tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84101276209450293582024-03-14T02:48:03.692-04:00Adventures of Lick & RizLShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-89338424139756034682018-05-31T10:31:00.003-04:002018-05-31T10:31:56.405-04:00The Ghe ConspiracyAs most of you know, I've long held the suspicion that the gays had their own secret food supply that was unavailable to us straights and furthermore that it was fabulous. I never had any proof, however, until I saw this truck driving through town the other day.<br />
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Normal people would have thought nothing of it but I saw right through their misdirection misspelling of the word gay. I realized I'd need more proof in order to blow the lid off this thing so I started "hanging around" (staking out) Steve (the gay guy I work with)'s cubicle around lunchtime. For several weeks, nothing looked amiss although he seemed to be eating in such a way as to never give someone who might be passing by a good look at what he was eating. But then he got careless.<br />
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I saw him start to peel what appeared to be a normal banana. Instead of the usual soft, pale flesh inside, however, this had alternating bands of what appeared to be banana, watermelon, cantaloupe, and kiwi. An entire fruit salad inside a banana peel! I immediately sprang into his cube from my hiding place across the hall.<br />
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"Hey Steve, what's that you're eating, it looks good." I said. He tried to quickly shove the entire thing in his mouth but, miraculously, failed.<br />
"Oh, hi Rick," he tried to mumble through a mouthful of miracle fruit, "Nothin', just a banana."<br />
"That's one crazy lookin' banana," I said, "Why does it have all those different colors?"<br />
"Huh, I guess you're right," he said, "Must have gone bad, better throw it away."<br />
"Not so fast, Steve," I said. "I know all about the gay food supply so why don't you just come clean!"<br />
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He tried to laugh it off and deny everything, but I wasn't having any of it. I'd come too far.<br />
"Ok look, Rick, you've always been a supporter of equal rights for our community and I'd like to tell you more but I just can't...you don't know what you're messing with...there are powerful forces at play here," he said cryptically.<br />
"Steve, how long have you known me?" I replied, "You can trust me."<br />
"Well...Ok, but you don't sporadically publish some poorly read internet blog or anything, do you?"<br />
"Pssht, me? Noooooo, nothing like that," I lied, crossing my fingers behind my back to absolve me of any repercussions of my dishonesty. He went on to tell me one of the most fascinating tales I've ever heard in my life...<br />
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He told me that there's a secret plantation in the Maldives that was started by Alexander the Great, who, presciently, worried that one day homosexuals might be persecuted and need a stable food supply of their own. For centuries it has employed the best gay geneticists, botanists, and gourmands in the world, with operations currently being overseen by none other than Neil Patrick Harris. Damn, that guy's multi-talented. I sat in stunned silence while he finished his tale, and then asked him if I could have a bite of his fancy banana.<br />
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"Rick," he said, "Do yourself a favor and never taste anything from the gay food supply. It's so delicious that you will never again be satisfied by straight food."<br />
"So wait, you're saying that once I go gay, I'll never go...a word that rhymes with gay that means back but also has a vague food connotation? Maybe something like <i>Once you go gay, all other food tastes like hay?</i>"<br />
"Exactly," he said, "And besides, I can't supply you with gay food...its distribution is strictly rationed and the consequences for giving it to straights are, well...let's just say that the guy from that movie <i>Milk</i>'s death might not have been an accident."<br />
"Wait, how could that have been an accident? Wasn't he shot?"<br />
"Exactly."<br />
"Wait, so is there more than just the fancy bananas?" I asked.<br />
"The Rainbownana is just the tip of the iceberg," he said "We have carb-less bread that's much more delicious than regular bread, non-habit-forming wines so delicious they bring tears to your eyes, and meats the likes of which you couldn't even fathom."<br />
"Oh right, what do you guys have like a pig that poops bacon without harming the pig?" I asked jokingly.<br />
"Who told you about Gayc-Os Bacon Shitz? Those aren't going to be released until 2016!"<br />
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This was some next level conspiracy stuff. Despite my promise to never tell a soul what I'd heard, I couldn't help but blog about it. Plus, it's the 100th LickandRiz blogpost. In what was probably an unrelated incident, I saw Steve being led out of the office by two handsome and impeccably groomed gentlemen in perfectly tailored suits the day after I uploaded this. I started to worry a bit when he missed the next two days of work but then on the third day he was back. Whew. I went to go talk to him over lunch but he was busy eating a regular banana and a Healthy Choice Lunch Express microwavable pasta entree and sobbing quietly to himself. <br />
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RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-54421945894601657062012-09-06T13:03:00.001-04:002012-09-06T13:03:08.238-04:00Decisions<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Max contemplates keeping the jack to go for the more likely knobs cut or
keeping the inside double run possibility and going for the big score</span>.<br />
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LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-5669455208143612822012-08-26T11:00:00.002-04:002012-08-26T11:00:14.330-04:00Hat Fashion Show<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-45639451191070336972012-08-12T19:55:00.002-04:002012-08-12T19:58:40.233-04:00Two Months!Max turned two months old on August 8th! He weighed in at 12 pounds 3 ounces at his check up.<br />
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<br />LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-28523134104651185482012-08-12T19:43:00.000-04:002012-08-12T19:57:28.250-04:00Take Me Out to the Ballgame...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Max attended his first baseball game on Thursday, August 2nd. Our hometown Minnesota Twins were in town for the weekend and we were excited for Max to experience some great baseball. And it didn't hurt that the Twins showed Max how the game should be played by beating the Red Sox 5 to 0.<br />
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Max loved Fenway! He "talked" to the people around us and stared at the lights. He didn't exactly pay attention to the game but was content to take in all of the sights, smells and sounds of the ballpark. When he had had enough, he cuddled up to his mom in his Baby Bjorn and slept. Next year should be even more fun!RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-21509367422107304862012-07-21T17:16:00.004-04:002012-07-30T13:35:30.503-04:00One Month!<div style="text-align: center;">
It's hard to believe that this was just a month ago...</div>
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One Month (July 8th)</div>
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<br /></div>LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-42286720332871375322012-07-21T17:13:00.003-04:002012-07-21T17:13:37.841-04:00Family Picture Time<div style="text-align: center;">
Coordinating a family picture just got a little more complicated...</div>
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<br />LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-41623767873732633022012-07-21T17:12:00.002-04:002012-07-21T17:12:41.041-04:00Visitors!Max had a very busy June and early July with visitors from Minnesota. We are hoping that he listened to their Minnesotan accents...<br />
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Grandma Nancy came to visit first. While she was here Max took his first visit to the Roslindale Farmers Market and his first nature walk at the Stony Brook Reservation. She was a ton of help around the house and got lots of snuggle time in with Max.<br />
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We had about a week by ourselves and then my sister Kris arrived. Kris is an excellent burper and even took over a couple of the night time/early am feedings!<br />
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Then Grandma Patty and Papa Mitch arrived. They helped us catch up on our yard work and babysat while Phoebe went to the vet.<br />
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<br />LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-72406873826584731282012-06-07T21:24:00.000-04:002012-06-08T10:18:33.905-04:00Baby Name Thought Process<div style="text-align: center;">
(Theme music) Maa-a-ax Sherva, he's the maximum level of Sherva in the world...</div>
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Chief, the terrorists are holding the hostages in the nuclear power plant!<br />
I know, it looks grim.<br />
We need Seal Team Six!<br />
Yevchenko and those terrorists would eat Seal Team Six for breakfast, plus we can't risk causing a nuclear meltdown...I hate to say it, but the only chance we have is to go to Max Sherva.<br />
But Chief, the Sherva level in the reactor is already dangerously high! I don't think we can risk any more Sherva!<br />
I didn't say we needed more Sherva, Judy, I said we needed Max Sherva...<br />
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Oh God, surely you don't mean...<br />
He's the only chance we've got.<br />
But Chief, he's a sexy, dangerous maverick who plays and poops and loves by his own rules!<br />
That may be true, Judy, but he's the best damn hostage negotiator slash terrorist killer slash nuclear reactor defuser the world has ever seen.<br />
But Chief, the last time we used him on a job, infant and toddler pregnancies went up 37 percent! <br />
And if it weren't for that crop of abnormally brave and sexy newborn commandos we'd all be speaking baby Taliban right now. <br />
But Chief, Max Sherva is...<br />
...Two hours past needing a fresh diaper, Judy?<br />
Max!<br />
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Long time no see, Judy.</div>
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You've got a lot of nerve showing your cherubic face around here!<br />
Sorry about the way things went down in Helsinki, Judy, but are we going to sit around all day debating who threw which terrorists into which nuclear reactors and saving which hostages slash creating which radioactive terrorists or are we going to get Yevchenko slash free those hostages slash secure that plutonium?<br />
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(Later, teetering on the edge of the cooling tower)</div>
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Mwahaha! Don't you see, Max?, you already lost! The hostages are buried in cement and reactor mass is already critical!<br />
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You're forgetting four things, Yevchenko. One: I gave all the hostages cement snorkels when you were busy overriding the automatic reactor failsafe valve. Two: that cement will shield them from the radioactive fallout. And three: I invited every terrorist in the world to a fake terrorist rave party...at this very nuclear reactor...tonight...which means every terrorist in the world is currently receiving one million millirems of ionizing radiation per minute while they're dancing the terrorist Macarena.<br />
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Curses! Well played Max, but I still have gun which means I shoot you dead and...wait, what was fourth thing?<br />
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You're standing in my soiled diaper, Yevchenko...and I had pureed bananas for dinner.<br />
(Yevchenko slips and falls into the reactor core) <span style="font-size: x-large;">M</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">aaaaaa</span><span style="font-size: small;">aa</span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">aaaaaaaaaa</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">aaaaaaaa</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">x</span>! <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sherva</span>! <br />
A<span style="font-size: small;">dieu, </span>Yevchenko<span style="font-size: small;">, Adieu...Or should I say, "Agoo." </span><br />
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Maa-a-ax Sherva, he's the maximum level of Sherva in the world!</div>
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And scene. </div>
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Yep, Max Manford Sherva it is.<br />
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</div>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-76328851148306374372012-05-29T16:36:00.000-04:002012-05-29T16:36:05.127-04:00Nursery<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
The guest room has been officially transformed into the nursery. Don't worry, we still have room for guests so come visit us!</div>
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Before</div>
