L'esprit d'escalier

It's been an interesting week in the world of bicycle commuting. A week ago today I left work early to go meet some people who were doing work on our house. I was enjoying the lack of traffic on the 1.8 miles of non-bike path road I have to travel in order to get home, zipping briskly down a small hill near our house, when the door to a Suburban flew open about six feet in front of me. The door hit the right side of my handlebars jackknifing and sending me over them. I flew a good 8 feet, executed a perfect shoulder roll, and got up without a scratch, despite being a bit stunned. I'd like to credit my catlike reflexes but in reality I just got pretty lucky. The fact that it's cold and I was wearing a jacket and cords helped as well. I had a pretty decent bruise on my calf the next day but all in all it was a best case scenario. The guy in the Suburban was pretty cool about it, although it occurred to me later that he never explicitly apologized and I suspect he may have been more concerned about me suing him over any bodily harm than the actual bodily harm I might have sustained. My bike was even unharmed, which didn't really matter since I have been riding my old one since my good one was stolen from outside work month or so ago. I hope I at least damaged his door. I have since been leaving a bit more space between me and parked cars, although being farther out in traffic is not really much better.

Anyways, l'esprit d'escalier is a French phrase for which we desperately need an English equivalent. Literally "staircase wit," it describes the situation where you think of an awesome comeback after the conversation is over, e.g. "The jerk store called and they're all out of you."

Example 2: A woman, to me, yesterday, after I slammed on the brakes to avoid running over her dog which had run out in front of me on the bike path at the last minute:
"Slow down, Jesus, you almost hit me!"
Me: "You're on the bike path, lady."
Her: "I don't give a shit!"
Me: "Ummm, yeah, I can see that!"
Ride off, shaking head.

A much better exchange, however, would have been:
"Slow down, Jesus, you almost hit me!"
"You're on the bike path, lady."
"I don't give a shit!"
"Well, then I guess I don't give a shit whether or not I run your dumb ass over. Sound fair?"
"Ummm, no!, sputter, sputter...you're a stupid head!"
"Yeah, go home and have sex with your dog you ugly old bag."
Ride off, triumphant.

But that wouldn't have been very Christian of me, now would it have? Some people.

Deercamp Blog Post #3

Elvis has left the building. And by Elvis I mean most of a large deer, and by left I mean entered, and by the building I mean my freezer. It was the culmination of nine very interesting and nearly oppositely spent days.

Part two started when I literally jogged out of a poster session at the American Society of Human Genetics meeting in D.C., sent off a grant application from the hotel, and caught a train and a plane to Atlanta, from where I flew to MSP, where I caught the light rail to my dad's car that he'd left at Fort Snelling. From there, I made good time to Goodland and arrived at five of eleven. Mark, Tom Stoltz and Dad were waiting and deer camp was on.

I got a decent night sleep thanks to daylight savings time and got out to my stand before sunrise. I crawled up in it to find it partially broken but was able to sit on one side. Here's Liz helping me carry the wood to build it circa 2000.



I didn't wait long before I heard footsteps and then thrashing to my right in some small alders across a small slough. I stood up and turned so I could see through the scope and saw a huge rack scraping on the alders. I though about shooting it straight down through the neck, but held off. It might have sensed or heard I was there, because it turned around and quartered away from me. It was through a little brush but I got a shot off at about 50 yahds and it felt good. The deer disappeared, however. I sat for a bit, packed up and went to have a look. To my great relief, it had dropped where I shot.

As all deer hunters know to varying degrees, that's when the "fun" stop: walk back to cabin for a knife since I couldn't carry one on, walk back to deer, gut deer, walk back to cabin to wait for dragging help since it was a lost cause with me alone as I found out when I nearly herniated gutting it, wait for Mark and Tom, bring my dad a knife with which to gut the deer he'd since shot since he'd forgotten one too, drag deer across the slough through which I'd shot, meet dad with 4-wheeler, drag deer #1 to the sight of deer #2 which had expired mercifully close to the trail, drag both deer back to cabin for hanging and tenderloin removal. Whew.

And then we rested while I experimented with making the deer I'd shot's heart. I simmered it for a few hours in several changes of lake Cropless' finest, then gave it a final simmer in a glaze I'd improvised out of whatever was at the cabin (soy and ketchup based if I recall). I then sliced it thin, salted, peppered and seared it quickly in a scorching hot cast iron frying pan. It was delicious in my opinion, and everybody else at least pretended to like it. Waste not want not I always say. I'd brought the liver back too but decided one organ was offal enough.

