan, or Sunday if you like the NFL…may the powers that be please be with your family, your co-workers or your friends. An intervention hopefully isn't necessary, but I'm sure they've happened.

God gave women their...oh, how shall I say it...cycle and I believe he gave men the great equalizer in football (Patriot fans excluded), except that it can be worse for men in that during fall and a good chunk of winter it’s on a weekly basis. Women are much better equipped to handle the chemical imbalances that come with your favorite team losing a game, and simply put, men aren't.

“Wow, Kurt, what’s eatin’ you? You seem a little ornery today...Ahhhh, that time of the week. Vikings/Gophers must have taken one on the ol' chin.”

Sure, football season does end and we substitute basketball and hockey for a couple months until the start of baseball season and then that keeps our interest until the NFL draft and then mini-camp and then training camp and then we're off again barreling down the tracks on the emotional roller coaster and chemical imbalance that is the football season.

Saying goodbye to my chins...

Through no one's fault but my own, weight problems have plagued me ever since I stopped exercising on a somewhat regular basis (which coincided with me getting my high school diploma) and my discovery of fermented hops (which also coincided with that whole diploma thing). Toss in a marriage to a good cook and pretty soon I went from (singular) chin to (plural) chins.

These days, I've come to grips with the fact that if I want to live long enough to enjoy grandkids, which isn't a guarantee given the late start I got at this father thing, I need to take better care of myself. Since about mid-July, I've been on a serious exercise kick. I worked out diligently on my elliptical until that broke down in late August, and now I've become an avid walker with a little jogging up the many hills of St. Peter mixed in to get me at least buns of tin.

Some weekends, like this past one, I'll log nearly 20 miles walking and in that time it gives a person a lot of time to think. I used to use an IPOD when I walked, but I've found its just more enjoyable for me just thinking about life in general without the audio interference FloRida or Miley Cyrus (hey, it's my kids' IPOD) provide wearing earphones.

In that time, I've come up with some pretty amusing thoughts and one of them was the internal debate I had recently over the question, "Why is it that overweight people, like myself, aren't the strongest people on the face of the earth?"

You'd think overweight people would have a distinct advantage carrying that extra weight around. We're pumping iron on a somewhat permanent basis.

Skinny people pay big bucks to be able to lift that much weight whereas the overweight person carries it with them all the time for free. It's like that freakin' American Express card, we don't leave home without it.

If skinny people are too tired to work out, they don't. If someone overweight is too tired and doesn't want to work out, well guess what, if you want to eat you can't avoid at least getting a little leg work in even if you're just going to the door to tip the pizza delivery guy.

No wonder overweight people are breathing so hard, it's because they're always exercising.

I don't consider myself fat. I'm a home gym on two feet.

Confessions of an ex-smoker

Years ago I used to smoke, and although it was no more than a pack a day and more like a half-a-pack, it was still enough to be considered a smoker, something I'm very ashamed of about my previous life.

Oh, but at the time I was shameless because there was nothing like that feeling a rush of cigarette smoke could give a person in that first toke.

You know I think the tobacco companies are the ones who invented beer or at least perfected its mass marketing. Because any ex-smoker will tell you, there is nothing better than a cigarette with a beer.

I envision this big meeting at one of the Tobacco companies, “Ah Dick, they seem to be on to us about this whole “bad for your health” thing and many people are quitting.”

They all drop to their knees, “God of Sir Walter Raleigh, give us a sign. How can we get these people to stop quitting?”

Sir Walter Raleigh's reply, “I give you beer! A few sips of that and they’ll be flicking their Bics! Drink up and light up!”

Quitting smoking was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. It’s amazing what the dastardly Nick-O-Tine can do to you. They said Jeffrey Dahmer had voices talking to him. Sometimes during those times when I unsuccessfully tried to quit smoking, I had things like my ceiling fan or the refrigerator talking to me.

I’d be going through one of my quitting phases and I’d lie on the floor and just stare up at the ceiling trying to focus and soon my attention would drift and I’d find myself trying to make my eyes go as fast as the ceiling fan does, you know so you can catch a glimpse of the blades. Soon, I started hearing, in a low murmur…"Marlboro Light flip top box". Then it’d get a little louder… "Marlboro Light flip top box" … and soon it would be almost conversational talk… "just buy the damned smokes!" So off I’d go to the nearest convenience store, because that's what the ceiling fan told me to do, and I'd fork over a few bucks for a ride on the Nick-O-Tine Express -- in the smoking section of course.