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<br />LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-12280873528734072242012-04-06T19:58:00.042-04:002012-04-16T09:43:21.386-04:00The Great Baby Gear Heist of 2012(To be read in the slick-talking east coast criminal voice of your choosing)<br /><br />We left real late at night, see, under cover of darkness...harder for people to see our plates. Packed light, would need the trunk space later for "the goods." Headed east on the Mass Pike, crossed into New York sometime around midnight. Started raining. Made it real hard to see since our wipers sucked. Hadn't needed them all winter. Harder to drive but harder to see our plates too, gotta cover your tracks, don't take no chances. We drove all night and through the next day. Laughed at a sign for Fangboner Road in Ohio.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mjmLMHWoPE4/T3-FD3ushTI/AAAAAAAAAl0/dIYVlC4PA-M/s1600/fangboner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mjmLMHWoPE4/T3-FD3ushTI/AAAAAAAAAl0/dIYVlC4PA-M/s320/fangboner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728443552584467762" border="0" /></a> Heh heh hee...Fangboner. C'mon, even us hardened criminals like a good laugh. Ok that's enough. Back to the caper. We thought about stopping to see some of our "associates" in Chicago, but we had bigger fish to fry. We pushed on and rolled in to my brother and Danita's place outside Minneapolis exactly 23.5 hours after we left Boston.<br /><br />The next day we had Liz's mom do our taxes. When the great criminals go down, it's always for tax evasion. Ya gots to have a good tax person if you don't want to end up in the pokey, blind and syphilis-ridden.<br /><br />That night we met up with some of the old gang at Town Hall Brewery to cool our heels a bit before the capering. The Schulz's came all the way up from Northfield, where they are more feared than Jesse James and his gang. The Neshes (who are planning their own baby heist), Reeses, Walkowiaks, Kovalas, Peiks, and Kerns showed up too. We had some laughs.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2ksUBCnT6mI/T4ri5lDs5-I/AAAAAAAAAtk/ooj7JG8U3Ns/s1600/IMG_5908.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2ksUBCnT6mI/T4ri5lDs5-I/AAAAAAAAAtk/ooj7JG8U3Ns/s320/IMG_5908.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731642954610436066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div>The loot grab began in earnest on Saturday. It's almost too easy, like taking candy from babies except for the candy is actually things babies use and you take it from other people and not actual babies and all's you have to do is have a pregnant lady show up somewhere, throw a few bucks worth of chicken chili in a crockpot, and everyone gives you tons of free stuff on their own free will and you don't have to "take" so much as "receive." Got it? Even people who can't show up for the free chili SEND gifts in the mail. My aunts Lori and Lois sent us an entire baby stroller and got not a single scoop of chili! There's a sucker born every minute, as the saying goes. The best part: I didn't have to do nothin'--I played some golf with some "associates" while Liz worked her magic.<br /><br />Saturday Shower at Alli's<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UrFF9weDSRI/T4rjjM_ms_I/AAAAAAAAAtw/Rrpgjw2QMT8/s1600/IMG_3455.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UrFF9weDSRI/T4rjjM_ms_I/AAAAAAAAAtw/Rrpgjw2QMT8/s320/IMG_3455.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731643669705307122" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AtzfmG1Mlvs/T4rgThtpu0I/AAAAAAAAAsk/Unzs4s-CsJs/s1600/IMG_3454.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 203px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AtzfmG1Mlvs/T4rgThtpu0I/AAAAAAAAAsk/Unzs4s-CsJs/s320/IMG_3454.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731640101854362434" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />We pulled a second job that night at Amy and Andy's place. We haven't been on that softball team in 7 years and they STILL gave us a bunch of loot. We also got the most hilarious gag shower gift ever designed by Kristy Rolig. It's too hard to explain bu t it was "from" a couple we used to bowl against, Herb and Vicki. Herb killed a guy after 'Nam and was in the St. Peter hospital. The gift included Winstons, lighters, and defaced stuffed animals.<br /></div><br />The final phase of the operation was on Sunday at a nondescript community room in a senior citizens condo. Might have been Liz's grandma. Not sayin' for sure so as not to implicate her. After bowling a few games, I showed up at the end to help load the loot into the getaway car...during which time we notices a little problem: there was no way we were going to get all the loot into our '78 Challenger (car year and model changed to protect the innocent). We stuffed everything we could into space bags so as not to transport air across state lines. We ended up having to return a bunch of stuff, get gift cards, and re-buy them once we got back to MA, which if you think about it is really like stealing gas. To really top things off, my brother, a legitimate businessman, gave us a free new set of wipers that "fell off a truck" at his legitimate business. And since no self-respecting caper wouldn't involve the transport of alcohol, we got some discounted wine and Surly from Vinifera Wines and Ales, along with a discounted bottle of scotch which I later sold to a co-worker. OK, now here's the best part...the thing that's really gonna put us in the criminal hall of fame along with Bonnie and Clyde and and the diaper astronaut: we grabbed three Diet Cokes for the drive home from my mom's place...you see where I'm going with this? That's right--street value in Massachusetts: 15 cents. yep, 3/5th of two bits, allllll profit.<br /><br />Sunday Shower<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NoSPN9U6TXc/T4sr_9-MMnI/AAAAAAAAAt8/hf9GSFgj5bo/s1600/DSCF0316.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NoSPN9U6TXc/T4sr_9-MMnI/AAAAAAAAAt8/hf9GSFgj5bo/s320/DSCF0316.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731723328726250098" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9qPYe2qS8uI/T4rhVTflAVI/AAAAAAAAAs0/XhURVGHJAjg/s1600/IMG_5905.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9qPYe2qS8uI/T4rhVTflAVI/AAAAAAAAAs0/XhURVGHJAjg/s320/IMG_5905.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731641231908602194" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Ctgk6ygdHw/T4rhV511KqI/AAAAAAAAAs8/TH6VH_rw1U0/s1600/IMG_5904.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Ctgk6ygdHw/T4rhV511KqI/AAAAAAAAAs8/TH6VH_rw1U0/s320/IMG_5904.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731641242202483362" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5nM8NSTqtFU/T4riDsJJckI/AAAAAAAAAtY/nujv8dzn5Z8/s1600/DSCF0314.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5nM8NSTqtFU/T4riDsJJckI/AAAAAAAAAtY/nujv8dzn5Z8/s320/DSCF0314.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731642028799390274" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />In short, it's good to have family and friends...you know, to fleece.<br /></div></div>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-12038472131444031302012-03-18T20:28:00.028-04:002012-03-20T09:26:53.103-04:00St. Pats in Southie<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tpmsCRKZL8g/T2e1kVKFosI/AAAAAAAAAi4/ArQr20LLH1c/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tpmsCRKZL8g/T2e1kVKFosI/AAAAAAAAAi4/ArQr20LLH1c/s320/IMG_0002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721741487356879554" border="0" /></a><br />We crossed another item off our "things you have to do to be considered a true Bostonian" list* when we finally attended the annual St. Patrick's day parade in Southie earlier today. It was an experience to say the least. Just getting there was an adventure; the trains were packed. Like, India packed. Like European football game stampede packed. Like one toxic fart away from killing an entire subway car full of people packed. But we finally made it onto a train and soon joined the wasted throngs to watch the parade. Luckily Liz's friend Erin from school and her opera singing boyfriend David were there to protect the fetus from any Irish jostling.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lWfQFaM0hf4/T2e1koFoRSI/AAAAAAAAAjA/BYa3wWQiaVE/s1600/IMG_0001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lWfQFaM0hf4/T2e1koFoRSI/AAAAAAAAAjA/BYa3wWQiaVE/s320/IMG_0001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721741492438451490" border="0" /></a><br />Well, we saw things. Bad things. Five year old boys fist fighting while their parents watched? Check ("You need to stop fighting and cussing," said one of the moms as they walked away. At least she was trying). Extreme intoxication? Oh yes. Thirteen year olds smoking? Yup. Public drama? Oh you better believe there was public drama. Hoochies? As far as the eye could see. Sunburned gingers? Yes. Weeping? Also yes. We saw a belligerently civic minded girl spot a discarded paper bag (among a sea of litter), pick it up, and yell "Who! FU#KIN!' litters!?" "YOU'RE littering the streets...with your profanity!" yelled a clever guy. Liz and I were discussing whether this event or the St. Louis Mardi Gras bacchanal was trashier. We deemed it a draw.<br /><br />The parade itself was, in a word, shitty, even by parade standards. The first thing in the parade, a recycling truck, really set the tone. This was followed by several SWAT trucks and paddy wagons, many of which were likely occupied. A show of force right off the bat was probably a good reminder to all the Southie hoodlums and their kids.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cuNdNo_Jtb4/T2e1xoeZSnI/AAAAAAAAAjk/-XzQv5Ka8fc/s1600/IMG_0003.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cuNdNo_Jtb4/T2e1xoeZSnI/AAAAAAAAAjk/-XzQv5Ka8fc/s320/IMG_0003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721741715880626802" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">OK, the bagpipers and world war II reenacters were cool, but that was it.<br /></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4pkdwS6rxro/T2e1xaVYXLI/AAAAAAAAAjc/th1VTgZ-Eec/s1600/IMG_0004.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4pkdwS6rxro/T2e1xaVYXLI/AAAAAAAAAjc/th1VTgZ-Eec/s320/IMG_0004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721741712084720818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There were all these weird gaps in the parade flow, as if it was planned by hungover Irishmen or something. They didn't even have port-a-potties or food for sale. We did see Scott Brown, so there's that.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v77Ru64DLo4/T2e23rBpxdI/AAAAAAAAAj4/9AZDt4eTlLE/s1600/IMG_0006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v77Ru64DLo4/T2e23rBpxdI/AAAAAAAAAj4/9AZDt4eTlLE/s320/IMG_0006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721742919156221394" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">"The Emperor says if I lose fifteen more pounds a Speederbike will be able to hover with me on it. Then I'll get deployed to Endor for sure. Finally kill me a coupla' them Ewoks."<br /></div><br />We were glad we went but it might be our last time. Since we were all dead sober, I told Liz we owed it to ourselves to try it one more time hammered. You know, after the kid is old enough to drive us but too young to drink. I reckon that would give us a narrow window between age 14 and 14.5 by Southie standards. After an arduous bus trip, we retired to the relative calm of Roslindale for corned beef, cabbage, and a Murphy's. Real dignified like.<br /><br />*Other list items include: finishing the Boston marathon, bayoneting a Redcoat, sexual intercourse with an Affleck and/or Wahlberg, beating up a MIT geek, <a href="http://www.nesn.com/2012/02/red-sox-truck-day-sends-team-equipment-from-fenway-park-to-lee-county.html">Truck Day </a> (yes, this is an actual thing), getting tossed out of Cheers before noon on a Sunday, having a verbal altercation with someone in Yankee garb on the Green Line, murdering somone on Craigslist, and summering on Nantucket.RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-72840214231656629672012-02-11T16:21:00.009-05:002012-02-11T17:10:42.154-05:00I'm a bad bad manThings have been quite good of late. Liz's oven timer is over half way to indicating the bun is done, and she's been generally feeling pretty good. She's been going to pregnant lady yoga and still hits the treadmill regularly. Except for the ever growing bump (which now kicks), the biggest difference is that she's been snoring a lot more than usual. The things I'm expected to put up with. Sheesh. The most recent series of ultrasonic waves bounced off a (what appeared to my untrained eye to be a quite impressive) penis so there's that. Other than the stockpiling some baby equipment, which I'm sure Liz would be happy to tell you all about, that's all the baby news.<br /><br />I try to be nice but sometimes I'm not. Last night I went to a concert with a friend from work. The "band" is called Die Antwoord and they're a South African hip-hop duo but it's really more about performance art. The members are "Ninja" and Yo-landi Visser, pictured below.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OWf2YQQRdDY/TzbevIGb2VI/AAAAAAAAAiY/GOAUOXIrj0M/s1600/0dfdb4f52ewoord2.jpg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OWf2YQQRdDY/TzbevIGb2VI/AAAAAAAAAiY/GOAUOXIrj0M/s320/0dfdb4f52ewoord2.jpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707994478948374866" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Their schtick is that they act super tough and gangster but then say and do highly un-gangster, un-tough things. The hip hop is mediocre but the overall persona is pretty fun. Anyways, it was an interesting crowd and although we weren't the oldest people there, we were in the upper percentiles. I was packed in behind a tall, thin, person with about a two-inch-long afro. This person was jumping around with abandon, and in order to prevent him from spilling my beer, I was holding out a hand or elbow to absorb the shock when he jumped into me. After a few minutes of this, he turned around, revealing himself to be a girl, and said "If you put your hand on me again I'm going to punch you in the face." I just laughed. A few minutes later she started jumping into my friend Mark, and yelled at him when he started jumping right along with her. I then said to her "If it makes you feel any better ma'am, I thought you were a dude." She said, "Oh, nice, nice" and walked away. I felt proud of myself.