A Prisoner in the Tundra

Afraid to Blink

2012-02-03T19:56:00.005-06:00

I'm afraid to blink.

Because I swear in just a few blinks my sons have gone from cute, pudgy little toddlers to handsome almost-men.

From mini-me's to better looking versions of almost-me's.

Just yesterday they were asking me to make them a snack and if they could watch Barney again. (Hell no. not again!)

And tonight, well, I sit here alone, originally planning to have a pizza and movie night with them.

Gman, my feisty little red-headed Irishman, is having a sleepover at his best buddy's house.

And Nile, my not quite 14-year-old who stands 5'10, is at the movies with a group of his friends.

And it is dawning on me that my life is about to change dramatically.

Since becoming a single dad over five years ago, my relationship has gotten so much better with both of them.

I think having them half time, it has made me appreciate the time I do have with them much more than when there were two of us parents there to share the load and entertain the troops.

And they also have learned a lot through my struggles and mistakes in that time to know that I'm not going to be scared by anything they need to talk about with me.

That's the good part.

They both know they can talk to me about anything. And they do.

But I'm prepared for that to change.

I'm as frightened heading into the world of two teenage boys as I was when I had to change Nile's first diaper.

They'll be out there. In that scary world. The one I didn't grow up in.

The following paragraph should be read in an angry old man voice:

When I was a kid, we didn't have the interwebz, or cell phones or iPads to help us get into trouble. We were lucky if our parents let us use the house phone for more than five minutes! And did I mention we only had four TV channels?

Now, I'm no Luddite, mind you. The same technology that can get them into trouble also serves as a way for that good communication to work from afar.

Essentially I'm being demoted in importance in their lives. It happens. They'll be back in about 10 years telling me how damn smart I was.

I'm just beginning to prepare for this role change.

I'll be steering their ships less, but thanks to modern technology, they'll be able to send me an SOS if they need me to navigate their way.

I'm just thankful that so far it's been fairly smooth sailing with Nile. Because Gman is going to make life feel like a Nor'easter as he becomes a teenager, I do believe.

But you know, I became an awesome diaper changer by the time I retired.

So I figure the only thing I can do is trust my gut, talk with them as much as they'll let me.

And spend even more time sitting at home alone, wondering what they're doing.

Let It All Hang Out

2012-01-24T19:29:00.003-06:00

"I'm so wired-up
Don't need no coffee in my cup
Let it all hang out."

_ Van Morrison

I'm pretty sure that my mom and dad have a love/hate relationship with my blog.

Or maybe hate/love.

Either way, I'm sure there are times when they read this blog and have a hint of pride.

Pride that somehow their youngest kid who couldn't figure out how to tie his shoes or button his pants by kindergarten has found a way to use words to make other people laugh. Or think. Or say "there's five minutes of my life I'll never get back."

But for every small bit of pride mom and dad might feel, it's quickly eradicated by the shame of my bluntness.

"Why do you have to write about hickeys and tongue rings?"

"Do you have to use profanity in every one?"

"Your mother wasn't real happy about the latest one you wrote."

I'd say the most awkward conversation I had with my parents surrounding this blog was the Parking Lot Date. And I explicitly put a warning for them not to read it.

"I know what you meant when you said it rhymed with 'palatial'"

The point is, there are many others in my life, like my parents, who sometimes think I put a little bit too much of myself out there on the Interwebz.

Whether it's through this blog, or on Facebook, or a Hawkeye message board here and there, I plead guilty to pretty much putting my entire life out there.

The highs and the lows. The insane date stories and the sappy man moments.

I'll talk about poop and I'll talk about boobs. Deal with it.

Why am I willing to do this on a blog, or on Facebook, to the shame of my loved ones?

Maybe it's because of who I am as a person in real life.

I've had more than my fair share of "Today Could Be Your Last Day On Earth" moments in my middle-aged life.

And as each day passes where I wake up and I'm not dead, the more I vow to just live my life as naked as possible. Not literally. Hope I didn't startle you.

Live deliberately. With meaning. And passion. And as yourself.

So, in summary, for you tech nerds out there:

WYSIWYG.

