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.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
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 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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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.
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!”
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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!"
--------------------
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.
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!"
--------------------
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.
Whiny Boy: Behind the Music
Since I've dubbed my mindless meanderings "The Whiny Boy Chronicles" I suppose it's only fair I give some insight into why I chose that name.
In all the years I’ve been taking in oxygen and dispensing carbon dioxide on this conglomeration of water and rock we call Earth, I’ve been searching endlessly for that one definition that would affirm my existence. For the better part of three decades that search came up empty.
No stone or new leaf went unturned and yet I sailed along still trying to discover my place in humankind, not to mention where I belonged even in my own family. While I do understand the whole husband and father thing, and son and brother thing, I still longed to know the answer to the question, "Who am I?"
Then a moment of enlightenment emerged when I least expected it and I realized that men have kept one unalienable right through famine, plague, war, natural disaster and, worse yet, having our favorite sports team sucking the hind nipple of a mangy sow year after year. (For those of you that don’t know what that means, find someone country, and they’ll clue you in.)
That right is the ability to whine and whine quite well, thank you very much.
My moment of clarity in all this came early in my marriage when I was going through my normal “my life sucks” routine at a time when I longed to belong. Shortly after one of these “woe is me” conniptions, probably triggered by my beloved Minnesota Vikings falling short of reaching my unrealistic expectations yet again, my significant other, perhaps fed up with my attitude, exclaimed, “You’re such a WHINY BOY!”
And then it sunk in.
It was at that moment I had discovered the true definition of myself, most of my male contemporaries and probably millions of others, who eat, sleep, breathe and possess male body parts in not only this great country of ours but in all corners of the world.
Some so-called experts claim men are bred to be hunters and gatherers, but as I examined my own life and of those around me, I became convinced that it was probably a better than even money chance that men weren’t always that way.
It’s becoming increasingly clear that it more than likely was woman who coerced man to go out and hunt and gather so they could get his lazy, smelly and whining ass out of the cave or hut or whatever domicile was chic' at the time. Since then, being dubbed as hunters and gatherers sounded way cooler than our original title -- unmotivated, odiferous and nagging, so the title has stuck.
Besides, if we were bred to be hunters and gatherers, then why the hell do we have to wear bright orange when were are out tracking down pheasants, deer, grouse or whatever wild game is in season? For God’s sake, if we were such noble hunters and gatherers you’d think we could tell the difference between the hide of animal or the feathers of a bird and the flesh of a human being by now.
My other theories on mankind, which have come to the forefront since my mind was opened to the reality that Whiny Boy exists, probably aren’t very popular, but, damn it, they should be!
I wouldn’t be shocked someday to learn that evolution is a myth probably created by some boisterous men too lazy to keep holy the Sabbath, and that procreation was developed by a conglomeration of opinionated, butt-ugly guys ticked off for their lack of success with the ladies and since they couldn’t get any no one else!
I realize both are far fetched and one probably would be considered blasphemous by some, but it wouldn’t be a bit surprising if there’s some truth to both theories. After all, Whiny Boy has had a major impact on life-changing, historical events ever since he started walking upright.
Fire?
It was more than likely created by a caveman fed up with eating cold food yet again. One day he couldn’t take it anymore and hurled his frozen platypus nuggets against a rock in a hissy fit and the ensuing sparks ignited his wife’s thatch dress.
The wheel?
Probably carved by a man too sick and tired of seeing his peers becoming fecal matter for a variety of dinosaurs on their way to or from the weekly Bedrock Hold ‘Em poker game and leaving the stone table short a player or two.
Whining is the very essence that can drive men to great things, but more often than not it led to nothing more than underachievement. It’s those that harness the ability to whine and use it to his advantage that we all strive to be or whine when we fail to make it to that level.
Collectively, we accomplish nothing because we can’t agree on anything. Individually we can’t accomplish anything because there’s no one to whine to about what we’ve done.
After my stunning conclusion that Whiny Boy exists, it was through more years of human observation and careful analysis that I realized I am not alone, but I am perhaps the only one aware.
Civilizations will come and go as often as one-hit wonders on the Top 40 charts, but Whiny Boy lives on for ever.
In all the years I’ve been taking in oxygen and dispensing carbon dioxide on this conglomeration of water and rock we call Earth, I’ve been searching endlessly for that one definition that would affirm my existence. For the better part of three decades that search came up empty.