<br /><br />I also try to not use ethnic stereotypes for comedic value but sometimes I do. Today we went to Costco. We have this running joke about Costco and it revolves around the fact that usually about half the people in Costco at any given time are Asian. "You know who loves Costco?" I'll say. "Who loves Costco?" Liz will say, making no attempt to hide the fact that she's humoring me. "Asians love Costco," I'll say. Costco can be a pretty big cluster on the weekends, but it was snowing a bit earlier today and I was wondering how that would affect the crowd levels. I wondered out loud whether the weather might have the Asians hiding out in their ramen bunkers. Liz called me a racist. When I saw the parking lot full of Toyotas I knew I was out of luck. For the record, I love Asians. Best behaved kids in all of Costco. Now the Greek guy that smashed Liz's pregnant belly between his cart and ours, that guy sucks. Later, in what can only be described as a Valentine's Day miracle, went to go buy our annual Valentine's Day steaks and found two big juicy prime porterhouses erroneously labeled and priced as choice flank steak. I probably should have notified someone in the meat department about their error, but as I said, I'm a bad, bad man.RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-56311558527104050022011-12-21T13:22:00.009-05:002011-12-21T15:34:10.133-05:00Our Pending Addition<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Due to a dwindling supply of blog topics and viable gametes, Liz and I decided that after ~18 years together it was time to expand the family. And because we can't count on nieces and nephews to care for us when we're decrepit. Oh and because there was just too much love to contain between just two people. Also that. Probably should have listed that one first but anyhoo we decided it was time.<br /><br />Liz, being Liz, got a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility and began charting and temperature taking and just generally showing her fertility who was boss. She took no guff from her fertility, believe me. Given our long history of unfruitful boots knockin' and some thyroid issue mentioned in the fertility book that Liz convinced herself she had, we were prepared for a long, arduous journey to conception.<br /><br />Nope. One try. Boom, zygote. Book it. Done. Needless to say the book worked. My repeated requests to be henceforth called King Virile the Dongnipotent were rebuffed, unfortunately. Felt a little cheated, actually, but gift horse, mouth, etc. Despite readying myself for the day for some time, actually seeing the two-lined pee stick was kind of a shock. I felt pretty weird for a few weeks--like nobody in the history of the world could ever understand what I was feeling. But that was early October and I've had plenty of time to adjust to the new reality. Liz, despite some nausea and fatigue, got through trimester #1 relatively unscathed. We've since had an ultrasound and bought a baby carrier backpack so I think we're pretty much ready.<br /><br />The ultrasound was pretty amazing, actually, to which anyone who's seen their new kid for the first time can attest. We were not expecting to see it moving around already. It all got really real really fast. So everything looked normal, it had both a brain and a heartbeat, and the limb counts were well within specs. They couldn't see external genitalia yet so we won't find that out for another four weeks. Unless Liz is lying to me, neither of us have a strong preference other than healthy and not a total A-hole. So, God willin' and the Creek don't rise, we'll be seeing this little guy or gal on or around June 15th. <br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jc3sQP9KCHI/TvJCEOjV4EI/AAAAAAAAArs/06eQwWoctu8/s1600/ultrasound%2B1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jc3sQP9KCHI/TvJCEOjV4EI/AAAAAAAAArs/06eQwWoctu8/s320/ultrasound%2B1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688681919715598402" border="0" /></a><br /></div>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-47959434450991060192011-10-17T14:27:00.013-04:002011-10-22T14:37:53.215-04:00A Strange Occurence on the Soutwest Corridor Bike PathSince I take the same bike path to work every non-rainy day I see a lot of the same people day after day. Some of their stories are pretty boring: lady jogging off the baby weight behind a stroller, guy walking his distinctive dog, guy in the Orioles hat, long gray ponytail man who reads the free newspaper outside the T stop every morning. Some have slightly more interesting stories like guy passed out on the bench who gives off a cloud of booze vapor that you can literally smell from ten yards away in a stiff breeze while biking at full clip and Jehovah's Witness lady who hands out pamphlets at literally the least busy intersection in a one mile radius. Sometimes I like to give them backstories: gray ponytail man is a Vietnam vet still dealing with his PTSD demons. Jehovah's witness lady is ambivalent about her religion and doesn't want to expose very many people to it (seriously, we can't even celebrate our birthdays, you'd have to be nuts to convert...but hey, if some pamphlet you got at a deserted intersection changes your mind, I guess it's fate).<br /><br />Some people, however, are just a mystery, like these two older Hispanic gentlemen I see all the time who are always walking towards each other carrying sticks (I've creatively dubbed them Stick Man #1 and Stick Man #2). Do they know each other? Why are they carrying sticks? Are they just makeshift hand weights? For protection against dogs? Thugs? Are they thugs? My curiosity finally got the better of me and so one day I decided to follow Stick Man #1, pictured here. <br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m2z0lvh2qvQ/Tpx6OkPq_UI/AAAAAAAAAhU/phxtLwKIZmE/s1600/photo%25281%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m2z0lvh2qvQ/Tpx6OkPq_UI/AAAAAAAAAhU/phxtLwKIZmE/s400/photo%25281%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664536821991406914" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_vQreYBr2pc/Tpx506MCFXI/AAAAAAAAAhI/xQRtYmUg_Xs/s1600/photo%25281%2529.JPG"><br /></a>I tailed him from an inconspicuous distance for about a half mile until we came to a playground. He stopped and stood motionless by the jungle gym for several minutes while I hid behind a tree. I was just about to leave when Stick Man #2 came walking from the other direction. I suddenly noticed that the playground, normally teaming with laughing children, was deserted and eerily silent. The birds, normally cacophonous, were still. The squirrels...well, the squirrels pretty much just went about their business. I mean, you know squirrels, them nuts aren't going to gather themselves. Anyhoo, the two Stick Men were just standing there, maybe 20 paces apart, for some time. Again, I was about to leave when all of a sudden they started making these intricate gestures at one another with their hands and sticks, mostly stylized versions of the sign of the cross. This went on for several minutes and again, I was about to leave when literally all hell literally broke literally loose.<br /><br />Suddenly they both disappeared into a cloud of sand and leaves. After a minute, my eyes adjusted and I realized that they hadn't disappeared but were stick fighting at such a blinding speed that they were hard to follow. Yup, they were Catholic stick ninjas! What ensued was the most dizzying display of martial arts prowess I have ever seen. It was like watching the spawn of an unholy threesome between Yoda, Jean Claude Van Damme, and Donatello that took place on Bruce Lee's grave fight his twin brother to the death for the love of their mother. Which one is the mother, you ask? Michelle Yeoh is the mother. Who's packing the largest green wiener, you ask? Jean Claude, ironically.<br /><br />They jumped. They ducked. They thrusted. They dodged. Did they parry, you ask? Oh hell yes they parried. Also, you ask a lot of questions about imaginary scenarios I make up in my head to pass the time while biking. They seemed perfectly evenly matched. Every time one seemed to get the upper hand the other would execute some miraculous move to turn the tide. Stick Man #2 grabbed a handfull of playground sand and tried to throw it in Stick Man #1's eyes. He batted aside every individual grain with his stick and shouted "Please, the sand in the eyes trick? That hasn't worked since 1987!" #2 then turned and pretended to run away, with #1 right on his heels. #2 ran full speed into one of the swings, did a full over-the-top 360 degree swing, came down behind #1 and delivered a vicious stick thwap to the back of #1's knees. He howled in pain but stayed on his feet. They fought for what seemed like hours as I ran around stomping out the leaf fires that were being ignited by the flaming shards of stick that flew off their sticks when their sticks crossed. It was truly the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life. Finally, they fought to what appeared to be a draw. Panting and glistening in sweat, they slowly backed away from each other in the directions from whence they came. "Adios, Sam," said #1. "Until tomorrow, Ralph," said #2. It was pretty crazy.<br /><br />A few days later I decided I would try and get a picture of #2 for the blog. I passed #1 as normal but never saw #2. Also, #1 wasn't carrying his stick. Then, near the playground, I saw this... <br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqBqOL5CvYY/TqMKvCcPgHI/AAAAAAAAAhk/USukeGBWAO0/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqBqOL5CvYY/TqMKvCcPgHI/AAAAAAAAAhk/USukeGBWAO0/s400/photo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666384559387672690" border="0" /></a><br />Did I actually make a stick cross and take a picture of it? Yes I did. Google images was no help and I'm not that good at Photoshop. But seriously, Stick Man #2 is missing. If you see him, tell him to call and at least let me know he's OK. I'm starting to get worried.RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-33006513314820432382011-08-07T19:44:00.034-04:002011-08-24T00:04:33.067-04:00Jason
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ftc3iA2clmk/TlQviYCF-oI/AAAAAAAAAgw/gzuegdQoovA/s1600/IMG_0015.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ftc3iA2clmk/TlQviYCF-oI/AAAAAAAAAgw/gzuegdQoovA/s400/IMG_0015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644188500615363202" border="0" /></a>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">Sunday, Aug. 7th
<br /></div>I wish I could blog only about where we've traveled and what we ate there but sometimes life is profoundly sad, something we were jarringly reminded of when we answered a phone call from John Kerns Friday night in the middle of watching Black Swan. Assuming it was BWCA-related, I was floored when he told me that one of my best friends was dead.
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<br />When we first heard car accident and later a fall, and given the "heard through person X who heard from Y and Z" nature of the information, we hoped and thought that it all had to be a mistake, but still Black Swan didn't get finished. I woke up happy and refreshed the next morning; it took a minute before I remembered what had happened the night before. When the phone rang a few minutes later and Liz broke down crying after listening for a few seconds, I knew there hadn't been a mistake.
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<br />So, now I have to talk about the life of someone I loved with many, many fewer wrinkles and grey hairs than a hoped I'd have. Everyone who has said things about Campbell on facebook has talked about his quite literally endless supply of energy and desire to make the world better. This is no coincidence and these two facts basically define who he was.
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<br />I knew of Jason in high school in the one year we went to Anoka together before about half our class left for the newly constructed Champlin Park. I knew him as one of the cool kids and just kind of assumed he had the standard high school cool kid attitude. The next time we met was a few years later at Gustavus. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but I know he came from across campus to my dorm to say hello, having heard from Aaron Wredberg that another northern suburbs kid was attending GAC. It was pretty much history from then on, whenever the dorm phone rang and Campbell was on the other end you knew fun and adventure were soon to follow, probably in a baby blue LeBaron:
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<br />Let's pledge the OK's, an unregulated fraternity that are allowed to "spank" you, feed you unpleasant foods, and otherwise make you feel uncomfortable.
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<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ok-6kptT3JQ/TkyGRcqU_XI/AAAAAAAAAgk/Wxg6_cGC9U0/s1600/IMG_0036.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ok-6kptT3JQ/TkyGRcqU_XI/AAAAAAAAAgk/Wxg6_cGC9U0/s320/IMG_0036.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642032067498016114" border="0" /></a>
<br />Let's join the rugby team. Doesn't matter if you're small, you can be the hooker.
<br />Let's go skydiving/snowboarding/scuba diving.
<br />Let's go rollerblade down the stairs at the library. You go forwards, I'll go backwards.
<br />Let's fill this empty milk jug with beer, leave this party, and drive to the casino.
<br />Let's blow off the rest of this case day and drive down to Mardi Gras.
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<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-73Q7Ij9ECIo/Tkx5vcxIPGI/AAAAAAAAAgU/h5ocGmZi2D8/s1600/IMG_0012.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-73Q7Ij9ECIo/Tkx5vcxIPGI/AAAAAAAAAgU/h5ocGmZi2D8/s320/IMG_0012.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642018289271454818" border="0" /></a>
<br />Let's drive down to Chicago and see the Grateful Dead.