And for you non tech nerds:

"I am what I am." _ Popeye.

Life's not a dress rehearsal. This is our one shot.

So you may as well just let it all hang out.

Snowless in St. Paul

2012-01-12T18:13:00.005-06:00

It's January 12.

And there's no snow on the ground in the Tundra.

This leads to some pissed off people in these parts.

Fisherman who are used to being out in their ice houses drinking Grainbelts are instead stuck at home on the couch drinking Grainbelts.

Soccer moms who are used to escaping their daily stress of work/kids/home through cross country skiing on the many beautifully groomed trails are instead escaping to the gym and working out on the treadmill.

Guys who would be heading out to hit the lakes and woods "up nort" on their sleds (snowmobiles to the non-Tundra people) are instead riding their bikes (motorcycle to the non-hipster people) around the lakes in the woods "up nort."

Hockeyheads who typically would be out on the many lakes playing pond hockey are instead forced to pay big money for ice time at the many indoor rinks to play old-time hockey.

And C_O's of companies all over Eden Prairie are upset that their golf trips to southern Florida or Mexico are looking less hipster now that golf courses throughout Minnesota are open.

Yep. There's a lot of pissy peeps in the state of Minnesnowta.

But not this guy.

I'm happy as hell, even with the 13 degree temperature as I drove home tonight, to not have to fend with snow and ice on my daily commute.

Chalk it up to when I rolled my car roughly a year ago, during a light snowfall.

And the fact that snow/ice usually doubles or triples my commute time.

After last winter, which ended up in the top 5 of all time for snowfall in the Twin Cities since they started keeping records, I will take a brown Winter.

You know it's a bad Winter when the people who were BORN in Minnesota complained. "Oh this is even a bit much for me, youbetcha!"

That was SO last Winter.

So excuse me if I don't shed a tear for the snow-loving freaks I call my neighbors THIS Winter.

If the current temperatures of 30 and below disappear in a week, and don't return, I'll do my happy dance.

Hell, in fact I enjoy it so much, I'm encouraging everyone I know to buy an SUV, to stop recycling, and to leave open cans of baked beans in cow pastures everywhere. Even IF my father insists I have a mancrush on Al Gore.

And with that note, I will end this blog entry.

Because I know that at this point, Mother Nature is about to bring karma back on my ass and show me she's The Boss.

I'll see you in May, when the snow melts here.

xoxox,
The Prisoner

Life Is Good: No Whining Allowed

2011-12-30T18:38:00.004-06:00

It seems that this time of year, a lot of people suddenly start to get negative.

Blame it on Winter. Or Seasonal Affective Disorder. Or Post-Holiday Blues.

My Facebook news feed is full of people who think their life is miserable.

"FML"

Guess what? You're whining.

That is, unless you or a loved one is about to lose your home or job with no alternatives.

Or you or a loved one is about to be shipped off to Afghanistan.

Or you or a loved one been diagnosed with a terminal illness, or suffered the loss of a loved one.

It's easy to fall into the trap of wanting that "perfect life." The shows on TV and the movies in the theater make us think we deserve that.

But just remember Hollywood isn't grounded in reality.

Reality is this: Life does suck from time to time.

But if you are surrounded by loved ones, have a job, have food in your fridge, and a roof over your head, at the end of the day you really can't bitch.

Bills pile up. Relationships end. Friends are lost. People are pricks. But unless it means your life is truly worse than it was at the start of the day, is it worth getting negative over?

Because remember negativity breeds more negativity. And conversely, positivity breeds positivity.

I know it's not easy to wake up and put a fake smile on your face every day. But sometimes it doesn't hurt doing the ol' "fake it until you make it" routine.

And rather than playing your violin, or having cheese with your whine, how about putting on your big girl or big boy pants on and tackling the problems that are making your life more stressful?

Don't like your job? Find a new one.

Don't like your spouse/partner? See above.

Don't like your kids? Well, can't help you there...chances are you had something to do with who they are as a person.

Tired of drama? Eliminate the people causing it from your life.