No stone or new leaf went unturned and yet I sailed along still trying to discover my place in humankind, not to mention where I belonged even in my own family. While I do understand the whole husband and father thing, and son and brother thing, I still longed to know the answer to the question, "Who am I?"
Then a moment of enlightenment emerged when I least expected it and I realized that men have kept one unalienable right through famine, plague, war, natural disaster and, worse yet, having our favorite sports team sucking the hind nipple of a mangy sow year after year. (For those of you that don’t know what that means, find someone country, and they’ll clue you in.)
That right is the ability to whine and whine quite well, thank you very much.
My moment of clarity in all this came early in my marriage when I was going through my normal “my life sucks” routine at a time when I longed to belong. Shortly after one of these “woe is me” conniptions, probably triggered by my beloved Minnesota Vikings falling short of reaching my unrealistic expectations yet again, my significant other, perhaps fed up with my attitude, exclaimed, “You’re such a WHINY BOY!”
And then it sunk in.
It was at that moment I had discovered the true definition of myself, most of my male contemporaries and probably millions of others, who eat, sleep, breathe and possess male body parts in not only this great country of ours but in all corners of the world.
Some so-called experts claim men are bred to be hunters and gatherers, but as I examined my own life and of those around me, I became convinced that it was probably a better than even money chance that men weren’t always that way.
It’s becoming increasingly clear that it more than likely was woman who coerced man to go out and hunt and gather so they could get his lazy, smelly and whining ass out of the cave or hut or whatever domicile was chic' at the time. Since then, being dubbed as hunters and gatherers sounded way cooler than our original title -- unmotivated, odiferous and nagging, so the title has stuck.
Besides, if we were bred to be hunters and gatherers, then why the hell do we have to wear bright orange when were are out tracking down pheasants, deer, grouse or whatever wild game is in season? For God’s sake, if we were such noble hunters and gatherers you’d think we could tell the difference between the hide of animal or the feathers of a bird and the flesh of a human being by now.
My other theories on mankind, which have come to the forefront since my mind was opened to the reality that Whiny Boy exists, probably aren’t very popular, but, damn it, they should be!
I wouldn’t be shocked someday to learn that evolution is a myth probably created by some boisterous men too lazy to keep holy the Sabbath, and that procreation was developed by a conglomeration of opinionated, butt-ugly guys ticked off for their lack of success with the ladies and since they couldn’t get any no one else!
I realize both are far fetched and one probably would be considered blasphemous by some, but it wouldn’t be a bit surprising if there’s some truth to both theories. After all, Whiny Boy has had a major impact on life-changing, historical events ever since he started walking upright.
Fire?
It was more than likely created by a caveman fed up with eating cold food yet again. One day he couldn’t take it anymore and hurled his frozen platypus nuggets against a rock in a hissy fit and the ensuing sparks ignited his wife’s thatch dress.
The wheel?
Probably carved by a man too sick and tired of seeing his peers becoming fecal matter for a variety of dinosaurs on their way to or from the weekly Bedrock Hold ‘Em poker game and leaving the stone table short a player or two.
Whining is the very essence that can drive men to great things, but more often than not it led to nothing more than underachievement. It’s those that harness the ability to whine and use it to his advantage that we all strive to be or whine when we fail to make it to that level.
Collectively, we accomplish nothing because we can’t agree on anything. Individually we can’t accomplish anything because there’s no one to whine to about what we’ve done.
After my stunning conclusion that Whiny Boy exists, it was through more years of human observation and careful analysis that I realized I am not alone, but I am perhaps the only one aware.
Civilizations will come and go as often as one-hit wonders on the Top 40 charts, but Whiny Boy lives on for ever.
King of the Procrasti Nation
It goes without saying that I've often been one to operate under the motto, "why do today what can be done tomorrow or a few weeks down the road." It more than likely started at birth where I was at least 3 weeks overdue before I decided to make my exterior debut.
Even tonight, after making up my mind I wanted to blog, I still took my sweet ol' time getting down to my office and getting on my PC. First there was a six-year old that needed attention while Mommy and the other two kids were at religion classes.