<br />Scratch that, we can see The Dead anytime, let's go to see Lollapalooza in Kansas instead (the Dead concert we'd skipped turned out to be their last).
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<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHIHjIT9Hb4/Tkx7Y1_Dm7I/AAAAAAAAAgc/hCTtb5qd8oA/s1600/IMG_0009.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 273px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHIHjIT9Hb4/Tkx7Y1_Dm7I/AAAAAAAAAgc/hCTtb5qd8oA/s320/IMG_0009.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642020099927022514" border="0" /></a>
<br />OK then, let's have a Jerry Garcia memorial party at my parent's house.
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<br />Even with all of this, he found the time to work with special needs college kids.
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<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhekeOv3SKk/TlQv8ye3eVI/AAAAAAAAAg4/mX6rpu5HxcY/s1600/IMG_0010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhekeOv3SKk/TlQv8ye3eVI/AAAAAAAAAg4/mX6rpu5HxcY/s320/IMG_0010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644188954391968082" border="0" /></a>
<br />And countless other things that were either with other people or upon which the statutes of limitations have not quite expired on quite yet...
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<br />As you mostly all know, Campbell was very unhappy about injustice in the world. Since he was the first person we'd met in college who was more passionate about the plight of the downtrodden as he was keg etiquette, Ross, Drew, and I often gave him good-natured crap about his constant quoting of Chomsky, Zinn, Nader, and Ghandi. I remember "clearly" a "deep" conversation we had one morning (after an all night "think"-a-thon) about some current world conflict or strife--Campbell: "Well you know, Ghandi always said...ah, forget it." I'd like to think some of his freshly learned wisdom rubbed off on us despite our being dumb 19-year-olds in flannel shirts.
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<br />In what is the understatement of the decade, the guy had charisma. Whether you were one of the highly attractive young ladies he had the superhuman ability to attract, some nerd he'd met through student government and treated with genuine respect, or the attractive lady nerd he met in one of he his peace studies classes, you pretty much knew you were dealing with a unique individual when Campbell was around...one in how many million is tough to say.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;">Tuesday, Aug. 23rd.
<br /></div>The funeral is over now and I'm back in MA. The wake was tough, but wholehearted laughter often rang out from a given area of the funeral home. The funniest moment for me was watching a co-worker of his from the home office in LA go through one of his photo albums from our GAC years (all captioned in Campbell's 3rd grade handwriting), OK rush's Hell and Olympic days, more specifically, showing scenes even more graphic than the pic I posted. Seeing the look on the guy's face change as he flipped through page after page of people playing name games and having hot eats and cool treats was pretty damn funny. I told him, "No biggy, just top secret fraternity initiation rituals."
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<br />"Jason never mentioned those," he said.
<br />"We'd have had to have killed him," I said tactfully.
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<br />The funeral was, bluntly, emotionally brutal. Although speakers from every period of his life very eloquently and sometimes beautifully spoke about what he meant to them, it made his loss that much more acute. My favorite, the LA guy from the night before, spoke about how his hope was that Jason would be given the opportunity to be reincarnated as, and I paraphrase, one who guides others down the path to enlightenment and/or knowledge. He said Jason would probably unhesitatingly accept.
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<br />Pretty much.
<br />Hearing people from later on in his life describe his passion for government and labor rights painted a very different and yet somehow very similar picture of Jason compared to the years I knew him best. An inevitable progression I think.
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<br />I held it together pretty well until the interment. I'm glad I saw saw his fiance Stephanie shoveling earth onto his casket. She wasn't shoveling weakly or ceremoniously; I think she needed to finish the job herself. If I never see anything half that heartbreaking again in my life I will also be glad. I don't think I could have been that strong in her place and I told her that. She maybe wouldn't have thought she could have either before she did.
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<br />After everything, Ross, Drew, and I headed out to Somerset, WI to see music, as we had with Jason many times. We saw DeVotchKa and the Flaming Lips on a perfect night and both were great. As if "Do You Realize" needed to be any more poignant.
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<br />Well, so long, my friend, those who knew you best will be saying "Campbell would have wanted us to do X" for the rest of our lives.
<br />Do
<br />You
<br />Realize?
<br />RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-84795556094250135952011-07-22T07:17:00.042-04:002012-06-10T16:47:15.777-04:00Paris Up The Back Door<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gO-A9dsVHeE/TjCJIMRVpxI/AAAAAAAAAgM/Rtr1pA4iQqw/s1600/Dante%2Band%2BVirgil%2Bin%2BHell.jpg"><br /></a><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9haIq8059S4/TjCGQ26mhXI/AAAAAAAAAgE/Q4qWXEClDNE/s1600/034.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634150758017828210" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9haIq8059S4/TjCGQ26mhXI/AAAAAAAAAgE/Q4qWXEClDNE/s400/034.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
After three years of intensely studying every French word of ill repute I could think of under the tutelage of Madame Klohs at Anoka High School followed by approximately 18 years of barely speaking a word of it, I finally got the chance to go try my tongue at the French tongue where it was invented, France. Having heard stories about the legendary scorn the French reserve for those who dare to speak their language poorly, I was happy to be seated next to Martin, an eleven-year-old French unaccompanied minor (I could tell by his loneliness and the little light on his hardhat) on the flight over, so I could dust off my French in a low pressure situation. I figured I'd start off simple, so I asked him, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Habites-tu a Paris</span>?" He said my mother was a dog and put his cigarette out on my hand. All in all, I thought it went pretty well.<br />
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Since I was in Paris to attend ans speak at the International Conference on Alzheimer's Disease, I got to spend the first several days living and working like a local, taking the subway, wearing non-tourist clothes, and showing impatience with the slow walkers. I upped my French speaking ante considerably at the opening night reception at a very cool place called the Museum of Fairground Arts when I asked the carousel operator in what year his carousel was built: "<span style="font-style: italic;">Savez-vous a quel ans votre carrousel a ete construit</span>?" Took a wild guess that carousel was a homonym, got lucky. I apparently did well enough that he went into a long explanation into the carousel's origins. When I stared blankly, he pointed to the plaque on the wall saying it was built in 1900.<br />
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Then, Liz showed up, I gave my talk, and we were ready to take Paris like Nazis, and we found it easy to surrender to its charms (obligatory). I had bought an off-brand travel guide, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Dick Sleve's: Paris</span>?" A lot of the "facts" in the book seemed a bit suspect, and most of the hotels it recommended were actually in Belgium so I can't 100% guarantee the accuracy of the information to follow, but hey, a deal is a deal.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SoWe5RIvYOw/TjCByXVXTyI/AAAAAAAAAfs/c_4QwATmQY8/s1600/072.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634145836097556258" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SoWe5RIvYOw/TjCByXVXTyI/AAAAAAAAAfs/c_4QwATmQY8/s320/072.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
Liz vetoed my idea to just get seven day passes to Euro Disney and call it a trip, so after much pouting and many tantrums, I agreed to do it her way and see fruity cultural crap. So, the first day we went to some palace outside town. Not sure what it was called, but the book said its opulence went over really well with the peasants. It rained a bit, but we strolled the grounds, saw a hallava' lotta' mirrors, and had a nice picnic.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K7vbtT5ijog/TjCAMq32ZFI/AAAAAAAAAfU/cwVoqbVkJ64/s1600/058.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634144088995816530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K7vbtT5ijog/TjCAMq32ZFI/AAAAAAAAAfU/cwVoqbVkJ64/s320/058.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
In case you were wondering if they sell wine at French McDonalds, we have no idea, but they do have glasses that will hold wine.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c715AtldarI/TjByIUuIGQI/AAAAAAAAAcE/nTCQtKarTkE/s1600/042.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634128621167188226" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c715AtldarI/TjByIUuIGQI/AAAAAAAAAcE/nTCQtKarTkE/s320/042.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
The next day we went to the Orsay museum, which had lots of paintings and sculptures. My favorite painting was this one, Dante and Virgil in Hell, as it was badass.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gO-A9dsVHeE/TjCJIMRVpxI/AAAAAAAAAgM/Rtr1pA4iQqw/s1600/Dante%2Band%2BVirgil%2Bin%2BHell.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634153907666396946" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gO-A9dsVHeE/TjCJIMRVpxI/AAAAAAAAAgM/Rtr1pA4iQqw/s320/Dante%2Band%2BVirgil%2Bin%2BHell.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 258px;" /></a><br />
Then we walked around the Latin quarter and saw several other churches, gardens, and a game of bocce. That night, we went to a carnival near our hotel and rode the ferris wheel and sky swing. Then we went to the food tent where, I kid you not, the daily special was foie gras and they had champagne. Yes, Parisian carny food is foie gras and champagne.<br />
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The next day we got the most out of our museum passes and went all out in the search for culture and foot discomfort. We climbed to the top of some apparently famous church:<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cQQ72STbsf4/TjB3b7irFXI/AAAAAAAAAdc/nBrzjLr6CnA/s1600/081.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634134455563785586" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cQQ72STbsf4/TjB3b7irFXI/AAAAAAAAAdc/nBrzjLr6CnA/s320/081.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
I kept asking people what it was called but they kept saying something about sharing my woman. I had to fight 16 French people (including women and children) to preserve Liz's honor. The book said it took like 1800 years to build and is made entirely out of actual gargoyle flesh.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JcdvGsDyN-c/TjCDB13QOWI/AAAAAAAAAf8/6H_kyvRkS3Y/s1600/183.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634147201502427490" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JcdvGsDyN-c/TjCDB13QOWI/AAAAAAAAAf8/6H_kyvRkS3Y/s320/183.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
And hey, they had a statue of that chick from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, which was surprising since she must have lived a long time to be around during the construction of this church and also to film that movie. Oh wait, time travel. Of course.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6nj7xWu5ztI/TjCByh_VOEI/AAAAAAAAAf0/P1wOyhfSg8M/s1600/152.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634145838957934658" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6nj7xWu5ztI/TjCByh_VOEI/AAAAAAAAAf0/P1wOyhfSg8M/s320/152.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
Then we saw a bunch of other boring museums followed by an awesome one containing Ralph Lauren's personal car collection. It lacked Pintos, in my opinion. Then we went to that museum from the Da Vinci Code (the movie, not the book) and saw the Gummi De Milo:<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Uy46ZhYfaaY/TjByIo_g1-I/AAAAAAAAAcU/syf-AUY9PN4/s1600/193.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634128626608822242" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Uy46ZhYfaaY/TjByIo_g1-I/AAAAAAAAAcU/syf-AUY9PN4/s320/193.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a> ...and a painting of some dude in drag. For centuries, idiots have pondered the meaning behind that smile, shoved their way to the front of the line and taken pictures of it using their flashes despite it being behind glass.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9nr0pE3Lxc8/TjB3cTgkCaI/AAAAAAAAAds/pRgwslJwWc0/s1600/195.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634134461997386146" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9nr0pE3Lxc8/TjB3cTgkCaI/AAAAAAAAAds/pRgwslJwWc0/s320/195.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
That night we went up inside some cell phone tower that people were all excited about. I guess it was pretty cool, especially since Liz let me have a Heineken at the top.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VdHsqp0LY90/TjB3cKB3L9I/AAAAAAAAAdk/d4-GCnNvNw4/s1600/225.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634134459452698578" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VdHsqp0LY90/TjB3cKB3L9I/AAAAAAAAAdk/d4-GCnNvNw4/s320/225.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