Wishing things weren't so difficult? Well, again, can't help you there. Life is tough. But it doesn't mean you have to let Life win.

So if you're looking for a New Year's Resolution or two...see the list above and maybe there's a match for something you can do in 2012 to help make your life less sucky.

Or you can just keep whining.

Just don't expect me to stand around listening to it.

Happy New Year, everyone!

From The Prisoner

P.S. - This blog entry was written as a reminder to the author as well.

The Professor Gets a D+

2011-12-14T18:20:00.003-06:00

I really need to stop in and see my old buddy, Steve Bloom.

Bloom was one of three professors who served on my Master's Project Committee when I got my M.A. in Journalism at the University of Iowa in the early 90s.

My feelings toward Professor Bloom have never been positive.

He was very pompous, and loved to share copies of articles he'd done for the Sacramento Bee and other publications with his students. He tended to talk in first person more than any other prof I had while at Iowa.

And don't get me started on my defense of my M.A. project - starting an alternative weekly newspaper in Iowa City. Yeah, I basically co-founded a business that outlasted me by a good 5-7 years while in grad school. And he attacked me for it.

Why? Because my summary of how we went about starting the newspaper didn't divulge enough of the conflict I had with my co-founder. He wanted the juicy rumors and details. I wanted to say, "Hey buddy, the details are in the in-depth articles we're doing every week about local issues...not about the battle over whether or not we should be renting a copy machine for $120/month."

But I bit my tongue. Even when he told me "I don't think you have what it takes to be a journalist."

Fast forward a few months after my defense of my M.A. project, and I ran into Bloom in front of the J-School building one afternoon.

I didn't want to talk to him, but he saw me, and started up a conversation. "Hey, Steve, I saw that piece you did in The New York Times about the horrible kidnapping and murder in Southeast Iowa. Do you have contacts you can share from the Times?"

"I'll have to look and see," I replied. "But you know I'm not much of a journalist." And I walked away.

So I was not at all surprised when I learned the ol' Professor penned a piece for The Atlantic this week that has many Iowans ready to say "GOSH DARN IT!" Read his article here.

Now I'm not going to dissect the Professor's article item by item, other than to say after living my first 29 years in Iowa (other than a 6 month stint in London), I'd really like to know what he's smoking.

Also, I'm disappointed in his writing. Poor construction, and too wordy.

Read the article and draw your own conclusions on whether he accurately depicts Iowans.

But I'll give you this, Bloom, you got the controversy you seek in your journalism. Every native or current Iowan I know is up in arms about this article.

So I guess you're right after all. If controversy is what journalism is about, you've got what it takes, even if it is at the expense of the truth.

And I don't.

So I propose we trade. You come sell steaks in Minnesota, and I'll come teach journalism to the students at the U of I.

After all, you only told me I didn't have what it took to BE a journalist. You didn't mention anything about TEACHING it.

You get a D+, Bloom.

See me after class.

Youbetcha I Talk Funny!

2011-12-04T19:38:00.007-06:00

"Miranda says you have a funny accent."

My friend since fifth grade, Trish, was relaying the message that was just whispered in her ear by her 12-year-old daughter.

"You do!" Miranda added. "You sound funny!"

Trish and Miranda were in Sioux City this past weekend for the NAIA Volleyball tournament, and since I hadn't seen Trish in over a year, we met for lunch.

While I made sure to point out to Miranda that she had herself a little Kansas/Missouri accent of her own, I had to admit that she was right.

My dad has been giving me crap about my Minn-uh-soooh-tuh accent for years. I don't notice it, and it pains me to think I sound like they do, but alas, I've lived her for 12 years now...sigh...I caught the funny accent.

At least a few times a year, I'll catch myself talking on the phone with my dad, and the accent sneaks out. I'll quickly finish my statement with a good "Yeah, and it's aboot time to go skay-tin' dare soon."

I'm sure if I lived in Texas, I'd start saying "y'all" and call every pop a "Coke."

But show me where a movie was made making fun of the Texas accent.

Nothing like what "Fargo" did for Minnesota. (If you ever want to piss off a native Minnesotan, tell them they sound like the characters in "Fargo"). "Oh, geez, Marge, we don't sound like that!"