Then, after exhausting other entertainment choices, my six year old decided after perusing nearly all 100 channels our cable system brings into our home each day that seeing "Legally Blonde" for the umpteenth time was our best option. I could have turned it to Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon to distract him, but then I realized that darn Reese Witherspoon is so adorable and for some reason I always enjoy the courtroom scene where Reese's character miraculously saves her client. So, of course, I had to watch it 'till the end which created another dilemma -- explaining to my wife and other two kids the reason why I was watching "Legally Blonde" was the fact our youngest requested it. What I had failed to realize was at that moment he was forming a puddle of drool on the armrest of my recliner obviously meaning he had been lights out since around the time Reese's character got accepted into Harvard Law and well before the rest of Team Hildebrandt got home.
Anyway, shortly after the return of the rest of the fam and after Reese's character saved the day in addition to graduating at the top of her class from Harvard Law, I was working my way downstairs to blog when my wife reminded me that one of my other guilty pleasures (besides Reesee Witherspoon flicks...I fell hard for her in "Walk the Line") was up next ... that naughty Fx show "Nip/Tuck", so I plopped back down into the chair for another hour of mindless oggling of my TV screen.
Finally, after Drs. McNamara and Troy had endured another episode of debauchery and malpractice, I was able to work up the strength to drag my procrastinatin' arse to the computer and wouldn't you know it ... I couldn't remember what I was going to blog about so I figured it would be best to at least type something so here you are ... my self-designation as King of the Procrasti Nation.
Even tonight, after making up my mind I wanted to blog, I still took my sweet ol' time getting down to my office and getting on my PC. First there was a six-year old that needed attention while Mommy and the other two kids were at religion classes.
Then, after exhausting other entertainment choices, my six year old decided after perusing nearly all 100 channels our cable system brings into our home each day that seeing "Legally Blonde" for the umpteenth time was our best option. I could have turned it to Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon to distract him, but then I realized that darn Reese Witherspoon is so adorable and for some reason I always enjoy the courtroom scene where Reese's character miraculously saves her client. So, of course, I had to watch it 'till the end which created another dilemma -- explaining to my wife and other two kids the reason why I was watching "Legally Blonde" was the fact our youngest requested it. What I had failed to realize was at that moment he was forming a puddle of drool on the armrest of my recliner obviously meaning he had been lights out since around the time Reese's character got accepted into Harvard Law and well before the rest of Team Hildebrandt got home.
Anyway, shortly after the return of the rest of the fam and after Reese's character saved the day in addition to graduating at the top of her class from Harvard Law, I was working my way downstairs to blog when my wife reminded me that one of my other guilty pleasures (besides Reesee Witherspoon flicks...I fell hard for her in "Walk the Line") was up next ... that naughty Fx show "Nip/Tuck", so I plopped back down into the chair for another hour of mindless oggling of my TV screen.
Finally, after Drs. McNamara and Troy had endured another episode of debauchery and malpractice, I was able to work up the strength to drag my procrastinatin' arse to the computer and wouldn't you know it ... I couldn't remember what I was going to blog about so I figured it would be best to at least type something so here you are ... my self-designation as King of the Procrasti Nation.
13 years with a ring on my finger
I recently celebrated my 13th wedding anniversary ...on Oct. 19th to be exact! Yes, you can applaud and "thank you" very much.
I love being married because it really takes the pressure off a guy like me, because I know as hard as it is for some of you to believe, I'm not exactly eye candy to the ladies although I did get a lot of "Snickers" when I was out there back in my single days on prowl (insert "bow, chicka, wow, wow" song here). There's a reason someone like me, with a dream to be writer, gets a job working in newspapers and never evolves into the more visual of mediums. I for one dread the day newspapers finally complete their dodo bird-like path and vanish from our society because then I'm not sure what I'll do (although the anonymity of a blog is kind of cool...if only I could find a way to get paid for it.)
In my late teens I remember thinking I wanted to get married and have kids by my early 20s, but I soon realized I was anything but ready to become the burden I would have been on another person had I done the wrong thing at that time and asked them to marry me. Perhaps I should also confess when I actually did get married at age 30, I was probably still a bit too rough around the ol' edges yet from a marriage material perspective, but thankfully my wife said yes and showed up on our wedding date.
While we've had our many peaks and often-out-of-necessity valleys, our marriage remains strong and I like that feeling of every day coming home from work having someone with whom to share my thoughts and feelings and vice versa. Most of those closest to us know that my wife wears the pants in the family, but it doesn't bother me one bit, because with my stubby legs I look better in shorts anyway.