I remember I perfected the art of fixing a broken cigarette. What some people saw as a missed opportunity, I’d see as a chance to exercise my creativity. I couldn’t change the oil on my car, but I was Mr. Goodwrench at fixing a broke cigarette especially if it were the last one in the pack and the store was a long ways away.

There's an old saying an ex-co-worker of mine used to say when someone asked if he smoked. He'd reply, "I don't smoke, the cigarette does. I'm just the sucker behind it." It was meant to be funny at the time, but years later I now realize how true his words were.

Isn't technology supposed to make life easier?

Text messaging has become the rage these days, especially amongst the kids. I'm still having a hard time grasping this whole concept.
WTF? Apparently this whole damned phone thing has gotten too difficult? WTF was Alexander Graham Bell guy thinking, two people actually talking to each other? OMG LMAO!

What worries me even more, I heard an ad a while back advertising high-definition radio.
I’m having a hard time grasping that concept as well. Are we now going to actually hear Rush Limbaugh laughing all the way to the bank or worse yet, Howard Stern’s nose hairs twisting in his exhaling wind after mentioning the word lesbian for the billionth time?

Don’t even get me started on pornography, because today’s youth have it much easier.
When I was a kid we worked hard trying to find where the old man hid his stash of nudie magazines. These days all a kid has to do is go to his bookmarks.

There is one way it was easier for my generation in that getting rid of porn back then meant giving your dad’s Penthouse to a buddy or throwing it in the trash and it was a distant memory.

Can’t do that with internet porn. As great as techonolgy is, you’re just an errant mouse click away from getting 15 minutes of fame on a segment of “To Catch A Predator”.
Used to be the scariest thing a guy could hear trying to pick up chicks was “no, I’m not interested.” These days it’s “Hi, I’m Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC.”

I'm certainly thankful I've been out of the dating loop for 13 years now, because who knows what kind of trouble I would be getting myself into with all the technological advances.

Enough of the guilt-driven e-mails...please...

You know the whole song and dance, how someone with a lot of free time has somehow twisted words enough to create an association with something trivial like the directions on a can of shoe polish to some travesty such as taking prayer out of schools and how if you choose to delete said e-mail that informed you of this miraculous discovery that you will be destined to burn in hell. Today we got one using "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Egads, ain't nothing sacred?! (Yes, I intended to be punny.)

Enough already. I deleted these kinds of posts five years ago, even those that said a flaming arrow would pierce my heart within a week if I chose to trash their post not proclaiming the lack of school prayer the greatest tragedy this world has ever suffered, and I'm still here...although I am having some discomfort in my chest...oh well, it's probably something I ate.

Prayer in school definitely has its place, but if we put prayer back in like these people are demanding, whose prayer would we put back in? Every religious sect would be clamoring for their piece of the prayer pie, but I don't think there would be enough pie to go around and now you'd have bigger problems then before.

I say leave the three R's (Reading, 'Riting and 'Rithmatic) in the classroom and leave the fourth R (religion or lack thereof) up to the parent/guardian to take care of at home or outside of school.
Before you get all high and mighty on me, you should know I'm all in favor of religious freedom. If you want to pray in school, more power to you. Just find a nice place for some reflection and inner dialogue with your higher power of choice and have at it. Bring a friend or two along if you'd like, as long as they're doing so at their own free will. Why does it have to be organized?

I do admit it has become somewhat amusing over the years to read some of these e-mail guilt trips. Those creating them have become so good at twisting words that if the whole religious propaganda thing doesn't work out they could always get a job making balloon animals. Because they've already gotten a head start on that line of work anyway by doing a good job of making an ass out of themselves.

After a disappointing football weekend...

I thought we Gopher and Vikings fans could use a little pick-me-up after such a dreadful weekend.

Top 10 reasons to be a Minnesota football fan:

10. Constant disappointments on Saturdays and Sundays always make other little achievements (like remembering to take both the garbage AND recycling out on Monday mornings or successfully getting all of the lint out of the screen in the dryer before each load) more significant.