Tom shot a nice eight pointer in the late afternoon, so we repeated the process with it. Then we had fun, card games, visits from Eddie and his young entourage, cousin Jason, and uncles Dale and Denny. I made small drives to Mark the next day, who'd only seen one deer and several timberwolves exiting a den. Separately. That was it for my hunting. We then again rested, enjoyed the unbelievable weather, received a visit from one Dave Strand, and steeled ourselves for the animal to meat conversion travails to come.



On Monday morning we got up and loaded the deer onto cars and tied them down, drove them back to Mark's house and hung, skinned, and butchered Tom's deer. I returned to the world of the presentable at my mom's, got fed, and slept soundly. The next day my dad and I got to work on my deer shortly before noon with the help of a sweet, newly purchased deer hanging pulley system from Fleet Farm. We made relatively quick work of it since I do my fine cutting at home. We took a quick break to head over to Vinafera Wines and Ales, where through an exceedingly unlikely series of events we found Westrum talking to our friendly neighborhood wine shop owner Nesh on his first visit to the store. We had a chat, bought some lovely wines, ales, and spirits, and headed back to Mark's to wait for his and Tom's help on the third and final deer. We made quick work of it, and it was again off to mom's to wash off the gristle.

Wednesday was deer-free, and I helped my mom prepare for a nice dinner at Alli and Niko's for Mark's day before birthday. We had a lovely meal and I got in some face time with Josie, who is babbling regularly and hilariously, and Nathan, whose arm has only gotten better.

I stayed on the couch at my dad's that night and got up around four to head to MSP. I was soon tentatively hoisting my weighed-to-slightly-over-fifty-lb-by-a-luggage-scale-of-unknown-accuracy cooler (to account for the ice pack within) onto the much more accurate airport luggage scale where it weighed in at an eerily accurate 50.0 lbs. I was given no further troubles, which has not been the case in one of my three attempts at flying with raw meat. Still, I can't really overstate the feeling of relief I felt when the cooler of hard earned venison came off the belt and made it into the trunk of our car. The relief of seeing Liz was pretty great also.

Later that day, I got my first ever massage at the salon where Liz used to work. I was a bit nervous and I froze and said yes when the girl asked me if I'd ever had a massage before. Although this was technically true, my previous massage (foot) was from an old Chinese man in a Chinese bath house/brothel. She said, great, then just get under the covers and I'll be back. Realizing I might have missed out on critical massage-getting information and that the etiquette for this massage might be profoundly different from my last one, I just used common sense. When in doubt, keep undies on, I figured, so I just laid down and thought about what I was going to tell her about the cuts, bruises, and serious burn I'd obtained while stumbling through the woods procuring meat. It turned out she was from Maine and familiar with deer hunting, and at least had the decency not to treat me like a leper. It was very relaxing. I made tenderloins that night and slept well.

Today, I re-trimmed and vacuum sealed the haul. It was substantial. Which is good since it was in some way lifted by, dragged by, or splattered across me on the majority of the previous five days. Backstrap carpaccio tonight!

Panhandling 101

The other day while waiting for a light to change as I biked home, a guy in a suit came running across the street waving at me. Full of good will towards all humanity having just provided two young Chinese tourists with friendly and accurate directions to the nearest T stop, I decided to wait and hear what he had to say. He asked me if I could do him a huge favor to which I responded that it would of course depend on the nature of the favor. He then launched into a big story about his car having a flat tire which required a $12.95 patch kit that could be purchased from the auto parts store down the street which would allow him, a "professional with Verizon", to pick up his kid from school, and, he hates long stories but if he showed me the car and left some sort of collateral, could I please give him 13$. I just said no, I have to get home, but as I continued biking it occurred to me that his technique was exactly what I expect they would teach at a night school class on advanced panhandling...

Lesson 1: Get a suit. The importance of this can not be overstated.
Lesson 2: State a very specific need and know the exact dollar amount that would fill said need.
Lesson 3: Invoke the suffering of children.
Lesson 4: Assure "the mark" that you are "a professional" and not some sort of panhandler. Having a suit will greatly increase the credibility of this claim.
Lesson 5: Have some sort of corroborating evidence to back up your story, such as a car with an actual flat tire.
Lesson 6: Have a good reason why you, a professional in a suit, do not have access to $12.95.

Ooh, apparently he was so excited to put his new knowledge to work that he couldn't wait around for the all-important sixth lesson. Kind of like Luke leaving Dagobah before completing his Jedi training and getting his hand cut off.