I still have single friends who say things like, "I couldn't be married, because I like the freedom to do what I want, when I want, where I want and whom I want." Me, I could never succeed under that philosophy, not that I'd call where I've gotten in life at this point a success story quite yet. But I digress.
When I was single I sucked so bad at dating that many of my family and friends and family of my friends and friends of my family dropped hints at one time or another of their suspicions that I might be of the gay persuasion, well, except the very small faction of openly gay people I knew at that time. They said I wasn't even a blip on the gaydar.
Now of course, that offended me terribly because it was then I realized I wasn't screwed either way.
Thank goodness those days are long gone.
I must admit it wasn't all bad, and sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back to those single days if not for just one day, because of all the things I've picked up in 13 years of marriage. The women would see how sensitive I've now become to their needs, like being able to go into a store and buy feminine products without hesitation or filling the shopping cart with a pile of things neither of us needed just to disguise the pending Playtex-product purchase.
Unfortunately, the truth was I was terrible at dating and how I snagged my wife, I really don't remember...no seriously, I don't, because there was a lot of alcohol involved and for awhile there was something about a restraining order. But, a couple thousand bucks in lawyers' fees and she started seeing the light and eventually became desensitized to it.
I love being married because it really takes the pressure off a guy like me, because I know as hard as it is for some of you to believe, I'm not exactly eye candy to the ladies although I did get a lot of "Snickers" when I was out there back in my single days on prowl (insert "bow, chicka, wow, wow" song here). There's a reason someone like me, with a dream to be writer, gets a job working in newspapers and never evolves into the more visual of mediums. I for one dread the day newspapers finally complete their dodo bird-like path and vanish from our society because then I'm not sure what I'll do (although the anonymity of a blog is kind of cool...if only I could find a way to get paid for it.)
In my late teens I remember thinking I wanted to get married and have kids by my early 20s, but I soon realized I was anything but ready to become the burden I would have been on another person had I done the wrong thing at that time and asked them to marry me. Perhaps I should also confess when I actually did get married at age 30, I was probably still a bit too rough around the ol' edges yet from a marriage material perspective, but thankfully my wife said yes and showed up on our wedding date.
While we've had our many peaks and often-out-of-necessity valleys, our marriage remains strong and I like that feeling of every day coming home from work having someone with whom to share my thoughts and feelings and vice versa. Most of those closest to us know that my wife wears the pants in the family, but it doesn't bother me one bit, because with my stubby legs I look better in shorts anyway.
I still have single friends who say things like, "I couldn't be married, because I like the freedom to do what I want, when I want, where I want and whom I want." Me, I could never succeed under that philosophy, not that I'd call where I've gotten in life at this point a success story quite yet. But I digress.
When I was single I sucked so bad at dating that many of my family and friends and family of my friends and friends of my family dropped hints at one time or another of their suspicions that I might be of the gay persuasion, well, except the very small faction of openly gay people I knew at that time. They said I wasn't even a blip on the gaydar.
Now of course, that offended me terribly because it was then I realized I wasn't screwed either way.
Thank goodness those days are long gone.
I must admit it wasn't all bad, and sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back to those single days if not for just one day, because of all the things I've picked up in 13 years of marriage. The women would see how sensitive I've now become to their needs, like being able to go into a store and buy feminine products without hesitation or filling the shopping cart with a pile of things neither of us needed just to disguise the pending Playtex-product purchase.
Unfortunately, the truth was I was terrible at dating and how I snagged my wife, I really don't remember...no seriously, I don't, because there was a lot of alcohol involved and for awhile there was something about a restraining order. But, a couple thousand bucks in lawyers' fees and she started seeing the light and eventually became desensitized to it.
Being a dad can be nuts sometimes...
I don't know what it is about kids and their affinity for drilling the old man in the berries, whether it be by accident or intentionally.
Being a father can be the most rewarding and most frustrating thing a guy can ever go through, often at the same time. Like the time your little one comes home with straight A's on his first grade report card and you whisk him up in the air in jubilation only to take a scissors kick in the 'nads at the height of celebration. Of course he's oblivious to your suffering because he's all excited that the lights in the soles of his new pair of Spiderman tennis shoes are going off and on like a Christmas tree.