9. "Wait until next year!" is much easier to get excited about after each season than "Can we repeat?"

8. Those of us with allergies to the material they use in the covers of the Sports Illustrated "championship" special issues never have to worry about an embarassing rash.

7. Both teams give us something other than the weather to bitch about during the winter months.

6. New Year's Day and Super Bowl Sunday parties are so much better here than elsewhere because we can focus all of our time and energy on food/drink preparation instead of worrying about the game.

5. We never have to experience the "dark period" that comes the week after losing a New Year's Day bowl game or the Super Bowl.

4. We never have to listen to that annoying "Queen" song over and over.

3. Don't have to worry about dangers of contracting frostbite during Rose Bowl or Super Bowl victory parades or, should we ever win either, from hell actually freezing over.

2. Ice fishing house owners on Lake Mille Lacs never have to worry about getting them tipped over during post-Rose Bowl/Super Bowl riots.

1. No worries about a horde of pasty white Minnesotans in a warm-weather climate -- it's never a good sight.

From Shamu to Shamwow...

One week ago tonight, Teresa and I put our kids to bed and then had one last night putting our weary heads to rest on a pillow in the Sunshine State before departing for the land of the bleak, which Minnesota can become in the depths of autumn with the dreary skies that often accompany the cooler temps.

Looking back now almost seven days after departure, I can't help but think about all the wonderful memories we accumulated from the trip which got off to a humorous start with my little guy Shea exclaiming, after our plane touched down at the Orlando Airport thus completing his first-ever flight, "Yeaaaaaa...we didn't die!!!" much to the amusement of some of our surrounding passengers, which I only detected from their snickering because I had buried my head in my jacket in embarassment after a quick, "shhhhhh" his way.

I hate to get into too much detail on the trip, but one memory that I think about most often took part in our first full day in Florida when we decided to brave the 96 degree/100 percent humidity for a few hours of fun in the sun at Sea World. Of course, as many of you prior Sea World visitors can attest, no trip there is complete without venturing over to Shamu Stadium to take in the killer whales on display. The killer whales are icons of Sea World's existence which are unavoidable if your kids even only possess the most basic knowledge about Sea World.

After strolling our way through the park, we finally made it over Shamu's way to take in the show. Standing outside the gates of the stadium, waiting for the gates to open was much like I envision it must feel like standing at the gates of hell waiting for your number to come up.

It was hot and sticky no matter where we stood, so we tried patiently to wait for the gates to open...as patiently as one can be with your clothing sticking to you as annoyingly as possible with a little trickle of blood rolling down your chin as you bite your lip. The biting is needed if you have any hope of trying hard not to cross the line from irrational tourist to the lead story on each of Orlando's major network affiliate's 10 o'clock newscasts (or is it 11 o'clock news down there?) because of some heat-induced fit of rage.

Eventually we all got inside and as we made our way down to our eventual seats, we paid little attention to the "Soak Zone" warning signs telling us we could get wet in this area. At this point, a little mist from the 50-something degree water from Shamu's tank would have been a welcomed relief for all of us, so we ignored the warning and found a seat in about the 6th or 7th row in the lower level.

To make a long story short, the whales and their trainers put on a marvelous show...a splendid display of grace and beauty, which is surprising considering the girth of those mammals. We all laughed and giggled as other sections in the lower level got more than their fair share of soakings from Shamu's well-planned belly flops. However, as I checked my cell phone clock, I realized the show would be over soon and even remarked to my daughter that we made it through without getting wet.

I'm not sure how good a killer whale's hearing is, but I swear the moment those words left my mouth, one of the whales made a complete 180 as she was heading out of the tank in front of us and decided to do a victory lap of sorts. At first I found it cute and then laughed some more when I realized she was giving one last shower to those in the Soak Zone and as she neared us, I figured I was still hot, so a little cool water wouldn't hurt after all.

As Shamu swam closer, I ducked my head a little bit to shield some of my face with the brim of my cap, figuring the mist of salt water might burn my eyes. I learned quickly that was the least of my problems as Shamu sent a tsunami-sized wall of water in our direction which completely doused me and nearly knocked me up and over my backrest. Poor Katie, who was seated next to me, not only endured her share of water but also got the "friendly fire" from all the water that caromed off her daddy and richocheted her way.