The next day was thankfully the last day of the museum passes but we still had to see a bunch of boring churches, stained glass windows, paintings, and sculptures. This Rodin guy was a pretty good sculptor, however, and he liked to sculpt people doin' it and/or pooping.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LgtADYEMAW8/TjB_BldemSI/AAAAAAAAAfM/28Gz4lx0HkM/s1600/239.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634142799052839202" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LgtADYEMAW8/TjB_BldemSI/AAAAAAAAAfM/28Gz4lx0HkM/s320/239.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4YLu7a-kMus/TjByI6BGWII/AAAAAAAAAcc/UOXq7LddsJ4/s1600/255.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634128631178877058" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4YLu7a-kMus/TjByI6BGWII/AAAAAAAAAcc/UOXq7LddsJ4/s320/255.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
His "Gates of Hell" were pretty badass also, but nobody answered so I didn't get to see hell itself.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QbGPRbT5yfQ/TjBuuhpqd8I/AAAAAAAAAb8/obqDooUY-DQ/s1600/253.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634124879426648002" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QbGPRbT5yfQ/TjBuuhpqd8I/AAAAAAAAAb8/obqDooUY-DQ/s320/253.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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We even had to see modern art, which is the worst kind of art of all.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iqjGXXzFW88/TjB2U0xMteI/AAAAAAAAAdE/0kWyWKsRFS8/s1600/270.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634133233974949346" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iqjGXXzFW88/TjB2U0xMteI/AAAAAAAAAdE/0kWyWKsRFS8/s320/270.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
The next day we were on our way to McDonald's (I'm Louvre-in' it) when some bike race broke out. A bunch of guys were chasing some other guy in a stupid looking yellow shirt. They must have biked all over France based on how tired they looked.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwFgx_jivxIpPbZufZOEYeaXk88RM0J-YxF7q2PyiV9qU4jj2W057CH1CNQFh8y6lB2YPq3LnSYMwVvxhsJog' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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We took several other walks, ate some pretty good food, and got pooped on by birds on separate days crossing the exact same street. I can't say for sure whether it was the same bird, but the poop tasted pretty similar so I think it probably was. We even got to see that nightclub from that movie where Nicole Kidman sings all those songs about dying from consumption. Liz and I had different opinions as to its merits:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rw72iVv2Cnk/TjB5k66ecWI/AAAAAAAAAeE/WLIO_8eCT3U/s1600/311.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634136809037263202" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rw72iVv2Cnk/TjB5k66ecWI/AAAAAAAAAeE/WLIO_8eCT3U/s320/311.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wJzIi-OMiVc/TjB5lRBfiWI/AAAAAAAAAeM/nI8vRIwB8jQ/s1600/312.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634136814972275042" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wJzIi-OMiVc/TjB5lRBfiWI/AAAAAAAAAeM/nI8vRIwB8jQ/s320/312.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a></div>
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My proudest French sentences were, at the cafe below our apartment, after some snotty big nosed waiter pretended to squirt the ketchup I'd requested on me when he brought it over and after Liz went up to use our own bathroom: "<span style="font-style: italic;">Elle m'a quitte, elle a dit qu'elle ne pourrait jamais aimer une homme qui mange du ketchup</span>" (She left me; she said she could never love a man who eats ketchup). When we left I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">Bon soir, et vive le ketchup</span>. And also, at a restaurant specializing in cured meats, cheeses, and terrines: "<span style="font-style: italic;">Nous devons revenir quand nous avons plus de faim parceque nous aimons les viandes preservee</span>" (we must return when we are hungrier because we love preserved meats). Later, on that our last night, we shared a late night bottle of champagne outside the Da Vinci Code museum and bid adieu to gay Paris. All in all it was a pretty good trip.<br />
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And now, some funny pics/captions:<br />
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Don't smoke, or you will grow a stomach penis and pull a hammy running to the hospital.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-frtyuNX6cmo/TjB2U1_wJBI/AAAAAAAAAdM/SVDpYC9kjaI/s1600/019.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634133234304427026" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-frtyuNX6cmo/TjB2U1_wJBI/AAAAAAAAAdM/SVDpYC9kjaI/s320/019.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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"Garcon, what does a gay cherub have to do to get an espresso around here?"</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hrStbmvU3Bs/TjB7U2O5L_I/AAAAAAAAAek/KgXrrjPJyxY/s1600/143.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634138731926073330" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hrStbmvU3Bs/TjB7U2O5L_I/AAAAAAAAAek/KgXrrjPJyxY/s320/143.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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No caption.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F8i_R523wP8/TjB9wYvwX5I/AAAAAAAAAfE/hZ95panNkso/s1600/059.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634141404070436754" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F8i_R523wP8/TjB9wYvwX5I/AAAAAAAAAfE/hZ95panNkso/s320/059.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f-i7YHS-ZA8/TjB9wC2CtFI/AAAAAAAAAe8/cgNyoPnSeGw/s1600/078.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634141398191223890" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f-i7YHS-ZA8/TjB9wC2CtFI/AAAAAAAAAe8/cgNyoPnSeGw/s320/078.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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And finally, I accomplished my primary objective for the trip, to locate the place in France where the naked ladies dance. I found it in the Montmartre neighborhood. Unfortunately, Liz wouldn't let me go in and the song grossly overstates the number of wall holes.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8ltnegfVHAg/TjByIfXVrtI/AAAAAAAAAcM/DIgXV8NE3ew/s1600/313.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634128624024399570" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8ltnegfVHAg/TjByIfXVrtI/AAAAAAAAAcM/DIgXV8NE3ew/s320/313.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-5845764626813750162011-06-11T15:03:00.019-04:002011-06-13T16:19:59.715-04:00My Retirement FundI was never a huge sports card collector; I never bought a pack of cards in my life. I own two complete sets: a 1988 Topps and a 1991 Donruss. I bought a few rookie cards here and there, however, (from Shinder's) either rookie players I thought were going to make it big or up and coming stars whose careers were nearing their peak. I was recently home rooting around in my mom's basement and decided to grab my collection on a whim. Twenty-five years and change later, it has become clear that my collection is a veritable who's who of unrealized potential, wasted talent, and outright disgrace.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Observe: the unrealized potential<br /><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Ay9RUHg6b4/TfPBRsTFRAI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/pPL-cjNBrjM/s1600/IMG_0002.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Ay9RUHg6b4/TfPBRsTFRAI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/pPL-cjNBrjM/s320/IMG_0002.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617045669954274306" border="0" /></a><br />Shane Mack had a five pretty good years with the Twins, finishing his first year with the team (1990) batting .326. This performance, combined with his obviously spectacular mustache, made me run out and spend $4 on his team USA card. Shane went on to have some good and some not-so-good years, going 3 for 23 in the 1991 World Series. Although it's tough to say a nine year MLB career is a failure, he never reached his full potential.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Current estimated value: 40 cents.<br /></div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-STH2-dPzr-M/TfPLyxaktYI/AAAAAAAAAbI/hA8JV25DNNo/s1600/IMG_0009.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-STH2-dPzr-M/TfPLyxaktYI/AAAAAAAAAbI/hA8JV25DNNo/s320/IMG_0009.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617057233379833218" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mVFLWggAVqw/TfPGDWcIUwI/AAAAAAAAAao/XV7awB457Fw/s1600/IMG_0005.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mVFLWggAVqw/TfPGDWcIUwI/AAAAAAAAAao/XV7awB457Fw/s320/IMG_0005.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617050921126613762" border="0" /> </a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div> Ellis Burks and Mike Greenwell made their Red Sox debuts in 1988 to great fanfare and were predicted to give the Sox a dynasty of dominance. I was surprised to learn Burks played until 2004 and is rated the 240th best hitter of all time (two spots ahead of Kirk Gibson), although his superstar potential was never realized. Greenwell played all 11 of his seasons with the Sox and finished with a highly respectable career B.A. of .295. Again, never a superstar and as everyone knows the Sox would not win a WS until the current century.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Current combined value: under five bucks.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HvQOP47cV_8/TfPJ7UTbJgI/AAAAAAAAAa4/_eli7Zs1cUc/s1600/IMG_0007.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HvQOP47cV_8/TfPJ7UTbJgI/AAAAAAAAAa4/_eli7Zs1cUc/s320/IMG_0007.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617055181160785410" border="0" /></a><br />Ah, Bo Jackson: 2-sport athlete, physical specimen, mainstay of Nike commercials. I remember asking my dad whether he thought Bo Jackson was the greatest athlete of all time. He laughed and taught me the phrase "flash in the pan." Pretty much. Eight injury-plagued seasons, .250 lifetime, 141 dingers. Current value: $1.99 (buy it now price on Ebay).<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6zaF1X0QcyE/TfPL0pp3Z1I/AAAAAAAAAbQ/H5xOwBzev2o/s1600/IMG_0012.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6zaF1X0QcyE/TfPL0pp3Z1I/AAAAAAAAAbQ/H5xOwBzev2o/s320/IMG_0012.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617057265656227666" border="0" /></a><br />It's probably unfair to include Ken Griffey Jr. with the previous entries--22 seasons, 630 career homers. But given that he was supposed to be the greatest player of all time...well, he isn't. In a word: injuries.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Current value: about 8 bucks.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br />And now, on to the embarrassments to the game of baseball:<br /></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iZ23_jH3Iuo/TfPGD4ZyVzI/AAAAAAAAAaw/pX30ozGbz18/s1600/IMG_0006.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iZ23_jH3Iuo/TfPGD4ZyVzI/AAAAAAAAAaw/pX30ozGbz18/s320/IMG_0006.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617050930243589938" border="0" /></a><br />Chucky K: 1991 A.L. rookie of the year. Spark Plug. Hard-nosed player. Dollar hot dog target. Massive douche. After 7 very good years with the hometown nine, Chuck made some less-than-complimentary comments about MN and the Twins and headed off to NY to don the pinstripes and take his place in history as one of the best second basemen of all time. Despite winning four WS he basically peaked as a rookie, famously losing the ability to make a throw from 2nd mid-career. Some other career highlights: arguing with the umpire rather than chasing down a ball that was in play, allowing Cleveland's Enrique Wilson to score from first base and giving the Tribe a 2-1 lead in the 12th inning of a game in the 1998 ALCS. Hitting Keith Olbermann's mother in the face with an errant throw into the stands. And finally, hitting and choking his common-law wife. Current value: two bits. I am currently accepting ideas for the best way to deface and destroy this card. Bicycle spokes are too good for this schmuck. Bonus points for feces utilization (human or animal).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G0QcVrdYHj4/TfPJ8HzFBNI/AAAAAAAAAbA/TKhnE2uZlw4/s1600/IMG_0008.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G0QcVrdYHj4/TfPJ8HzFBNI/AAAAAAAAAbA/TKhnE2uZlw4/s320/IMG_0008.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617055194983761106" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Enough said.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Current value: I found several people giving them away for free online.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wCqZA9JCeE0/TfPEFQEZPeI/AAAAAAAAAaY/ZBKmWC27IiI/s1600/IMG_0003.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wCqZA9JCeE0/TfPEFQEZPeI/AAAAAAAAAaY/ZBKmWC27IiI/s320/IMG_0003.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617048754752929250" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Mark McGwire. Big Mac. Broke the Babe's single season home run record. Has a section of I-70 in St. Louis named after him (although there is a large online effort to have its name changed back to the Mark Twain expressway. Who made the more substantial contribution to American history? You be the judge). Oh yes, and it turns out he was a total cheater and steroid aficionado. He does deserve some respect for admitting, albeit tacitly, his steroid use.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Purchase price: 10 bucks.