Man, won't I will feel like a jerk if the guy's wallet was in his other suit and his children got taken away due to his tardiness in picking them up. Somehow, despite that possibility, I still slept OK.

Ireland

Leprechauns. Irish Spring. Potato famines. Lucky Charms. Fungi the gay dolphin of Dingle. Now that I've gotten the obvious, cliched Ireland joke topics out of the way, allow me to beat each one to death individually and in much greater detail. We got to Dublin around the same time as our traveling companions Erin and Jon Sadler, picked up our sweet Land Rover, and headed north after visiting the famous Guinness mines that our guidebook, Rock Steven's Ireland, said not to miss. The driving, handled by Jon and Liz, was interesting. The turns and round-abouts didn't seem to pose a big challenge but figuring out the correct distance between the oncoming traffic on the right and the curbs/shrubs on the left proved a little difficult on the narrow, 100 km/h roads. No accidents occurred despite our snooty GPS lady's best efforts to direct us down every 2-meter-wide horse path on the island.

It also took a while to stop thinking "Watch the road for fook's sake!" every time the front seat passenger turned around to say something to the back seaters and "Who would let a six-year old drive a car!" every time we passed a car with a kid in the front. Other than that, adjusting to the Irish lifestyle was all too easy once we figured out a few basic questions such as whether or not ordering coffee in Ireland got you one with whiskey by default unless you ordered it America. It didn't, sadly. We also wondered what they call Irish car bombs. We described them to a few different bartenders and none of them knew what we were talking about. We (I) also pondered whether every good-bye in Ireland was an Irish good-bye and whether that made actually saying good-bye to an Irishman impossible. Yeah...think about it.
Our first stop was the Giant's Causeway which was pretty awesome. Volcanoes: is there anything they can't awesomeize?

Liz at Giant's Causeway

Erin and Jon crossing the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge

Dunluce Castle

The next day we went to the Cliffs of Moher, which were really, really high. They have a section with retaining walls but those walls end and there's a sign telling you not to go any farther. There's nobody guarding it however so people go to where you can look straight down at a drop that would most certainly ruin your day.
The second night we stayed at Ashford castle, a 19th century home built for the Guinness family. Activities available to guests include golf, equestrian, trap shooting, and falconry. Instead, we stayed up all night with some fresh-out-of-rehab trust fund kid named Don and let him buy us drinks and show us off limits sections of the castle due to his having been coming there for 20 years and being on a first name basis with all the staff. It was a fun night and I even found an unopened Cuban Cohiba somebody had left behind (I know, castle people, right?) and gave it a good home. As Erin succinctly put it the next day, we kind of made that castle our bitch. I think old man Guinness would have been proud. Or appalled. Or both. Anyways, here's to you, Don.

Enjoying our evening at Ashford Castle - Cong

The next day we made a short drive to Galway, a traditional pub and music city on the west coast. It wasn't much for scenery but the music was good, we had conversations with nearly everyone we were within five feet of, and some 20-year-old Ron Weasley look alike took us to Club 903 after the respectable pubs closed.

The next day we were off to Dingle via the Burren. The Burren is one of the most desolate areas in all of Ireland. During one of noted British asshole Cromwell's campaigns in Ireland, one of his generals said of the Burren, "There isn't tree to hang a man, water to drown a man nor soil to bury a man." And thus the residents were spared from Cromwell's protestant murdering. So they had that going for them. We though it was pretty. After a GPS lady-directed goose chase over some of Ireland's narrowest roads, we popped out at a ferry station which took us across the River Shannon onto the Dingle Peninsula, one of the most picturesque shorelines in Ireland and the westernmost point in Europe.

Crossing the River Shannon

Jon and Erin

"The next parish over is Boston," Rick Steve claims the residents are fond of saying. We had to drive across Connor Pass, a one lane road with steep and deadly drops on one side, to get into the town itself. It was exciting, especially since I didn't have to drive it.

The driving loop around the peninsula was fairly breathtaking and we stopped at this 12th century church to renew our wedding vows by touching our thumbs together through a hole in a pre-Christian ogham stone that was already there for hundreds of years when they built the church and saying "I swear to God." Wedding vows, pagan style.

A little less formal the second time around.

We even got a little golf in at a pitch and putt with a very nice backdrop. Jon won.