Thank goodness I don't have a heart condition, because the contrast of the frigidity of the water hitting me and the hot conditions on the exterior took my breath away and I'm positive the ol' ticker gave some thought to throwing in the towel (and I'm sure it would be been a beach towel.).
It wasn't long and I shot up to my feet and sprinted up the stairway to get as far away from of the Soak Zone, still hyperventilating a bit and fearful another shot from Shamu would lead me to be the first person ever to drown with both feet firmly planted on land.

As I got up into the "safe zone," I looked down at the white radio-promotion contest shirt I was wearing at the time and realized I looked like some spring breaker at a wet T-shirt contest. While I know I got some water in my ears, I still swear I heard some Bubba yelling at me, "Skin to win, big feller! Skin to win!"

Needless to say, we all made it out of there in one piece, albeit one very damp piece. We weren't very smart about our approach to Sea World the rest of the day as shortly after the Shamu shenanigans, we took in the Antarctic (or was it Arctic?) display which is indoors and is cooled by air conditioning units which were industrial strengthed and definitely on high. It was at this point I thought, "Great, I barely survive almost becoming the first dry-ground drowning casualty in the history of mankind, only to bite the bullet as the first person to ever die of hypothermia in Florida."

In the end, it was a valuable lesson learned that when the folks at Sea World label something Soak Zone, they're not talking about a swell place to take in some of the sun's rays.

Back by semi-popular demand (WARNING: LONG!)

My relationship with Facebook is a bittersweet one. I love it because it has helped me get and keep in touch with people I thought I would never hear from again, but it also can be a bit of an obsession and very time consuming.

Early on in my Facebook days, I decided to join the crowd and do one of those 25 Random Things list everyone else was doing and got a lot of compliments on it. With the various new formats Facebook has gone through since that time, I thought I had lost that list, but lo and behold I found it tonight.

So for your enjoyment and my safe keeping, I'm posting it here.

My list of 25 Random Things about Me that turned into 50, plus some honorable mentions...

1. I strongly feel my wife, despite her rare flaws, is truly an angel who was put here on Earth to rescue my formerly tortured soul and that my children have allowed me to experience love like I never imagined possible (mission accomplished on both!). Meaning, there's hope for everyone!

2. Am not afraid to admit, I'M A MOMMA'S BOY, and not that there's anything wrong with that!

3. I am intimidated by people with a strong knowledge of automobiles and how they run. I feel emasculated around those types.

4. I watched the movie "Mama Mia" and caught myself tapping my toe to the rhythm of more than one song during the course of the movie. Of course, the same thing happened to me during the dueling banjos scene while watching "The Deliverance" for the first time. "This is cute," I remember thinking to myself at the time.

5. I hit a double eagle on a par 5 hole at the Mt. Lake Golf Course and before I calmed down enough to remember to save the ball, I crushed it deep into the woods two holes later never to see it again. Oh well, I have a really swell cap signed by the rest of my foursome to prove it!

6. At one time, I possessed a very curly version of a mullet ... by choice! It was the 80s after all and big hair in the back was that era's faux hawk.

7. Would also give anything to mow my late Grandma Hildebrandt's lawn one more time and afterwards spend a few hours at her kitchen table chatting with her about what's going on in my little world and catching up on the goings-on in the lives of her 30-something other grandchildren. Many computers these days didn't have the memory my Grandma possessed back then in keeping track of all those off- spring.

8. Would give anything for one more chance to tag along behind my late Grandpa Cullen as he walked amongst the buildings at his farm on a hot summer's day. When we were done, chug down a cold glass of Ocean's Spray cranberry juice with a hint of 7-Up and watch him dig deep into the freezer to dig out one of my Grandma's cigarettes from her secret supply to sneak in a couple of tokes before she came home from "going into town."

9. Want one more time to gather up the old neighborhood gang for a game of baseball in the old horse pasture. We'd play until it gets so dark you can barely see the pitcher while standing at home plate when it's your turn to bat wondering if that dark sphere whizzing at your head is a ball or a bat of the insect-eating variety. Either way, you take a good swing.