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Current value: 45 bucks! Really? Anyone want to buy a disgraced slugger sports card? <br /></div></div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And finally, "Successful" careers but no monetary value to their rookie cards:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y34hx8smhnE/TfPEGakUxCI/AAAAAAAAAag/teZKj_xreuY/s1600/IMG_0004.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y34hx8smhnE/TfPEGakUxCI/AAAAAAAAAag/teZKj_xreuY/s320/IMG_0004.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617048774751077410" border="0" /></a>$1.50<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ePIjMrxpovk/TfPBQ_t8m6I/AAAAAAAAAaI/ZXjliPSPguM/s1600/IMG_0001.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ePIjMrxpovk/TfPBQ_t8m6I/AAAAAAAAAaI/ZXjliPSPguM/s320/IMG_0001.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617045657987357602" border="0" /></a>$0.40<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6zaF1X0QcyE/TfPL0pp3Z1I/AAAAAAAAAbQ/H5xOwBzev2o/s1600/IMG_0012.tif"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-meO0uyvqaF0/TfPNpS5JDOI/AAAAAAAAAbg/jwJsz6YTfyc/s1600/IMG_0013.tif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-meO0uyvqaF0/TfPNpS5JDOI/AAAAAAAAAbg/jwJsz6YTfyc/s320/IMG_0013.tif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617059269590977762" border="0" /></a><br />Worth 4 bucks. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I bought this card from a neighbor kid when I was about 12. The kid wanted ten bucks but I said I only had five. My brother helpfully pointed out that there was a ten right in my top drawer. Thanks to Mark I lost six smackeroos instead of one. So there you have it. We should be able to retire on $66.04, right? <br /></div><br /><br /></div>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-84813791767188027712011-05-17T18:50:00.010-04:002011-05-17T21:21:16.299-04:00Upses and DownsessesThe last several weeks have had their share of highs and lows. I got a new bike to replace the one that was stolen last year, so that was cool. Then I couldn't figure out how to get it all adjusted properly so that was bad. Then I learned how to correctly adjust a derailleur and got the stripped crank arm rethreaded and I could ride it to work, so that also cool. Then I got knocked to the pavement by cars twice in two days, which was decidedly uncool.<br /><br />After that, we realized we had a raccoon living in a little tunnel where our porch meets our house and it had tracked poop all over our doors and trim, which was annoying and probably unsanitary. I wanted to kill it but we decided to wait until it left for the night, threw moth balls in the tunnel, and blocked up the hole with bricks. That course of action felt good since we used non-lethal deterrent, which is generally good.<br /><br />Then we went to visit our friends Erin and Jon in Birmingham, AL, where we were given wonderful steak and out-of-our-price-range wine, which was great. Then we drove down to the FL panhandle and spent a couple days on a really nice uncrowded beach, which was awesome:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5nSDMAIm9LM/TdMVNVMdgzI/AAAAAAAAAZc/gicNPx3A2hQ/s1600/037.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5nSDMAIm9LM/TdMVNVMdgzI/AAAAAAAAAZc/gicNPx3A2hQ/s320/037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607849279778292530" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h-tdqlSrpiA/TdMVM36kLRI/AAAAAAAAAZM/qn6xe3cBAPQ/s1600/038.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h-tdqlSrpiA/TdMVM36kLRI/AAAAAAAAAZM/qn6xe3cBAPQ/s320/038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607849271918603538" border="0" /></a><br />Then we used the end of a can of spray-on SPF:<br /></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cu3p76cZOvA/TdMVNPzZmlI/AAAAAAAAAZU/oBCqz0adKZs/s1600/031.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cu3p76cZOvA/TdMVNPzZmlI/AAAAAAAAAZU/oBCqz0adKZs/s320/031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607849278331001426" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...which either didn't have any SPF left in it or we just didn't apply even coats so we all got these nasty, polka-dot sunburns, which was very unawesome. Liz went to the doctor, twice. They told her she had a sunburn.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-82MVoooaWmQ/TdMYWbM6kwI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/-9EzVw_YsSg/s1600/crop.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-82MVoooaWmQ/TdMYWbM6kwI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/-9EzVw_YsSg/s320/crop.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607852734544515842" border="0" /></a><br />When we got home, we realized that the coon had tried very hard to get back in to our house by chewing off shingles, ripping off drip edge, moving bricks, and throwing out the moth balls. I came home from work early to see if it had succeeded, which it had. So then I had to shoot a raccoon with an air rifle, which was heartbreaking. Oh who am I kidding it was the friggen' highlight of my year. The guy at the critter control place we called said the only reason a coon would go to that much trouble to get back in was if there were babies in there, and that it would just grab them and leave once it got to them. Apparently this coon was a non-conformist. We hoped maybe it wasn't with kits and just ornery and liked its cozy little nook and that we hadn't orphaned a litter of baby coons. I'm sure the faint rotten smell coming out of the hole a few weeks later was just coincidence. We gave it a chance to leave so I didn't feel all that bad--I guess mother nature is a cruel bitch, as are air rifles. I didn't take pictures of the hunt or the kill out of basic decency, but it looked something like this:<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DcQezPaM8GA/TdMaUNahP4I/AAAAAAAAAZ8/C0VUOd25qwE/s1600/carl.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 172px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DcQezPaM8GA/TdMaUNahP4I/AAAAAAAAAZ8/C0VUOd25qwE/s320/carl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607854895506997122" border="0" /></a><br />Then tourist season got underway with visits from my dad and Dave Strand, along with a bunch of guys who traveled out to watch the Twins play the Red Sox in honor of Shane Reese and Greg Mazzuco's upcoming nuptials (not to each other, despite there being absolutely nothing wrong with that in MA). A bachelor party, if you will. We went to the first game of the series and I witnessed my first live Twins win since the second-to-last game at the dome. My Fenway Twins record now stands at an impressive 1 and 5. The rest of the crew went to the Saturday game where they experienced bouts of heavy rain and even heavier bouts of lackluster Twins performances. Shocking, I know. The weather, combined with the previous night's revelry left the gang in low spirits and night two of the bachelor weekend in serious jeopardy of ending before dark. Luckily, Mike Hennies single-handedly saved the evening with his indomitable spirit and some well timed rounds of raspberry kamikazes. People left rested and happy. Which was good.<br /><br />After three days of regular life, we headed back to MN for Liz's brother Mike and his fiance Vanessa's wedding. We saw some friends, smoked them some pork shoulder for their rehearsal dinner tacos, saw the nieces and nephews, watched as Mike removed Vanessa's garter with his foot at the dance (a first in the DJ's 20 years of DJ'ing, he said), which were all "ups." And then went to our first Twins game at Target Field where the impressive Twins REDACTED the Toronto Blue Jays by a score of REDACTED to REDACTED, which was total bullREDACTED. But then we realized the sun was shining, we were with our family, there was Summit, and we got our picture taken with TC, which made everything good again.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n1UXtaXvBq8/TdMVNZlNi6I/AAAAAAAAAZk/tbIfoPOYINQ/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n1UXtaXvBq8/TdMVNZlNi6I/AAAAAAAAAZk/tbIfoPOYINQ/s320/IMG_0010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607849280955845538" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hRNkh-IkxzI/TdMVN_pjVOI/AAAAAAAAAZs/Zh4ErV0EUb4/s1600/IMG_0011.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hRNkh-IkxzI/TdMVN_pjVOI/AAAAAAAAAZs/Zh4ErV0EUb4/s320/IMG_0011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607849291174597858" border="0" /></a>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-28443225934980689592011-04-04T20:46:00.012-04:002011-04-04T22:52:19.921-04:00Poutine is Keen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WVdu7wUR4i0/TZp8YjGSYtI/AAAAAAAAAYM/9uuMRLbpkHs/s1600/020.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WVdu7wUR4i0/TZp8YjGSYtI/AAAAAAAAAYM/9uuMRLbpkHs/s320/020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591918648514208466" border="0" /></a><br />I know this has become somewhat of a travel blog recently but I'm afraid that's about the only interesting thing we've been doing or thinking lately. So here we go again.<br /><br />Toronto: adapted from the the Mohawk phrase <em><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">tkaronto</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, </span></strong></em>meaning "where there are trees standing in the water," a reference to a place where Hurons and other natives drove stakes into the water to support fish nets. Radiocarbon dating of some of the surviving stakes reveals that they were in use more than 4,000 years ago. Today, it is a place where we went to to last weekend. There, we visited our friends Missy and Rob from the last blog post and went to the Twins season opener. So I guess you could say we were trying to catch the fish of cross-border friendship with the stakes of...baseball bat, something, something, metaphor, metaphor.<br /><br />We hit the CN Tower on Friday afternoon and took an elevator to the top. You could see far, both outwards and downwards.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CH1FWXV8kvs/TZqBUGXASBI/AAAAAAAAAZE/Tna547FHkjE/s1600/011.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CH1FWXV8kvs/TZqBUGXASBI/AAAAAAAAAZE/Tna547FHkjE/s320/011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591924069638359058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h9_LYMcuRSE/TZp_tmgkaUI/AAAAAAAAAY8/-QYdNClXmYU/s1600/023.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h9_LYMcuRSE/TZp_tmgkaUI/AAAAAAAAAY8/-QYdNClXmYU/s320/023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591922308741884226" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here is the view from Missy and Rob's condo, they live on the 42nd floor facing the lake and have a much nicer view than they did at their previous place in Harlem.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pYhx5mO4wgY/TZp8ZJpZzTI/AAAAAAAAAYk/vk6xnY3Gl8U/s1600/001.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pYhx5mO4wgY/TZp8ZJpZzTI/AAAAAAAAAYk/vk6xnY3Gl8U/s320/001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591918658862042418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />That night, we "went" to the Twins Blue Jays "game" at Rogers Centre. I say "went" because we were behind glass in a party room in the attached hotel, which made it hard to get into the "game." I say "game" because, well, if you watched you know. But hey, the "tickets" were free and I met a guy from Scotland. It's always interesting to see how the hometown fans react to people in visiting team jerseys. In Toronto, their demeanor could probably best be described as "surprised."<br /><br />Missy, a fitness juggernaut, had mentioned that she was training for a triathlon and suggested I bring my gear and join her for a run. I said sure, but that my max would be about 10 miles. Assuming the distance was negotiable, I failed to mention that I'd never run that far outdoors and hadn't done so in over a year. Unfortunately, there happened to be a bridge over a river that dumped into Lake Ontario exactly five miles down the shore from their building. A physical landmark made it harder for me to just say "well, you keep going, I think I'll turn around now." Running a lot faster than my normal pace in order to keep up with little Miss afterburners and having forgotten my non-chafing running skivs, I was ready to turn back well before the bridge of return. But hell, I figured I'd just gut it out to the center of the bridge then slow way down or even walk on the return trip while Missy got in the extra four miles she wanted to do. Instead, Missy said she'd just turn around with me and continue on once she returned me to home base. "Shit...I mean, great!" I thought. So I tried to forget my severe case of red rider and let my manly pride carry me to the finish. I made it, which I probably wouldn't have without someone to pant/talk to. Although I would not have won any sexiest crotch competitions (that trophy case is getting full anyways), my chafage was not life threatening and I was able to sight see on foot the rest of the afternoon and evening, albeit with a slight hobble and a pronounced pirate gait.<br /><br />It helped that our first stop was a busy public market where Liz found us a deli specializing in peameal bacon, which is sort of like Canadian bacon but waaaay better. On a wonderful kaiser roll with cheese and a fried egg it was life saving. Afterward we noticed a framed magazine cover showing said sandwich with the caption "One sandwich you need to try before you die." They were not kidding.<br /><br />After a nap, we headed back out to a poutine shop called "Poutini." I'd often read about Canada's (in)famous fry-gravy-cheese curd combo but had never tried it. I didn't know how good something could be that nullifies the inherent crispy deliciousness of great fries with a gravy bath, but we were surprised how much we liked it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B8bBOmur7xE/TZp8Ywl6ZxI/AAAAAAAAAYU/3bn8E-6XSA4/s1600/032.