But yes, I don't say "snow," I say "Snoowwwh."

I don't say "lake," I say "Layyyyke."

And don't get me started on the Tundra pronunciation of "bagel."

But my new accent comes in handy when my Hawkeyes play the Gophers. I'm able to appropriately mock the world's longest spelling bee cheer, which would be the end to the Minnesota Rouser.

But until I'm paroled from The Tundra (7 years, 7 months and 16 days, approximately, unless I'm released early for good behavior), I'll just keep speaking my Canada Lite accent!

In the meantime, let me know if you wanna play some duck, duck, gray duck, or if you need me to borrow you something! Yeah, sure, youbetcha! Uff da!

Silent Nights

2011-11-26T19:18:00.003-06:00

Silence.

It's a double-edged sword.

True there's no fighting or blaming or yelling.

But there's also no giggles, no jokes, no belly laughs.

Life as a single co-parent can be so bittersweet.

You have the time for yourself you never had before when married and in a family unit.

And you also have nights where you have no idea what your children are up to or where they are.

Tonight, what is supposed to be a night with kids, has turned kidless. The mini-me's are with their mom at a hip-hop dance show, or something like that.

My first thought was "what a perfect night to just have a quiet night watching some college football, sipping a beer, and enjoying a peaceful house."

But as the minutes tick by, the more lonely I feel.

No Gman asking me if he can use the computer yet. "The answer is still no!"

No Nile begging for a ride to the YMCA so he can play pickup basketball with his buddies. "Okay, Grady, you can use the computer while I'm driving your brother to play basketball."

Just me. And my stupid cat.

The silence is beautiful. And sad.

You find things to distract you from the sad silence. Read. Watch a movie. Nap. Write a blog.

Then you remember that you'll see them tomorrow. And you take a deep breath. It will be okay.

But one thing being a single half-time parent does do...it makes you cherish the moments you have with those little poops before you blink and they're not-so-little poops.

Good silence. Bad silence. Peace with inner chaos.

Be safe, my sons. I will see you tomorrow!

Thankful for the Little Things...

2011-11-21T17:52:00.002-06:00

Every year I seem to write a Thanksgiving blog entry where I cover all the things I'm thankful for in my life.

Since I'm doing 30 Days of Thankfulness on Facebook this year, this seems to be overkill, so I thought this year instead, I'd find the little things I'm thankful for.

1. Dimples. Holy crap am I thankful for those.

2. Summit India Pale Ale. Nectar of the Gods, I say.

3. Country music (and for letting me pretend to be a redneck).

4. Mac and Cheese Lasagna (with bacon in it of course).

5. Ranch Dressing. I mean seriously, there's no better condiment on Earth.

6. My car (when it is working properly). Living without it is basically impossible.

7. My Grinnell College buddies (though they're not technically "little").

8. Cool people who like to laugh, as opposed to mean people who like to complain.

9. Reese's Peanut Butter cups. 'Nuf said.

10. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers (Just kidding...making sure you're actually reading this).

11. College football...not JUST my Hawkeyes.

12. Coffee (and make it simple, I like my coffee like I like my men - hot, black, rich and bitter - wait, what?)

13. Swimsuits manufactured by Speedo that go all the way down to the knee (allowing me to return to the pool for the first time in 20 some years).

14. Summertime. Give me 90s and humidity any day of the year!

15. Jerry's Pizza. Nothing better on this planet. Nothing!

16. La Juanita's Burritos. (See 15, the only thing better on this planet).

17. The Interwebz, for giving me something to do to waste time that doesn't require TV, so it makes it better, right? Right?

18. Cheeseburgers. The best complementary meal with an India Summit Pale Ale.

19. Grace Potter's legs.

20. Every single person who reads my blog on a regular basis.

Happy Turkey Day, everyone, to you and yours!

Bah, Humbug!

2011-11-16T19:32:00.003-06:00

I will not apologize for being a scrooge.

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas.

Love it!

I mean, "It's a Wonderful Life" is my favorite movie of all time.

But this year, I'm not feeling it.