10. Wish I would have a better grasp of classic literature and could make literary references other than, "You're a poet and don't know it, and you can tell by your feet because they're Longfellows."

11. One of my first crushes ever as a kid was on none other than Miss Landers, Theodore Cleaver's teacher on "Leave it to Beaver." Even in black and white, she made my heart flutter and still does when I catch a glimpse of her on a Nick-At-Nite rerun. Rest in peace Sue Randall (Miss Landers' real name).

12. I would love to, at least once, experience the Christmas holiday on a beach in a pair of baggy cargo shorts, a baggy t-shirt and a pair of flip-flops under a sun-drenched sky with the sounds of waves crashing in the background. I know, my somewhat fair skin makes me susceptible to sunburn, but lobster red to me would be a pleasant change from pasty white I usually am that time of year.

13. I feel a sense of humor is one of the most attractive qualities in any human being as long as it a good sense of humor. Some people just don't do funny very well. Bad funny is almost worse than no funny at all...almost.

14. Besides being with my family, I'm at my happiest alone in front of the computer working on a screenplay, hammering away at a TV show idea or doing any other comedic writing or creative activity...with, of course, being on a golf course with the ol' gang drinking a few beers and swapping stories a close second.

15. Think that a mug of Leinie's Honey Weiss with a lemon wedge on a hot summer's day is nearly utopic, despite it coming dangerously close to calling for the automatic revocation of my "man card."

16. Chills run throughout my body everytime I hear Paul Giamatti's character in "Cinderella Man" say, "Where the hell have you been, Jimmy Braddock?!" after the main character begins his comeback. There's nothing more emotional than watching really poor people having their lives not suck anymore.

17. Would love to spend a couple hours brainstorming comedically with Tina Fey and/or Jud Apatow and/or Seth Rogen and/or Pat Proft and/or the Coen Brothers or anyone with a Hollywood credit who could provide me the guidance to help land a job on the writing staff at a network sitcom (preferably 30 Rock or The Office) or get one of my scripts a look from major movie studio or, I'd even be willing to start by writing infomercials with Billy Mays.

18. I yearn so badly to become a long-distance runner...and would even settle for being a jogger or one of those fast walkers who pump their arms faster then the pistons in an old Yugo.

19. Am mesmerized by the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves of a cottonwood tree. It's a thing ingrained into me from spending time at my grandparent's farm as a kid and perhaps came from the fact that being able to hear those trees meant I wasn't out in the middle of some god-forsaken bean field pulling cockleburr plants out by hand or picking up rocks off "heartbreak hill" left years ago by some stupid glacier just so my dad wouldn't damage the farm machinery later on. My argument of "they were put there for a reason!" was usually ignored.

20. As corny as it may sound, I think that Neil Diamond's songs are a gift from the music gods. They just make me feel good inside, a different kind of good than I used to get as a highly impressionable kid paging through the endless supply of dirty magazines I used to swipe from the stash my dad used to get from the truck drivers he used to encounter at his warehouse job.

21. Saw Rick Springfield in concert at age 18 and again at age 41 and had an absolute blast both times...or at least I think I did back in August of 1984, but am not exactly sure because there was a lot of Malt Duck involved before and after the show.

22. Got married in Hartford, South Dakota, on pheasant hunting opening weekend 1996 and danced the Macarena wearing a tux while several others around me were wearing blaze orange and camoflauge. I told Teresa those colors didn't work for bridesmaid dresses!

23. Attended a screenwriting seminar in LA on my 10th anniversary (I've got a wonderfully supportive wife!), and got to exchange head nods and "Hello's" with famed director Oliver Stone and dirty looks with his posse' when I asked him to read one of my scripts while crossing paths in the hotel lobby (I made that posse' part up).

24. Am optimistic the Gophers will make the Rose Bowl and the Vikings will make another Super Bowl appearance in my lifetime, but probably should accept the fact it's probably a better than even money chance I'm going to depart this earth having neither happen.

25. Was absolutely convinced as recently as two days ago that I wouldn't ever complete this list, but have been inspired by some others I have read and challenged by the rest with the goal of doing much better or at least being more entertaining.