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B8bBOmur7xE/TZp8Ywl6ZxI/AAAAAAAAAYU/3bn8E-6XSA4/s320/032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591918652136515346" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Liz even had some, which likely comes as shock to those of you who know her feelings on cheese curds. And gravy.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-juHMqTf88/TZp8ZP1NkzI/AAAAAAAAAYc/tHhmpTOdl4s/s1600/034.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-juHMqTf88/TZp8ZP1NkzI/AAAAAAAAAYc/tHhmpTOdl4s/s320/034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591918660522185522" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I thought a place called Poutini was missing a golden opportunity to have a signature namesake cocktail:<br /><br />The Poutini<br />3 oz vodka (you know, for potatoes)<br />1/2 oz beef gravy<br />2 cheese curds<br /><br />Fill a cocktail shaker half way with ice. Add the gravy and swirl to coat the ice cubes. Pour off any excess. Add the vodka and shake, vigorously for eight seconds. Strain into a martini glass and garnish with the cheese curds. Plug nose and chug immediately.<br /><br />After poutine we went to an exhibit of Tim Burton's artwork at a museum. It was really neat and creepy. No photography was allowed but he had this one sketch of this guy with this weird skeleton head with some tentacles and other weird crap coming out of it...trust me, it was awesome. Then we had a second, non-poutine dinner and then some superb Canadian IPAs at a neat little bar with a vast selection of beers I'd never heard of. There was a table of young people behind us that were obviously hammered, one girl was crying, glasses were getting broken, and some guy fell off his stool and would have ended up on the floor if Rob hadn't caught him. Then, out of the blue, one guy in the group turned around and quite lucidly asked us how we were doing and wished us a pleasant evening. Seriously, binge drinking? Is there anything you Canadians don't do politely?<br /><br />All in all, it was a nice, clean, green, international city, with a quaint and convenient street car system, a fun little "hippy" district with second hand stores, ethnic markets, and bakeries, and poutine. Did I mention poutine?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eoLwdlWYOJI/TZp-GAfJKJI/AAAAAAAAAY0/ux62np_6DEI/s1600/030.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eoLwdlWYOJI/TZp-GAfJKJI/AAAAAAAAAY0/ux62np_6DEI/s320/030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591920529008830610" border="0" /></a><br />After a heated Sunday afternoon of Dance Dance Revolution, we took a turboprop Bombardier back to Boston and called it a weekend. This weekend: Birmingham and the Florida panhandle. Hey I know, I'll blog about it.RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-4361735612429371862011-02-16T11:05:00.006-05:002011-02-16T12:54:30.345-05:00The Last Time We'll Ever See NYCOne of the perks of Boston life is the option of hopping a ridiculously cheap bus down to NYC for all the glitz, glamor and high prices of NYC without having to live in that rat-infested cesspool. It's even better when your friends Missy and Rob live there and let you crash on their Dolce and Gabana air mattress. That's right, nobody in "The City" would ever be caught dead with an Aerobed. So when we heard they were moving to the quaint Canadian hamlet known affectionately to the townsfolk as "Toronto," we figured we'd head down one last time to help them pack up their U-Haul and see them off, eh.<br /><br />The bus ride down was uneventful except for the girl sitting two rows in front of us who was easily among the world's elite in the all-important irritation statistic "likes-per-sentence" (LPS). I estimate she was about a 4.5. I've seriously never wanted to punch a stranger in the face so badly in my life, and I've seen a few episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen and Bridezillas. Luckily, headphones prevented any actual violence. We dropped our stuff off in their dee-lux 2nd floor sky apartment, and headed down to the East Village pub where they'd first met for their going away cocktail hour(s). Their friends were nice enough, but after a few hours of trying unsuccessfully to follow their conversations on wine, art, and poetry, Liz and I headed out back by the dumpsters to scratch each others butts and talk about how wicked awesome the Green Monster is, leaving them to enjoy their (what I can only assume were) Manhattans, having never seen a drink that wasn't a Narragansett tallboy.<br /><br />Saturday we Tetrised their U-haul and then, having suddenly become completely the opposite of people described in the previous sentence, we headed out to the Guggenheim for an exhibit called "The Great Upheaval," which focused on the pre-WWI years. It was Kandinsky-heavy, and we both realized we kind of like his stuff. I had him confused with some other painter whose stuff looks like the scribblings of a child. Anyways, here were a few of our (non-Kandinsky) favs:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Les Joueurs Du Football by Henri Rousseau<br /></div><br /> <div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CcyrLeP8AyE/TVwA5_xksTI/AAAAAAAAAX0/ZOfHX5pooU4/s1600/60.1583_ph_web.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CcyrLeP8AyE/TVwA5_xksTI/AAAAAAAAAX0/ZOfHX5pooU4/s320/60.1583_ph_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574331435149734194" border="0" /></a>Because those dudes look like total fruits.<br /><br />And Eiffel Tower by Robert Delaunay</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C0W-737AbV8/TVwA6CnDtiI/AAAAAAAAAX8/Fhhn-dTyG-k/s1600/37.463_ph_web.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C0W-737AbV8/TVwA6CnDtiI/AAAAAAAAAX8/Fhhn-dTyG-k/s320/37.463_ph_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574331435910936098" border="0" /></a>Because of the three categories into which I place art (Meh, Cool, and Badass), it is cool.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">The museum itself was kind of the star, and I now have "rollerblade from the top of the Guggenheim" on my bucket list.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pNX6zsszYdg/TVwFLSyP-tI/AAAAAAAAAYE/CPD6pzjQSzg/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pNX6zsszYdg/TVwFLSyP-tI/AAAAAAAAAYE/CPD6pzjQSzg/s320/photo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574336130357131986" border="0" /></a><br />That night, we rejoined Missy and Rob and two of their friends at Keen's Streakhouse, a very cool old place with top quality meat. Missy, despite being very sick and and a pescatarian, troopered it out with us. Liz and I had the porterhouse for two but it would have fed three. The next morning we loaded the last of their stuff, wished them good luck in their new Canadian home, and headed back to Boston. <br /><br />While we waited for the bus to bring us from the train station to our house, we overheard a conversation between two black people that would have made Rush's head explode. Basically, the middle aged guy in an Africa hat carrying a bag of frozen pizzas was the walking, loud-talking posterchild for the culture of victimhood railed against by my bootstrappy conservative friends. He went on and on about how whitey was keeping the black community down, gave an impassioned argument in favor of "reverse racism" (using the enemy's tactics against him, according to his definition), and went so far as to say that although he was sorry for the loss of life on 9/11, at least now people were "paying attention to the Muslims," and maybe black people should be setting off bombs to get people's attention. I very seriously considered telling the transit police that some guy was making terrorist threats (hey, if you see something, say something, right?). Not that I thought he was in any way serious about terrorism--the guy could barely form complete sentences--much less handle explosives, but I sure wouldn't have minded seeing him experience some <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> harassment from whitey. I was thinking the whole time that if one of the aforementioned conservatives I know would have been there I would have had to say, "OK fine, you win this round." But it made me think about a misconception I think many conservatives have: at least for me, I don't think all the people on welfare deserve it, (not that the idiot we saw was on welfare, he did have Red Baron Brick Oven pizzas, which aren't all that cheap...hey wait a second, maybe he was one of those fancy-pizza-eating welfare kings I always hear about...but I digress) but I am willing to pay for welfare in order to live in a relatively clean, safe urban area.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">So in summary:<br />Overuse of the word like: bad<br />NYC: good<br />Steak: good<br />Art: cool<br />Reverse racism: no different than regular racism<br />Welfare: tolerable<br />Red Baron Brick Oven Pizza: good <br /></div><br /></div></div>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-57766916409062834822011-01-26T13:04:00.020-05:002011-02-01T21:27:36.747-05:00Nee Walthers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdZt-PRZ9I/AAAAAAAAAWo/3ARi2s_H1ZM/s1600/IMG_0119.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdZt-PRZ9I/AAAAAAAAAWo/3ARi2s_H1ZM/s400/IMG_0119.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568518110602946514" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Liz and I recently joined several of my brother Mark and new sister-in-law Danita's friends and family in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, thus checking the last North American country off our list. Which, since we were born in the U.S., means we'd previously been to Canada. No small feat for people born in Minnesota. We're pretty worldly.<br /><br />The wedding was at the Barcelo Maya Palace, a beautiful all inclusive resort complex on the Mayan Riviera. Everything was landscaped perfectly, the ocean and pools were aesthetically pleasing, and the staff were well trained at hiding their disdain for decadent, boorish Gringos. A typical day involved a civilized wake up time followed by a light breakfast of literally anything you could imagine and some kiddie pool time with Nathan and Josie, who as you can see, were dangerously close to surpassing the maximum level of adorableness allowable under Mexican law.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnE6ihBUI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/Z2KVSfiTPCk/s1600/IMG_0084.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnE6ihBUI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/Z2KVSfiTPCk/s320/IMG_0084.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568532798398072130" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFM28wcI/AAAAAAAAAXY/mbD53y6HElI/s1600/IMG_0082.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFM28wcI/AAAAAAAAAXY/mbD53y6HElI/s320/IMG_0082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568532803315614146" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Then we'd do lunch, followed by activities ranging from poolside lounging to beachside lounging to fruity drink drinking, to trying to keep this mustachioed, fannypack packing, aqua sock wearing probable child molester away from the kids...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaRfK-OVI/AAAAAAAAAXI/LILfdUUX5vY/s1600/IMG_0062.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaRfK-OVI/AAAAAAAAAXI/LILfdUUX5vY/s320/IMG_0062.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568518720738703698" border="0" /></a><br />One day we even played two holes of pitch and putt and one hole of mini golf. Exhausting. We'd have dinner in small groups or all together; we had a great time hanging out with/meeting Danita's friends and relatives.<br /><br />The ceremony and reception were very well done--maintaining the perfect balance between beachy casualness and lifelong commitment making gravitas. Not wanting to screw up my first and likely last best man speech, I was a little nervous. I'd concocted a story about wanting to honor our host country by giving my toast in Spanish, but not having been a Spanish speaker I'd written down some simple heartfelt wishes and had a coworker translate them for me. I then read a recipe for chicken mole I'd pulled off the Foodnetwork website and stuck into Google translate. The reception waiters said they could understand "a little" of what I said. I then went on to say that having my speech translated by a guy who hates me was probably a bad idea, but that I meant to say "May no one build a fence upon the border between your hearts. May your family operate with the ruthless loyalty to one another of a vicious drug cartel. And may the love and laughter in your lives be all inclusive." Touching in its borderline offensiveness, I thought. After some dancing and roboting at the reception, we moved the party to the much anticipated Jaguar (pronounced YAHG-you-are) Discotheque for some scantily clad go-go dancers, smoke machines, roboting, and general buffoonery.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaRV4aGhI/AAAAAAAAAXA/fk9h35gJgdg/s1600/IMG_0131.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaRV4aGhI/AAAAAAAAAXA/fk9h35gJgdg/s320/IMG_0131.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568518718244919826" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaQ69YXgI/AAAAAAAAAW4/kSVSOVMvoJc/s1600/IMG_0133.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaQ69YXgI/AAAAAAAAAW4/kSVSOVMvoJc/s320/IMG_0133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568518711018020354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaQvWM9LI/AAAAAAAAAWw/jK31730cWYQ/s1600/IMG_0958.