Maybe because we aren't even to Thanksgiving yet? Call me crazy.

My store switched over to our Holiday theme on Nov. 1.

I may or may not have procrastinated a few days on that.

The mall put up the 30 foot Christmas tree last week, giving yet another target for drunk patrons of Toby Keith's to vomit.

Every light post in a four block radius is adorned with fake holly and red ribbons.

And of course, the PA system that usually plays generic "soft hip hop, jazz and soothing soul" now features "soft hip hop, jazz, and soothing soul renditions of the Christmas holiday standbys."

Maybe I'm just turning into a grumpy old man in my 40's.

Just a few short years away from "GET OFF MY LAWN YOU PUNKS!"

But really?

The day after Halloween has suddenly become the new "Beginning of the Holiday Season," otherwise known as "Oh shit...the economy is hurting, we need to stretch out the retail season and see if people start spending more money again!"

And from both running a retail store and before that years of working in marketing, I understand the need to come up with new ways to get people into your store and buying.

But I don't think it has to come at the expense of stretching out what was already a "way too long" holiday season.

Let's finish cleaning up the dishes from the Thanksgiving meal and taking our long snoozes on couches and lazyboys before we deck the halls, huh?

And for the retailers who have decided to begin their "Black Friday" sales on Thursday evening, well, I seriously hope the execs who signed off on this idea are there in those stores on Thursday instead of home with their families.

I'll be unlocking the doors at my store at 8 a.m. on Black Friday. Which means I'll be leaving my family's Thanksgiving dinner in Sioux Falls and driving home that night. It's part of the job, I know.

Just don't make me have to deal with an extended holiday season on top of that.

But if the trend continues, don't be surprised if I don't start promoting a Valentine's Day Surf and Turf Combo at my store beginning Jan. 1.

And don't forget to stock up on your 4th of July picnic needs while you're here!

Say it Ain't So JoePa!

2011-11-08T15:53:00.003-06:00

This world needs more heroes.

More living legends.

People who do things the right way, and succeed.

Until this week, Penn State head football coach was one of them.

I've had a connection to JoePa since childhood, when my oldest brother went to a Penn State-Iowa game with my parents and middle brother, and started rooting for Penn State by halftime.

Despite the rivalry between PSU and my Hawkeyes once they joined the BigTen, I still always had nothing but respect for JoePa and the way that he did things. The right way. And he succeeded.

JoePa was always about making sure that his student-athletes were taken care of. He always wanted to make sure they were protected from the pressures and demands of the high dollar world of college football.

He oozed integrity both on and off the field.

So it is a very sad thing to watch the demise of this legend, in particular given the fact that it wouldn't have taken much for him to avoid this horrible mess.

Let's look at it this way.

Imagine one of my employees walks into my store and finds another one of my employees doing unthinkable acts with a 10-year-old boy.

Now let's say the employee who witnessed it then came to me to report what they saw.

I could report the event to my boss, and probably cover myself from the legal/liability standpoint.

And if my boss didn't do anything about it, and the employee remained at my store, I'd again be ok from the legal/liability standpoint.

But I could NOT, in my right mind, stand by and let something like this happened. I'd be reporting it to the police as quickly as possible, and I'd make sure that the employee was never allowed anywhere near my store.

It's not rocket science.

And the timing of the release of the grand jury investigation could not have been any more suspicious. Just one week after JoePa broke the record for most wins by an NCAA Division IA football coach with his 409th victory, the story breaks.

So JoePa needs to do the right thing. Step down with the dignity you have left. For your program. For the kids on your current team who had nothing to do with this atrocity. For the game of college football.

Because if he digs in his heels and fights this, he'll do nothing but destroy the last bit of respect he has for doing things the right way 99 percent of the time during his 46 year tenure as head coach.

You had a good run, Joe. Please don't make it worse. It's time to ride off into the sunset and enjoy your retirement.

The Parking Lot Date

2011-10-31T15:40:00.008-05:00

Disclaimer: This blog entry contains content which may be unsuitable for persons under the age of 18, my parents, or anyone with a stick up their butt.