Recently, I was walking around with the fam at a one of those chain department stores (I believe it was at the one that rhymes with ballcart) when my sweet little six-year old son got this look in his eyes as he was nearing me while the wife and daughter were off somewhere looking at some clothes. As he got even closer, I began to recognize that look...one I recalled from my youth that one of my tomfoolin' friends would get when they were about to unleash some flatulence in a public setting for which I would always seem to take the fall.
Totally unprepared for the beast that was about to be unleashed, I stood there smiling as my little guy lifted his hand and gave me a quick little backhanded whack in my nether regions, which connected with the kind of force one gets when twisting up a wet towel and snapping bare skin. Now that I think about it, I'm more than a little impressed with the young 'uns accuracy, but that was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment.
Immediately I hoped maybe the nerve endings down there were worn out from traipsing around the store for more than an hour or perhaps early indicators were wrong and he hadn't hit his target. However, a sudden rush of warmth followed by blistering heat searing up my body confirmed it was a direct hit.
My first thought was to find that little sucker and perform a ball-ectomy on the spot, but my sudden loss of muscle control forced me to do the only thing I could do...double over in pain while trying to shield my face behind a rack of summer garb from the Jaclyn Smith collection.
In between tinges of pain, I tried to curse my little guy out, but I'm sure it didn't make any sense to him or anyone else within earshot including my other family members. At one time I swear I heard my nine-year old daughter say something to the affect of "Mom! Dad's daylight drinking again! 'Cause I can't understand a word he's saying!" but I never got any confirmation nor the subsequent DARE-influenced lecture that usually comes with said episodes. Later on it dawned on me that God (or your creator of choice) probably set up that wave of pain as a kind of cooling down period so you don't do something rash like decapitate the offender when you take one in the nads.
Somewhere in my post-testicular stress, I recalled hearing a news report about the average man (and I'm the poster child for the average man) getting hit about 250 times in the testiclular region during their lifetime. I know, I know, to do that kind of research a person has to be half nuts. However, I'm sure it's balls of fun! (Okay, enough with the word play.)
Soon I came to my senses and realized the news report was part of a hallucination and that recollection was actually a figure I just pulled out of the sky because, as any man knows, there are so many variables going into an actual nut crack count. I'm also sure other fathers out there we know that number is probably much higher.
If ever there was an excuse to have kids at an early age, I'm telling you guys, do it while you still have reflexes. The older you get the more susceptible you are to taking one in the ol' groin. If you wait until later in life to start that family, let me warn you sometimes it feels like you're a hockey goalie on muscle relaxers ... and without the mask, pads, stick and requisite nut cup.
Now I have some doubts on this whole theory of intelligent design, but the location of the berries out in the open like they are, in my book is one thorn in the side on the theory of evolution. If we've evolved like many scientists claim, then how come the nuts are still on the outside in an easily accessible target area. Couldn't there be a safer place...somewhere up around the spleen?
I think our military is actually missing out on a wonderful opportunity. Instead of waterboarding and other forms of torture, stick these prisoners of war into a room full of blindfolded kids armed with whiffle ball bats and some pinatas. I guarantee in no time we'd know not only where this Bin Laden guy was, but probably have a dozen or so good clips for America's Funniest Home videos.
Being a father can be the most rewarding and most frustrating thing a guy can ever go through, often at the same time. Like the time your little one comes home with straight A's on his first grade report card and you whisk him up in the air in jubilation only to take a scissors kick in the 'nads at the height of celebration. Of course he's oblivious to your suffering because he's all excited that the lights in the soles of his new pair of Spiderman tennis shoes are going off and on like a Christmas tree.
Recently, I was walking around with the fam at a one of those chain department stores (I believe it was at the one that rhymes with ballcart) when my sweet little six-year old son got this look in his eyes as he was nearing me while the wife and daughter were off somewhere looking at some clothes. As he got even closer, I began to recognize that look...one I recalled from my youth that one of my tomfoolin' friends would get when they were about to unleash some flatulence in a public setting for which I would always seem to take the fall.
Totally unprepared for the beast that was about to be unleashed, I stood there smiling as my little guy lifted his hand and gave me a quick little backhanded whack in my nether regions, which connected with the kind of force one gets when twisting up a wet towel and snapping bare skin. Now that I think about it, I'm more than a little impressed with the young 'uns accuracy, but that was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment.
Immediately I hoped maybe the nerve endings down there were worn out from traipsing around the store for more than an hour or perhaps early indicators were wrong and he hadn't hit his target. However, a sudden rush of warmth followed by blistering heat searing up my body confirmed it was a direct hit.