26. I want to kick the tail of the younger version of myself who thought playing a musical instrument or auditioning for a school play wasn't becoming of someone of my stature at the time. Of course, my older version of myself would have to end the fight quickly because younger, more athletic me would win any fight longer than one round.

27. As a kid I stuck my tongue on the outside knob on the door leading to our house... in the dead of winter. Thankfully mom was home, because my brother was laughing so hard and wasn't about to end his source of amusement just to set me free.

28. Have worked in the newspaper business on and off for about 17 years and I now realize that decades after I'm gone my kids and grandkids will be able to somehow access all those words I wrote back then and verify "Yup! This confirms the old man was nuts!"

29. My greatest thrill (of the adrenaline variety) was riding in the front seat one of the Red Baron squadron's planes planes and doing a complete loop while screaming at the top of my lungs "THIS IS SO FREAKING AWESOME!" all the while scared I was going to poop my pants and hit some unsuspecting Nicollet County farmer a few thousand feet below.

30. I procrastinate so bad sometimes that I swear I don't think I'm ever going to die, but might get around to it someday.

31. Have an almost photographic memory when it comes to sports statistics and rehashing some movie lines, yet can't seem to remember where I left my cell phone just minutes ago or forgot the fact, from time to time, it was my turn to pick up one of my kids from preschool and get the dreaded call from their teacher. (Sorry Shea and Kate!)

32. Am partially color blind for certain shades of brown and green, which will be a real bummer if I ever get lost in the jungle.

33. When I was a little kid, I coerced my sister Jen into thinking those those delicious, little orange-flavored tablets inside a bottle of St. Joseph's baby aspirin were just like candy so she joined me in power chugging the whole bottle. Best part was sharing an ER room at the Mt. Lake Community Hospital and having tubes, much like you see used in a beer bong but on a smaller scale, shoved down our nose and throats to retrieve those little candies out of our tummies.

34. When I was around 10 years old, I was absolutely convinced Bigfoot was stalking me and had I known about the legal system then like I do now would have seriously considered petitioning for a restraining order. Needless to say, my older brother used this fear to his amusement (similar to #49) more than once.

35. Have had my wife say to me more than once, "Luckily for you, stupidity is not a crime. Otherwise you'd be doing a life sentence ... without the conjugal visits!" (Yes, I embellished the conjugal visits part because everyone knows I'm irresistible ... even doing hard time!)

36. Used to make fun of my friends for loving the big hair bands back in the 80s and early 90s, but not too long ago was more than once a mouse click away from ordering some "Monster Ballads of Rock" CD while watching a commercial after imbibing in a libation or two. Thankfully common sense prevailed when I realized the music list included Axel Rose crooning about love.

37. Used to eat raw hamburger sandwiches as a kid, because my dad did and thought they tasted good. Which of course later led me to the conclusion I don't have a beer belly, it's a domicile for a large tapeworm!

38. My Kryptonite is the fact I'm ticklish as hell. Lex Luther could bring down Superman with a rock, while my wife can force me to lose most bodily functions just reaching for my neck.

39. My biggest pet peeve is people who don't realize they're not as important as they think they are, but are making more money than me!

40. Did not fly on a commercial jet until I was 27 years old, which I tell my kids was a result of being grounded so often as when I was a little boy. Not looking forward to the day they finally get old enough to get that joke.

41. Came to the conclusion right before I got married there wasn't much demand for an out-of-shape, balding man with symptoms of ADHD, so I better get it right the first time. 12 years later it's looking "so far, so good!"

42. Have never been to the Grand Ol' Opry nor the Metropolitan Opera and I'm pretty sure that streak is in no danger of ending any time soon.

43. Would love, just once, to be watching a sporting event and have the announcer say, "That's not Lou they're saying, it's BOOOOOOOOOO!"

44. Can rarely beat my five-year old in Wii bowling, which probably saves me from suffering the embarrassment outside the home because more than likely he can beat me at an actual alley as well.

45. Used to be a pretty decent golfer, but these days I'd probably four-putt on a funnel shaped green.

46. I giggle once in awhile when I hear term "stimulus package".

47. Am I the only one who thinks the invention of the "Snuggie" has some defrocked monk laughing all the way to the bank? They look ridiculous!