So about three years ago, I had a date with a solid, upstanding, Christian woman.

"Karol" and I had met on a dating site. We seemed to hit it off via email and phone. So we had our first date. We met halfway between our homes, at a little dive bar, for burgers and beer.

As I said, she was a very strong Christian woman. All her kids (she had 5 of them) were named things like Isiah and Jedediah and such.

We had a great date. Laughing, talking, getting to know one another. I was definitely thinking that she was worthy of a second date, and got the feeling she felt the same way about me.

So at the end of the date, I walked her to her car, and gave her a kiss on her cheek, and a hug. After the hug, I made a remark about how nice it felt. Not thinking much about it, I headed to my car.

When I got home, I sent her a text saying I had a great time. She replied saying she did too.

Then I texted her "When can I see you again?" Complete silence.

Over the next few days, we texted less and less, and I realized she tended to go silent whenever I brought up the idea of a second date.

Eventually, we just quit texting each other. Life moved on, and I started dating a high school friend who lived in Kansas City.

It had been over a year at least, when I was in Tampa FL for New Year's Eve with the Kansas City woman, when suddenly this woman started texting me out of the blue.

KC woman was jealous at the time that another woman was texting me, so I pretty much ignored her.

Fast forward to my living hell, when in a four week span KC girl dumped me, I lost my job, lost my townhouse, and temporarily lost my car.

I'm living in a hotel, waiting to get approved for an apartment with my foreclosure on my record...when she starts texting me again. We talk very openly, and she continually discusses her faith and Christianity.

Then she starts asking me about my relationship with KC Girl, and if we were intimate with one another.

I told her yes, we were two grown single adults, and we decided to show our affections for one another by being physically intimate.

She responded by telling me she wouldn't have sex with me until at least six months into a relationship. She added that the reason she wouldn't go on a second date with me before was because she thought I was too physical with my hug, and in expressing that it felt nice.

Okay, I thought, we haven't even had a second date, so that's fair enough.

She was so damn persistent though. She continually texted me, and really wanted to get together. I reluctantly agreed, and figured if I got another date out of the way with her, we could both move onto a better match for each of us.

So I drove to her town, and picked her up for our lunch date.

We went to a little Italian place. It was mid-afternoon, so the place was virtually empty.

She reminded me yet again of her strong faith, and that we wouldn't have sex for six months if we started dating. Again, my mindset was, let's just get through this date, I'll drop you off, and we can both go on our merry way.

The waiter comes over to give us water and asks if we want anything else to drink. She orders a beer, which shocks me.

I decide to order a beer as well.

Before our meal arrives, she orders a second beer. I order a second beer as well.

During the meal, she orders a third beer. And let's just remember it's about 2:30 in the afternoon. I tell her to enjoy the beer, but that since I have to drive back home, I'm done for the day.

So she has her third beer, and being small in stature, it's impacting her, I can tell.

She talks about ordering a fourth beer when I remind her that her kids are going to be home from school soon, and she was adamant about making sure that she was home and they had no clue she had a lunch date with some man.

So we head to my car, leave the restaurant, and when I get ready to turn right toward her house, she belts out "NO GO LEFT! I WANT TO SHOW YOU MY TOWN!"

We're driving around for about 5 minutes, and I notice she keeps trying to get me to turn down desolate roads and into hidden parking lots.

Finally I ask her "Are you trying to get me to park?"

She shyly admits that she is, and that she wants to make out with me.

So eventually we end up in a parking lot that overlooks a corn field on the edge of town. It's on the edge of a small college campus.

It's broad daylight, but there we are, listening to cheesy country music and thinking about making out like two high school sweethearts.

The next 30 seconds are a blur. We go from making out at the 5 second mark, to her having her hand on my crotch by the 10 second mark, to her unzipping my fly and letting the animals out of the barn door at the 25 second mark.

The next thing I know, she's busy performing an act that rhymes with palatial on me, in a college commuter lot, while I watch the corn grow.

As I nervously scan the horizon for anyone who might be watching us, who might notice that her head is bobbing up and down on the driver seat side of my car...I notice a combine slowly moving in the rows of the cornfield closest to my car.