In Dingle, there lives a (according to Erin and John's Irish friend Mark) gay dolphin named Fungi (FOON-ghee). People go out on boats to see him. What makes him gay, you ask? Risque posters of Flipper on his bedroom walls? A lifelong dream of performing on Sea World, the Dolphin Broadway? A Google search for Fungi+Dingle+Gay+Dolphin yielded a link stating that people think he's gay because he prefers the company of humans to that of his own pod and that he often has bite marks on him that people hypothesize might be the result of unwanted sexual advances made towards other male dolphins. So basically humans are his interspecies fag hags. And also, our IT guy now thinks I have a thing for hot, same-sex scatological mammal-on-mushroom action.

From Dingle, we made our way to Kilkenny, a medieval brewery town in the countries interior. On the way, we stopped in Killarney National Park and the Rock of Cashel, a spooky church ruins built on a defensive high spot that'd been fought over for centuries. Kilkenny itself was decent and had a castle.

Rock of Cashel

From Kilkenny, we completed our loop back to Dublin where we toured Trinity College's library, home to the Book of Kells, a 9th century illustrated version of the gospels written by Celtic monks that obviously took a very long time to complete.

Coffees on the Quad at Trinity College

That night, we met Mark and Finola, the aforementioned, Italy-met friends of Erin and Jon for Italian food and Irish merriment. They were pure Irish gold and we were hip deep in lively conversation practically before names were exchanged. Mark has apparently done some serious face sucking with the Blarney Stone.




We left early the next morning sad to leave but happy to be headed home. We never saw any leprechauns, although we did see a leperchaun colony. Wee fingers and pointy little noses strewn everywhere. Very sad. I already miss Irish breakfast, which consists of meat, including blood sausage. Mmmmmm.

Two-wheeled tough guy

If there's one thing I've learned from the cyclists vs. drivers feud, and from life in general, it's that a lot of people are A-holes and/or clueless to the impact their actions have on others. I see it almost every day, from the crosswalk-blocking, into bike lane-swerving drivers to the bikers who ride the wrong way down one ways and make drivers with green lights stop while they cross on red. My favorite Boston biking moment was when an obnoxious woman in a SUV on her cell phone came barreling around a left turn on a green (not a green arrow), slammed on the brakes at the last second to avoid taking out line of bikers who were crossing the street on a walk signal, and screamed "IT IS A GREEN LIGHT!" out her window. "You are an idiot!" I replied, which got a laugh from a few of the other nearly recently deceased pedal commuters. A few months ago I had the dubious honor of giving the finger to possibly the oldest man who's ever been given the finger after he made a left turn right into me, slamming on his brakes only at the last second. We had eye contact the whole time. When I flipped him off he said "Aaaaaagh." A-holeism knows no age. I certainly don't follow all the rules of the road, but when I cross on a red light I make sure nobody is coming and if I briefly ride on the sidewalk to avoid some obstruction I make sure to slow way down and give pedestrians a wide berth.

The bike path I ride on is split, one road for bikes and one for peds. I rarely see bikers on the pedestrian path, but I always see peds on the bike path. It's fine, the bike path is farther from the road and feels more "parky." If I was out with my kids I'd want them to be as far away from the street as possible. But I would also watch them like hawks to make sure they didn't run out in front of speeding cyclists, and I damn sure wouldn't allow the three dogs I was walking to completely obstruct the path. I admit to taking some pleasure in scaring oblivious people as I zip past them with six inches to spare at 15 MPH. My "scare them straight" plan backfired once when a large man took an unexpected step to the left and I hit him and bounced into the grass. I was unhurt, he was unhurt, and he was not angry and apologized (which was lucky for me given his size).

My anger at A-holes had remained internal, however, until I had verbal altercations with two of them this week. The first guy, a "biker", was riding his Magna (Huffy) around in circles in a street while talking on a cell phone. As I passed him and turned onto the bike path, he decided to also turn onto the bike path, and clipped my back tire which almost caused him to wipe out. I just looked back and kept riding. He caught up to me at a stoplight and said (start Puerto Rican accented font) "So you just hit somebody on the street and don't say no sorry no nothing?" (end Puerto Rican accented font) I told him that it was him who had hit me, since bikes don't come with reverse. He mumbled some vague tough guy threats which caused me to laugh at him. He mumbled some more vague tough guy threats centering around something or other not being so funny once he kicked my ass, but then took off riding down the sidewalk in true tough guy fashion. I wondered if he'd be waiting for me the next day but he wasn't, wasting an awesome "I don't really want to fight you but if you insist upon it I will bring the full force of my high school wrestling experience to bear on your ass" speech. Trust me, it was epic.