My first thought was to find that little sucker and perform a ball-ectomy on the spot, but my sudden loss of muscle control forced me to do the only thing I could do...double over in pain while trying to shield my face behind a rack of summer garb from the Jaclyn Smith collection.
In between tinges of pain, I tried to curse my little guy out, but I'm sure it didn't make any sense to him or anyone else within earshot including my other family members. At one time I swear I heard my nine-year old daughter say something to the affect of "Mom! Dad's daylight drinking again! 'Cause I can't understand a word he's saying!" but I never got any confirmation nor the subsequent DARE-influenced lecture that usually comes with said episodes. Later on it dawned on me that God (or your creator of choice) probably set up that wave of pain as a kind of cooling down period so you don't do something rash like decapitate the offender when you take one in the nads.
Somewhere in my post-testicular stress, I recalled hearing a news report about the average man (and I'm the poster child for the average man) getting hit about 250 times in the testiclular region during their lifetime. I know, I know, to do that kind of research a person has to be half nuts. However, I'm sure it's balls of fun! (Okay, enough with the word play.)
Soon I came to my senses and realized the news report was part of a hallucination and that recollection was actually a figure I just pulled out of the sky because, as any man knows, there are so many variables going into an actual nut crack count. I'm also sure other fathers out there we know that number is probably much higher.
If ever there was an excuse to have kids at an early age, I'm telling you guys, do it while you still have reflexes. The older you get the more susceptible you are to taking one in the ol' groin. If you wait until later in life to start that family, let me warn you sometimes it feels like you're a hockey goalie on muscle relaxers ... and without the mask, pads, stick and requisite nut cup.
Now I have some doubts on this whole theory of intelligent design, but the location of the berries out in the open like they are, in my book is one thorn in the side on the theory of evolution. If we've evolved like many scientists claim, then how come the nuts are still on the outside in an easily accessible target area. Couldn't there be a safer place...somewhere up around the spleen?
I think our military is actually missing out on a wonderful opportunity. Instead of waterboarding and other forms of torture, stick these prisoners of war into a room full of blindfolded kids armed with whiffle ball bats and some pinatas. I guarantee in no time we'd know not only where this Bin Laden guy was, but probably have a dozen or so good clips for America's Funniest Home videos.
A belated blogger am I...
It's October 21, 2009, and today officially marks the beginning of my journey into the Blogosphere...and many would say...well, perhaps a few would say...okay, at least my mom would say (with her fingers crossed behind her back) "it's about damned time!"
I'm not entering this without some trepidation as I'm about to blow open the door on my creativity safe, a device that has been locked up in a Fort Knox-ish way because I've feared someone might get in and mess things up. Well, I'm now well into my early 40s and I doubt I could mess things up any more than they are already so have at it, folks.
The Blogosphere is a very intimidating space, but thankfully there are at least some protections built in to offer some sense of security (false or ...un-false). Besides, sans a talented hacker with a lot of free time and an affinity for mindless drivel, I doubt anyone will be lining up to get a "behind the scenes" look at the Whiny Boy Chronicles, so good luck with that if that is your mission.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending upon your vantage point), I'm very excited to have jumped on board the Blog-O-Rama Express and look forward to having an outlet to spew forth random thoughts that pop up from time to time. I just hope I don't get derailed along the way too often...but I guess I'll have to take it (to paraphrase a sports cliche) one blog at a time.
I'm not entering this without some trepidation as I'm about to blow open the door on my creativity safe, a device that has been locked up in a Fort Knox-ish way because I've feared someone might get in and mess things up. Well, I'm now well into my early 40s and I doubt I could mess things up any more than they are already so have at it, folks.
The Blogosphere is a very intimidating space, but thankfully there are at least some protections built in to offer some sense of security (false or ...un-false). Besides, sans a talented hacker with a lot of free time and an affinity for mindless drivel, I doubt anyone will be lining up to get a "behind the scenes" look at the Whiny Boy Chronicles, so good luck with that if that is your mission.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending upon your vantage point), I'm very excited to have jumped on board the Blog-O-Rama Express and look forward to having an outlet to spew forth random thoughts that pop up from time to time. I just hope I don't get derailed along the way too often...but I guess I'll have to take it (to paraphrase a sports cliche) one blog at a time.
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