"There's a farmer in his combine driving by right now" I tell her. "Mmmmph hmmmph hhhmmmph mpppmhh." (Translation: I don't give a shit)

A few minutes later, after not worrying about the farmer in the dell myself, I realize that her work on me is about to reach fruition.

Being the gentleman that I am, I warn her accordingly.

Her reply: "Mmmmph hmmmph hhhmmmph mpppmhh." (Translation: I don't give a shit)

As the fruition occurs, I suddenly find myself thinking about Bill Clinton. A "man of faith" who didn't consider oral sex to be cheating, or sex.

Damn. I just had a date with the female version of Bill Clinton.

Suddenly, as if she was awakened from a drunken slumber, which in fact she may have very well been in, she blurts out "Oh my gosh. I have to get home!"

We hastily get ourselves back in order...me zipping up my jeans, and her asking me for a piece of gum...and I begin the short drive back to her house.

As we get a block away, she asks me to drive around the block and drop her off where her kids won't see her.

I oblige, and as I pull up a half-block from her house she suddenly shrieks and ducks down.

"What's wrong?" I ask her. "Did one of your kids see us?"

"No, that's my pastor walking his dog right there."

As her pastor disappears around the corner with Fido, she slides out of the car quickly and disappears into her house.

I was in a state of bewilderment as I drove home. What the hell just happened? I didn't plan to ever talk to her again, because something completely freaked me out about the last few hours.

Halfway home, I got a text message from her. "When can I see you again?"

I didn't reply.

And I still haven't.

My Second Hometown, My Mecca

2011-10-20T17:28:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow I return to Iowa City, my second hometown.

I have written extensively about my actual hometown of Sioux City in this blog, but I haven't even mentioned my second love, Iowa City.

I began my love affair with Iowa City as a small child, when my entire family would pack up our station wagon and drive there to watch the Hawkeyes lose a football game (this was B.H. - Before Hayden, so it was a given the Hawks would lose).

It continued into high school, when my parents and I would drive down to visit my older brother and watch Chuck Long and Ronnie Harmon WIN ball games.

Yes, it's true that my love affair with the town started because of football.

But it wasn't until 1992, when I moved to Iowa City to start graduate school in journalism, that I TRULY fell in love.

I lived there for seven years, and was very active in the community as a journalist, business owner, and member of service organizations. There's not a way for me to go to Iowa City now without running into at least one person I know.

Iowa City is amazing because it combines a small town feel with a big city vibrancy. It features Broadway shows, incredible art, excellent shopping, and some of the best restaurants in the world, but you can still leave your front door unlocked at night (or at least you could when I moved away from there 12 years ago).

And as a writer, Iowa City is heaven. If you're not aware of the Iowa Writer's Workshop, google it. Trust me, there is no shortage of motivation or inspiration in Iowa City for a writer.

People who have never been to Iowa City will never know it. Iowa City is the best kept secret in the midwest. But anyone who has lived there knows it. And they're sworn to secrecy so that people don't move from all over to change it's magical little status.

But much like Sioux City, it's not the "what" that makes Iowa City great. It's the "who."

The people of Iowa City are a wild mix. Liberal baby boomers, college students, young professionals, black, brown, yellow, white, purple, straight, gay, hipsters, nerds, and even the occasional douchebag.

They all blend together to form a pretty quirky and interesting little place.

Yes, it's true that most of the time these days, it's football that brings me back to Iowa City. But it doesn't mean I don't get the goosebumps when I drive off of I-380 onto I-80 east, remembering that this place, nearly as much as Sioux City, is my home.

That's why you'll be able to find me at Joe's Place tomorrow night, sipping a pint and listening to the same songs on the jukebox that were playing 15 years ago.

And after that you might find me wandering the ped mall looking for a gyro, or at Panchero's ordering a burrito that resembles a catcher's mitt.

And if you miss me there, look for me tailgating at 8:00 a.m. the next morning, chanting out a few hundred times "Let's Go Hawks!"

Iowa City, I'll see you tomorrow. May I not be charged with public urintoxication.