The next day I was riding in a block-long stretch of road where the asphalt right next to the curb is a mess, a real cyclist deathtrap. So for one block I rode four feet out in the lane. After I'd passed the bad stretch and moved over as far as I could, some A-hole (also in a SUV) passed me and yelled "Ride on the F-in side!" at me. Flush with tough guy vinegar and piss from the day before, I caught up to him at a stoplight and knocked on his window. Also in true tough guy fashion, he didn't want to roll it down. Finally he did and I calmly explained that the condition of the road in that small stretch is terrible and that it is too dangerous to ride on the far right edge. He looked sullen but didn't say anything back. I was wondering what he'd do if and when he passed me again but he never did. I know I shouldn't start anything with anybody in the event that the person is an actual tough guy, or worse, a coward with a pistol but sometimes I can't help it.

The strange thing about biking and the stress in induces is that it doesn't produce any of the somatic changes normally associated with frustration. Something about the physical exercise prevents the white knuckle, vein popping response I get on the rare occasion I drive in rush hour traffic. Maybe it's because my BP is already elevated and my palms sweaty. In any case, I can be riding along wishing butt herpes on a motorist's children and their children's children and still be totally calm. It's a very strange zen-like anger. Someone should do a study. Maybe A-holes are just exercise deprived.

Nice little Saturday...

After sleeping in and a leisurely stroll through the Roslindale Village Farmer's Market, it was decided that we must get some exercise in on such a beautiful day. A little exercise turned into a bike expedition around Boston. Stops were made along the way to refuel with Gelato and frozen yogurt. Neither of us had had the pleasure of biking along the Esplanade until the Saturday. It is such a wonderful part of the city. Beautiful benches, shade trees, floating piers offering you the chance to dip your toes in the Charles River, and well groomed walking and biking trails. Below is a map of our route:

About 20 miles total. We followed up our ride with a traditional summer feast of grilled bratwurst, corn on the cob (from the above mentioned farmers market - from the oldest operating farm in the city limits of Boston), and a cucumber/tomato salad. Later that evening we went to see The Black Keys. The Black Keys played at the Bank of America Pavilion located in South Boston right on the waterfront. It is a somewhat open air pavilion with a large canopy covering most of the seats. The weather was perfect and the Black Keys put on an excellent show!

It was a nice little Saturday.

MN

Although I thought I must have missed a trip somewhere, it turns out that it is true that I hadn't been back to MN since Christmas until this last weekend. I got all giddy as we dropped through the clouds and I saw the Minneapolis skyline to the north. As we taxied to the gate, the clouds parted and the sun peaked through as if to say "Welcome back, Rob."

"Rick. It's Rick."
"Rick, of course. That's what I meant."
"Whatever, Manitoba."

Wait, where was I? Oh yes, the trip. It was basically the best weekend I've had in a while. I purposely didn't plan much in order to just hang with the immediate fam, but ironically I ended up seeing more people than we normally do in a week-long trip and without the usual running around crazily trying to schedule brief visits with everyone. I even ran into my aunt Lois at Costco in the few hours she was home between RV trips. I got some good QT in with Josie and Nathan; they were not afraid of me as I'd feared they would be. Nathan is walking, talking, and throwing anything he can get his hands on. I have never seen a kid who liked to throw "bahs" as much as him. Alli and Niko have him on a pitch count so he doesn't get worn out too early in his career. Here he is preparing to throw a washer at his unsuspecting cousin.


I believe 3-4 hundred per day is about the norm. Josie is very close to walking and talking and enjoys swinging.

Mark and Danita let me have some of my friends over to their house on Friday night and we grilled and chatted. The next day was My Two Dads day. First, Mark and I took Josie to the Red Bull Flugtag at Harriet Island where we were lucky enough to witness the setting of a new world record.



Later, Jeff Lee and I took young Iris and Jeff's new fishing boat out on Coon lake where I even got to catch a few northerns. It would have been my second summer in a row without catching a fish which is unacceptable...of course I bought a license, what a silly question.





Sunday we had a little BBQ at Alli and Niko's house that was attended by Uncle Myron, visiting from his new home in Norway. I hadn't seen him in probably 6-7 years and he is doing well. We played a game of cribbage speaking in southern accents, which I highly recommend. I also saw Aunts Becky and Lori whom I wasn't expecting to see. Niko's marinated NY strips were superb.

Monday I went to a game at that new Target Field I'd been hearing so much about. I was pretty disappointed. The stands were totally empty and they didn't even turn the scoreboard on. Wait, what? The Twins were on the road? Then who were those guys I watched playing baseball? An elaborate hallucination in my head, you say? Well that would explain why they were all wearing pink tuxedos and the right fielder was an omelet. Weird. In any case the two-dimensional zombie Twins beat Chairman Mao, Gargamel, the omelet, and the surviving members of The Jackson Five eleventy bajillion to potato.