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdaQvWM9LI/AAAAAAAAAWw/jK31730cWYQ/s320/IMG_0958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568518707900904626" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFNl6ABI/AAAAAAAAAXg/2h-4lXL8e78/s1600/IMG_0072.JPG"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxkwRUNLtepVSNrwHFTv94GMcM8j4N_wTLvxHD6HVtiUxHllX_bfYB4qt4j0g_sveZolsGBm-Rb02VMbAYjJg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a><br /></div><br />On the day we left and had to leave, however, I woke up with something. To call this thing a hangover would be like calling a case of Ebola "a little bug I picked up." I swear it was sentient--teasing me with brief periods of hinting that it was letting up only to come back with renewed malevolence. It felt like Satan spawning demons in my brain. I sweated and shivered in rapid oscillations; every step felt as if my legs were in serious danger of giving out; my jaw ached for some reason (see previous sentence for a possible explanation); my heart beat irregularly; every breath had to be a conscious decision; I felt like I could barf at any minute yet I had the full knowledge that I wouldn't. Sleep was impossible since every time I closed my eyes for more than 20 seconds I felt like my heart might stop. Eating or even drinking more than an ounce of water? When our plane hit turbulence over the gulf of Mexico I thought "Well, if the plane goes down at least this whatever-you-call-it would be over." It was the culmination of five straight all-inclusive nights followed by poolside dog hair. Next time, partially inclusive might be a better option. With God as my witness, never again. Liz felt too bad for me to even say I told you so. Finally, 12 hours later in the Boston airport, I felt like I might just survive. We got home and I debated whether or not to check my email, foolishly did, and found out I had to be at a nine A.M. meeting with Alzheimer's disease collaborators an hour's drive away (through ~5 inches of fresh snow) at Harvard. Oh well, might as well rip the band-aid off quickly I figured. In hindsight, several of my symptoms might have been caused by the minor case of travelers diarrhea I had brewing, but Montezuma ain't got nothin' on Don Julio when it comes to vengeance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFdWawII/AAAAAAAAAXo/lRjIRDX7Ays/s1600/IMG_0135.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFdWawII/AAAAAAAAAXo/lRjIRDX7Ays/s320/IMG_0135.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568532807742570626" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFNl6ABI/AAAAAAAAAXg/2h-4lXL8e78/s1600/IMG_0072.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TUdnFNl6ABI/AAAAAAAAAXg/2h-4lXL8e78/s320/IMG_0072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568532803512565778" border="0" /></a>RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-19062194926395101322011-01-03T21:19:00.023-05:002011-01-05T19:45:46.771-05:00Over the river and thru the woods and along the interstate and thru the tollbooths...New Englanders would never try to attempt a 24 hour cross country drive to attend a family Christmas. Heck, most of the people from Massachusetts have never been to Maine!! We Shervas have not become soft, and to prove so, we decided to drive home to Minnesota for the holidays. The drive took us about 24 hours. We drove straight through from Boston to Anoka only stopping for gas, bathroom breaks and coffee. Our drive to MN was pretty uneventful, there was very heavy fog in Indiana but we were able to just take our time and maneuver through without incident. I have to say, Ohio, you've got lovely turnpike reststops. I love having the option of Panera and Starbucks instead of having to go to a McDonalds. Indiana, seriously, Gary already sucks and people hate it. Could you finish up your road construction and fill your potholes. Are you trying to strand people there? You have the worst stretch of road in the 1400 miles we drove.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKF-C7WcWI/AAAAAAAAAlo/_Oyscm-FnsI/s1600/phoebe%2Bcar.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKF-C7WcWI/AAAAAAAAAlo/_Oyscm-FnsI/s320/phoebe%2Bcar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558152191112802658" border="0" /></a>Phoebe loves to snooze in the driver's lap.<br /></div><br />While in town we helped my sister Kris celebrate her 30th birthday. You really start to feel old when your younger siblings pass the 30 mark.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKGlAApAHI/AAAAAAAAAlw/-VIiztGIa5Q/s1600/kris%2B30.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKGlAApAHI/AAAAAAAAAlw/-VIiztGIa5Q/s320/kris%2B30.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558152860344582258" border="0" /></a>Following tradition, Christmas Eve was spent at my Aunt Colleen and Uncle Dick's house. We look forward to her homemade french onion soup every year....mmmm....<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKHd3O2stI/AAAAAAAAAmA/sWANjZl_GB4/s1600/muske%2Bgirls%2B2010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKHd3O2stI/AAAAAAAAAmA/sWANjZl_GB4/s320/muske%2Bgirls%2B2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558153837240824530" border="0" /></a>Cousins!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKHdptj5MI/AAAAAAAAAl4/SVnL8Cd5okg/s1600/jen%2Bcol%2Bliz.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKHdptj5MI/AAAAAAAAAl4/SVnL8Cd5okg/s320/jen%2Bcol%2Bliz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558153833611519170" border="0" /></a>Helping Colleen in the kitchen.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKHeLyqPwI/AAAAAAAAAmI/i_sn1DQi38w/s1600/liz%2Bn%2Bgranma%2Bd.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKHeLyqPwI/AAAAAAAAAmI/i_sn1DQi38w/s320/liz%2Bn%2Bgranma%2Bd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558153842759712514" border="0" /></a>Opening presents with Grandma Donna.</div><br />Christmas Day we had brunch with the Sherva/Hamann side of the family at Nancy's house. Rick received a new hunting hat. Very Elmer Fudd...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKIqqaNePI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/OHVP_Y9q9Wk/s1600/030.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKIqqaNePI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/OHVP_Y9q9Wk/s320/030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558155156648720626" border="0" /></a><br />We also were able to spend time with my Grandma Jan and Papa Benny at my mom's house. That is where we had our ham course for the day. MMmmmmm, ham.<br /><br />Aren't these two cute!!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSOvdSwNGZI/AAAAAAAAAoI/CBPCrNBQKKc/s1600/lastscan.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSOvdSwNGZI/AAAAAAAAAoI/CBPCrNBQKKc/s320/lastscan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558479282890414482" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />We tried to see as many people as possible, but of course there is never enough time. I'm glad to say that we got some great quality time in with our nieces and nephews. They are seriously the cutest kids. I'm not saying that because I'm biased. They are seriously better than all of your kids. Here's a little photo montage to prove it:<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKMqybUGNI/AAAAAAAAAnA/adESKL7IJAA/s1600/IMG_1547.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKMqybUGNI/AAAAAAAAAnA/adESKL7IJAA/s320/IMG_1547.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558159556847343826" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKNJqCViNI/AAAAAAAAAnI/RJoFJixQJW8/s1600/josie%2Bapron.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKNJqCViNI/AAAAAAAAAnI/RJoFJixQJW8/s320/josie%2Bapron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558160087171041490" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Emma and Josie in the aprons I sewed for them.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Emma is already developing a keen fashion sense. I caught her trying to steal my boots!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKMPLRBE_I/AAAAAAAAAmw/8PlDjsWeUtI/s1600/024.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKMPLRBE_I/AAAAAAAAAmw/8PlDjsWeUtI/s320/024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558159082478703602" border="0" /></a><br /><br />She also enjoys working on complex science problems with Uncle Rick while drinking chocolate milk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKOSM1q91I/AAAAAAAAAnQ/NPZniAxVBrY/s1600/005.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKOSM1q91I/AAAAAAAAAnQ/NPZniAxVBrY/s320/005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558161333463742290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Emma loves hanging out with Reilly, she copies everything he does...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKPi1-m0nI/AAAAAAAAAno/ssgK5rJfAFU/s1600/007.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKPi1-m0nI/AAAAAAAAAno/ssgK5rJfAFU/s320/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558162718896607858" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKPhyQ9BoI/AAAAAAAAAnY/HlmlItW5FaQ/s1600/e%2Band%2Breilly.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKPhyQ9BoI/AAAAAAAAAnY/HlmlItW5FaQ/s320/e%2Band%2Breilly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558162700719949442" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Reilly is 8 and loves playing hockey. I was able to see his goalie skills in action.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKQNsuSu3I/AAAAAAAAAnw/gXm49F8fxUs/s1600/033.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKQNsuSu3I/AAAAAAAAAnw/gXm49F8fxUs/s320/033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558163455146638194" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Nathan on Christmas morning, not entirely feeling the best but looking very festive in his jammy jams.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKRbHLjYsI/AAAAAAAAAn4/7-0lqiEFJco/s1600/031.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKRbHLjYsI/AAAAAAAAAn4/7-0lqiEFJco/s320/031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558164785098613442" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Nathan and Josie get along pretty well and are great at sharing.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKR8UZGbLI/AAAAAAAAAoA/h1JNFwDry3A/s1600/028.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSKR8UZGbLI/AAAAAAAAAoA/h1JNFwDry3A/s320/028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558165355580779698" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /></div></div>We seemed to slack a bit on Christmas Day with the camera. No worries, you'll see more of these two cutie pahtooties soon. We'll be headed to Mexico for Mark and Danita's wedding in a couple weeks where Josie and Nathan will be living it up at our all inclusive resort ordering a non-stop flow of Cheerios and chocolate milk while floating in the pool. They've got their passports and are ready to party.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Phoebe's favorite Christmas present was not the ZhuZhu pet that I thought she would chase around the house but this box from Costco.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSOxJFPGyqI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/2vcNNDnn0vg/s1600/042.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSOxJFPGyqI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/2vcNNDnn0vg/s320/042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558481134687799970" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />My favorite surprise of the season was our upside-down Christmas Tree that Rick created for me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSOxfENk3pI/AAAAAAAAAoY/HHXQO-1Zz4M/s1600/043.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_k_KC3c_pRt0/TSOxfENk3pI/AAAAAAAAAoY/HHXQO-1Zz4M/s320/043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558481512370069138" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Happy New Year!<br /></div>LShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470434058236074733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-83212476692443541152010-11-24T09:23:00.002-05:002010-11-24T10:09:03.738-05:00L'esprit d'escalierIt'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.<br /><br />Anyways, <span style="font-style:italic;">l'esprit d'escalier</span> 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."<br /><br />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: <br />"Slow down, Jesus, you almost hit me!"<br />Me: "You're on the bike path, lady."<br />Her: "I don't give a shit!"<br />Me: "Ummm, yeah, I can see that!" <br />Ride off, shaking head.<br /><br />A much better exchange, however, would have been: <br />"Slow down, Jesus, you almost hit me!"<br />"You're on the bike path, lady."<br />"I don't give a shit!" <br />"Well, then I guess I don't give a shit whether or not I run your dumb ass over. Sound fair?"<br />"Ummm, no!, sputter, sputter...you're a stupid head!"<br />"Yeah, go home and have sex with your dog you ugly old bag." <br />Ride off, triumphant.<br /><br />But that wouldn't have been very Christian of me, now would it have? Some people.RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8410127620945029358.post-68028885110870393102010-11-13T15:04:00.010-05:002010-11-14T17:25:51.616-05:00Deercamp Blog Post #3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TOBghdrMULI/AAAAAAAAAWU/z0nWVlCaUB4/s1600/IMG_0009.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TOBghdrMULI/AAAAAAAAAWU/z0nWVlCaUB4/s320/IMG_0009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539533669683450034" border="0" /></a> <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TOBgg_y6RrI/AAAAAAAAAWM/F_vzfkqAqI4/s1600/IMG_0052.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 219px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TOBgg_y6RrI/AAAAAAAAAWM/F_vzfkqAqI4/s320/IMG_0052.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539533661662758578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TOBghSDB_wI/AAAAAAAAAWc/7JuQVYO-1_g/s1600/rick%2Band%2Btom%2527s%2Bbucks.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8CEllWsa1rw/TOBghSDB_wI/AAAAAAAAAWc/7JuQVYO-1_g/s320/rick%2Band%2Btom%2527s%2Bbucks.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539533666562211586" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.viniferawinesandales.com/new/Vinifera_Wines_and_Ales,_Inc./Home_page.html">Vinafera Wines and Ales</a>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!RShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17738336912867690675noreply@blogger.com0