48. I possess a unique ability to mix up the lyrics in pop songs. One of my wife's all-time faves, "You are romantic, and I love you still" should actually be "You are a magnet and I am steel"

49. All of my children have their birthdays on the 11th of their respective month which means if I learn it is the 11th of any month there's a one in four shot I should be buying a cake or at least a birthday card.

50. Despite everyone in my family betting against me, I actually remained upright through the births of all three of my children...and they were all delivered via C-section! My response when the surgeon showed me my wife's uterus during the first surgery before putting it back in place, "Cool!"

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I had so much fun writing the first 25 and the last 25 Random Things about Me and ideas keep popping into my head. Looks like I cut open a creative vein that won't coagulate, so here's more from the Book of Kurt:

• Once during my childhood, for some stupid reason, I stuck my tongue in a light socket and lived to tell about it. Although I did get a nasty burn at the tip of my tongue and, on a lighter note, had a hard time arguing whenever my dad said I was "not the brightest bulb on the tree".

• My favorite movie of all time is "Shawshank Redemption" and wish somehow I could jam Morgan Freeman into a time machine of some sorts so he could become younger than me because I want him to live long enough to give the eulogy at my funeral. What a presence he has both visually and verbally on the big screen.

• Attended classes at three different colleges in my lifetime, but in the reverse order most people would have done so. I started at St. John's, then went to Mankato State before going to Iowa Lakes Community College where I went to play baseball and ended up becoming a journalist and a writer.

• For me, favorite sitcoms are like close, personal friends. They can be really hard to find, but once I do I'm fiercely loyal to both. (Although it must be pointed out there are rare cases where it's not so hard at all on both accounts.)

• In my lifetime I have interviewed professional athletes, nationally-known show biz folks, two Governors, a president of a major university, a Pulitzer Prize winner and countless other people who have achieved great things, but my most memorable and enjoyable interviewees have been World War II veterans. That generation isn't just the greatest, they kick ass!

• When I was 36, I bid adieu to my tonsils after a lengthy but often tumultuous relationship. In my youth my rather large tonsils, even when healthy, used to swell up well past their 13 lbs. per square inch maximum capacity at least twice a year forcing me to endure painful shots and lengthy recovery periods. However, the peak in our relationship came in my late teens and throughout my 20s when we got along just wonderfully, only to turn rocky again once I hit 30. Eventually, despite the discovery of the wonder drug Zithromax!, doctors finally thought it would be best if we parted ways, which we did in January 2003, My life has been pretty much pain free in that area since, but I am more susceptible to coughing fits from foods with a lot of particles...(i.e. powdered donuts, various cereals, Nerds & pop rocks) because my uvula no longer has its sidekicks there to act as a buffer zone.

• I have a sneaking suspicion that perhaps in a former life (if you believe in that kind of thing) I must have somehow been involved in show business. Photos, video, film footage and other references to LA/Hollywood gives me butterflies in the ol' tummy often and when I took a bus tour of Venice Beach, Rodeo Drive, Grauman's Theater/Kodak Theater, Farmer's Market, etc., everything looked eeriely familiar to me like I had been there even though I had never set foot in the city before. Probably was an aspiring screenwriter at one time, like I am now.

• I do not hunt, nor do I ever want to hunt...again. I tried it at one time in my life and got such an itchy trigger finger that I nearly blasted a barn owl (which was totally illegal) out of mid-air the second it jumped out before me while pheasant hunting with my dad, an uncle and a friend of his from the Twin Cities. I vowed it would be best for animalkind and mankind if I limited the number of times a firearm is in my possession. Thankfully for the owl I was a horrible shot.

• The first joke I ever wrote was, "Did you hear about the guy who got arrested for throwing popcorn at the movie theater? He was cited for a'salt' and 'butter'y"

• My first kiss took place during a party (at the home of a female junior high classmate) while playing a game of "truth or dare." Needless to say it took about 20 minutes for me to work up the courage to pucker up.

• First time I met my wife was at my hometown's annual motorcycle club party, but things just didn't work out. Two years later I went back to the same party and we met again, only this time the stars were aligned. However, it wasn't as magical for my wife as I later learned she quipped to one of her friends upon seeing me the second time, "I don't remember him having such a big head!" which probably could have been a deal breaker if my cranium were not actually so large.