What famous Twins reliever spat out these sunflower seeds in the bullpen? Crain? Guerrier? It's hard to know for sure but they tasted kinda Mijares-y.




To round out the trip we met up for pizza on Monday where I saw cousins Stacey and Tammy and first cousin once removed Erin Brown. It was a great trip which ironically made me more than a little sad. It's easier to be gone when you don't see what you're missing. The sky opened up a can of torrential downpour literally the second I walked outside to get in my dad's airport-bound car early Tuesday morning as if to say "OK, you've had your fun now you best be getting back to where you came from, Boston boy."

"Fine, I was out of clean underwear anyways."

We're Talkin' Softball

Anybody who's anybody knows that Liz and I greatly looked forward to Thursdays in MN, mostly because it was co-ed softball night on team Monkey Knife Fight. The fact that there were delicious 2-for1 Summits and cheap, not-entirely-disgusting pizza at The Pizza Pie and I after the games didn't hurt either but it was mostly about playing softball on a pretty good team in a pretty bad league. We never got on a team in St. Louis and other than one fill-in role in one game during a trip home (batted .500 for that season), we took a three-year hiatus from the "sport." Meanwhile, Monkey Knife Fight won the league championship without us, which "hurt". So I was pumped when, half way through the season, our neighbors invited us to play on their team last summer. Their team was ungood, having failed to win a game prior to our acquisition. It was a fun team none the less, populated mainly by lab rats (thus the team name, The Lab Rats) originally hailing from other countries. It's also fun to be a better than average player on a pretty poor team, wowing them with skills such as pop-up catching and knowing when there's a force out. Alas, team captains Chris and Mandy had a baby this spring so the team was disbanded.

Instead, Chris and I have been playing with our other neighbor Paul's (of Paul and Diedre fame) team, Dedham VFW (I know, what kind of stupid name is that?). It is an entirely different game than what I have been used to playing. First, it's a men's league, which ups the competitiveness substantially. Second, it's modified fastpitch, meaning that although you can't windmill your arm, certain pitchers (usually cagey veterans in their sixties) can sling the ball in pretty rapidly, probably in the low-50 MPH range. Also, you can leave the base as soon as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand although the catcher can throw to the base you left and it's a force out. People get picked off, albeit infrequently. I was a little nervous playing in my first game, what with not wanting to suck and all. I got subbed in at 2B after the started had struck out thrice, but didn't get up to bat. In the second game I hit two Texas league doubles and made two nice put outs on bad throws at second. Since then I've been hitting well over .700 despite probably a third of my hits being bloops. I either hit 'em hard or so weakly that the outfielders don't have a chance. They all look the same in the scorebook, as the saying goes. So far we're 9 and 5, good for 4th place out of 8 teams in the league. Yesterday we played a team of mostly Spanish speaking gentlemen, four or five of whom were in the 5'5'' range and several of whom wore the number nine. We were joking about there having been a tense Mexican standoff about who got to wear "9" but fortunately someone came up with the "everybody can wear 9" solution before there was bloodshed (shortest guy: "Even me?" Other guys: "Yes, Pepe, even you.") Borderline interesting fact: Spanish speakers yell "quatro" when telling someone to throw the ball home. I maybe expected "casa."

The people on the team are pure Boston gold. We normally head down to the VFW after the games for cheap beer and gambling. Any kind of gambling. Darts? Five dollar buy-in tournaments. Poker games? Affirmative. Celebrity dead pool? Oh you better believe there's a celebrity dead pool (10$ buy in, pay out depends on how young your pick died). Many bars out here have video keno in them, sort of like pull tabs. We play "ghetto keno" however, which means everyone picks a number and you win if your and only your number comes up, dollar a round. The first week a ~100 dollar pot was won by the coach's 13 year old son. Our shortstop (currently benched by a bout of gout), the first person to consistently call me Ricky since 1984, was giving him grief about buying a round with his winnings. "You effed up my playoff pool last year, I don't owe you nothin'!" says the kid. The next week, the same guy was asking him if he'd blown his 100 bucks yet. "It was only 80 after I paid back this ass clown!" says the kid, referring to his father who'd fronted him all the dollars the week before. The dad calls the kid "Shithead," though, so turnabout, fair play, etc. In addition to these characters, there's a bookie, a guy who generally shows up still hammered, sits on the bench and has a few more beers, then goes in and plays a few innings of pretty solid ball, a guy who wears blue Bike coaching shorts that leave very, very little to the imagination, and a gay guy whose home run percentage is probably .700 (I have since been told that the guy is not actually gay, they were just "messin' with me"). Bettter story if he's gay but whatever. I understand the post-season party is epic to there's that to look forward to.

In the Footsteps of Dr. Foster

Had a nice little Memorial Day weekend out here. We ate ribs not once, not twice, but thrice. We also did some masonic work necessitated by the excessive spring rainfall:

Who patched up this retaining wall?

Put cancer in Lance Armstrong's ball?

Wee Dooooo. Wee Dooooooo.

I probably shouldn't tell you this, but we also hid an ancient secret behind one of the stones that the world's most powerful entities would literally kill for. Which stone, you ask? Well, the trick is realizing that the stones follow a non-Euclidean geometric pattern superimposed over a Fibonacci grid corresponding to the chapter headings in Plato's Republic. Once you figure that out, it's pretty obvious. What secret, you ask? Oh, simply a collection of arcane documents that would blow the roof off of everything we think we know about God, the origins of the universe, secrets of the ancient Mayan calendar, the stock market, and Sasquatch. Fine, it's a complete set of 1989 Donruss baseball cards and a copy of that Playboy that has Shannen Doherty in it.

On Monday, we, like Dr. Foster before us, went to Gloucester. It was sunny despite some haze from those wildfires up in Quebec, so no puddles were encountered and if they had been, we would not have stepped in them since we were on bicycle rather than foot. Thus, I think we'll probably go there again.

Travellers From Multiple States Converge On The Very Heart Of Darkness

Minnesotans from as far away as Houston, Boston, Minnesota, and Manhattan converged on Manhattan last week for a journey into the Heart of Darkness: the Bronx, or more specifically the new Yankee Stadium.

Our Colonel Kurtzes were not rogue military officers, however, but rather A-rod, who loves steroids, and Jeter, who may or may not be a peter eater. And in this version it was the colonels who hacked us to death with their machete bats vicariously through our hometown nine. But I'm getting ahead of the story a bit. The Boston delegation of Liz and myself started our trip through the jungles of western Massachusetts via the river of the Mass turnpike, where we passed the highest point (1,724 feet) on I-90 until South Dakota en route to Schenectady, NY. It was also Liz's birthday. We went there to attend Liz's cousin Lauren's senior photography exhibit at Union College. Her work has been described as "gritty" and "in black and white" and "good." Her pics should be up here soon if you want to check them out.

I don't know if we were told any other tales of old Schenectady, although we found out that the Erie Canal used to run through it, and also that the Erie Canal had been moved. The next day we drove into the Finger Lakes region, so named due to giving someone the finger having been invented there. Or because they're long and narrow. Whatever. There are seven of them so that explanation doesn't make sense unless you're a super-Mennonite. The important thing is they make good wine there, especially Riesling since the climate is a lot like Germany's. We headed south along lake Seneca, stopping at several wineries recommended by Liz's uncle Dick, Riesling connoisseur and frequent visitor to the region. It was pretty country and we left with a trunkfull of tasty white.

The next leg of our journey involved an early morning drive to a commuter rail station about an hour outside of NYC. We took a train to Harlem, where we met Drew at Minnesota's own Missy and filthy Canadian Rob's deluxe apartment. NY governor David Paterson lives in their building, but apparently he has a hard time seeing the benefits of living there. We dropped off our bags, donned our Twins gear, and took the subway to the ballpark. The stadium itself was universally panned. It had zero character save for the picket fence arches or whatever they're called that were also present at the old park. It was a fitting venue for the best and most soulless team money can buy to play their home games (upon further thought I believe that only A-rod, Teixeira (a two-time violator of the I before E rule), Sabbathia, and Burnett fit the bought player stereotype, but I'm not one to let facts get in the way of some good Yankee bashing). Unfortunately, the stadium's lacklustitude was exceeded only by the level of play exhibited by the Twins, who failed to put together anything in the way of offense. It was hat day, so at least I did my share to bleed the beast.

After the game, we rendezvoused with the remaining members of our expedition party, Ross and Gina, who, having seen A-rod's grand slam sink the Twins the previous night, had spent the day visiting museums while we swilled 12$ beers. We then went on a whirlwind walking/eating/train riding/buzz management tour of NYC, which culminated in a late night all-access VIP trip up the Empire State Building made possible by the executive card Missy obtained while doing real estate business with the ESB folks. I believe she's trying to sell all or part of the landmark, but considering today's economy and the spate of giant gorilla attacks of late I see it sitting on the market for awhile. Anyways, the views were nice.

The next day we walked around the city some more, during which time Lady Liberty was viewed, Ground Zero was somberly noted, Times Square was pointed at, Central Park was partially walked through, Anthony Bourdain's restaurant Las Halles was sat in, and Glee's Jane Lynch was walked past but unfortunately not high-fived. After that we loaded up Drew and drove back to Boston for the 3rd and final leg of the journey. Once on our home turf, we golfed, visited Cheers and Old Ironsides, made Drew eat oysters, and witnessed another sad Twins loss to the slightly less evil Red Sox. Not knowing when to quit, Liz and I completed the trifecta of Twins suckage last night. On the bright side, the first Twins victory we witness live this season will have to be on our first visit to target Field.

Back in STL

A couple weekends ago Liz and I headed back to check on St. Louis, the Hennies', Soren, and the moral development of our Godson Oden. It was a perfect spring weekend in the Lou, sunny and seventyish. Mike rented me a sweet road bike and we got in good rides on Sat. and Sun., 60 or so miles total. There's a nice trail that starts by the arch and runs along the Mississippi, featuring underground railroad crossings, industrial wastelands, and some nice views of Old Muddy. We even got to see a special treat one day--a burnt out car near the statue of Lewis and Clark. Tourists were having their pictures taken with it.

Culinarily, things were hit and miss. Our first meal from Blues City Deli was great as always. The owner Vince knows his sandwiches. I've maybe had a few as good but probably none better. That night we hit Square One, the brewpub across the street from our old lofts. We got off to a bad start right away when our friendly neighborhood bartender Art didn't recognize us. To say we were regulars is a major understatement and I'd even given him a bunch of Simpsons loot when we moved. I wanted tickertape or at least a hug. The wings were solid although they were out of IPA, their best offering in my opinion. My burger came out well done and I sent it back. Hennies' fried flounder fish and chips, usually the best thing on the menu was over fried. And when Hennies tells you something about cooking oil and its proper use you can take it to the bank. Since we left they changed the law in MO to allow bars to distill their own spirits. I had a hop liqueur that was interesting and dang refreshing. The next day I had an awesome tongue torta from this Mexican place we used to go to a lot. Mmmmmmm, tongue. By far the worst experience we had was at Mosaic, an upscale tapas joint downtown. We waited 40 minutes for our first round of treats to come out. When we asked about it they told us a group of 40 had just put their order in before ours. I was unsure as to why they had to prepare that entire order before at least bringing us our damn cheese plate. We ended up leaving after a couple plates, walked down the street, and were face deep in excellent sushi within 10 minutes. Yelp was informed. Our final meal was breakfast at Rooster, our favorite crepe spot. They messed up my order there as well but it was still pretty OK.

Sunday we headed down to the Hennies ranch in the Ozarks. There, we burned a winter's worth of brush Mike had been saving. There are/were two other piles this size.

The inferno was pretty epic, nearing Texas A&M homecoming levels.

While we were hosing down the surrounding grass, I could see young Soren, or more specifically his lily white behind back by the cabin. "Hey Hennies, I think Soren's trying to take a dump," I said, expecting him to have a problem with it. Instead, he said, "Oh, is he over by his poopin' rock?" He was. When in the Ozarks...

Here's the pooper in question through the heat shimmer mirage thingy (is there an actual term for that?)

As many of you know Oden had a pretty rough first year due to lung issues and prematurity. When we were there last summer he was basically confined to his room due to the risk of infection and had to be on oxygen pretty much all the time. He's doing much better now and it was pretty neat to see him tearing around in the style accustomed to children. Basically, going outside is like Christmas and polka dancing all rolled into one for him after being cooped up and attached to machines his whole life. His Caring Bridge page is linked to the blog so we can keep up with the little tike.

Liz, Oden and Soren at the Botanical Garden

Oden starting to get a little tuckered out at the Botanical Garden.



Soren and Liz feeding the fish at the Garden.

It was a good weekend. I played my first softball game (scrimmage, actually) on Sunday. It's modified fastpitch which made it pretty interesting. I got on every time I was up but two of those were on errors and the third play could have been made. I wore my Monkey Knife Fight shirt. It was nice to give it some action, even if not on the team for which it was designed. We crushed an inferior team then went to the VFW (our sponsor) for beer. We played two dart tournaments and I was on the winning team both times, which netted me 40 bucks. Everyone on the team was super "nice" and unbelievably Bostonian.