Thank You For My Kids, Michael Jackson!

2011-10-17T20:37:00.005-05:00

I have Michael Jackson to thank for my wonderful boys.

Wait, what?

Yes, I understand that statement seems quite odd, and ironic.

But it's true!

How do I owe Michael Jackson for my two amazing sons?

Really, it's quite logical when you think about it.

Oh and don't make it simple just because it's logical. If you're guessing right now that I met the boys' mother at a Michael Jackson concert, that's not it.

Here's the explanation:

1. Because of Michael Jackson's live performance of Billie Jean on the Motown 25 TV special, where he moonwalked across the stage for all of 10 feet, I became addicted to breakdancing. In fact during my freshman year in high school, my friends and I ended up making good money teaching lessons and doing performances around Sioux City. If you know my breakdancing name, then you know me well, fyi.

2. Because of my obsession with breakdancing and hip hop in general, I became hooked on a song called "Rock It" by Herbie Hancock. Hear the song here. In fact, one day my mom came into my room and heard the song playing, and asked me what this noise was. I told her "Herbie Hancock." She dropped her jaw. "Herbie Hancock? I went to college with him." Ok, my mom suddenly seemed cool.

3. With new found information regarding my mom's coolness in knowing Herbie Hancock, I decided that I would indeed enjoy attending my mom's college reunion. I was totally going to get Herbie to autograph my extended play single LP of "Rock It." So off we went to some weird place called Cornell College or something. It was in the middle of nowhere I heard.

4. It was in fact Grinnell College. Herbie didn't show at the reunion. It didn't matter. I fell in love with the place the minute I saw it. Beautiful buildings sprawled across a small, but open campus. I toured the campus, and saw the swimming pool. I instantly knew I wanted to swim at this school, if I was lucky enough to ever get to attend it.

5. Fast forward 3 years and it was time for me to choose between a full scholarship to swim at Creighton University in Omaha, NE, or pay my own way to go to Grinnell College. I ended up choosing Grinnell because I just had a real pull to the place. And I'm so glad, because I spent four of the best years of my life there.

6. And in the spring of my freshman year at Grinnell, I met my now ex-wife, and the mother of my amazing children. My relationship with her was never perfect, and I have no regrets whatsoever that it's over. Mostly because that relationship gave me the two most important things in my life.

So, Michael, I want to thank you for helping bring Gman and Nile the Crocodile into my life. Oh and also I really did love Off the Wall.

Don't Go Changin'

2011-10-11T13:14:00.007-05:00

"Nothing endures but change."
- Heraclitus

I hate change.

Absolutely and without question I hate it.

The best example of my fear of change happened in the Fall of 1990, when I studied for a semester in London.

Fresh off the plane, and looking for a place to stay for the night, my then girlfriend, now ex-wife, and I found ourselves lost on a street corner in the largest city I had ever set foot in.

I was losing my mind. "What am I doing? What was I thinking? This was a big mistake!" As we tried to figure out where we were on a map that was literally a book, and we didn't even know what page we were on, I wasn't sure I was going to make it through this.

The fear of the unknown overcame me. I became paralyzed by my fear of change. The girlfriend went off to find a cheap B&B in the neighborhood while I sat guarding our luggage on the street corner. I wanted to curl up in a ball and click my heels together and go back to the good old campus I knew at Grinnell College.

Just as I was about to find a way to get a taxi ride back to Heathrow Airport and fly home, the girlfriend arrived with keys in her hand to our home for the night...the seediest B&B I've ever spent the night in. But I was rescued.

Fast forward 15 years, and you'll be able to understand how I've become able to deal with major life changes now. In the last 6 years I've lost:

- My wife of 13 years, and my girlfriend for another 4
- Three additional relationships with women I cared deeply about
- Two jobs to bad economies
- A townhouse, and with it a large amount of equity
- My car (for a day anyway)
- At times, my dignity

In addition, I've had to learn how to be a single dad (there's no tag teaming when I have my sons), and how to do everything it takes to run a household, because I'm both the mom and the dad in my house the time I have those boys.

I also had to re-learn (or in reality, learn for the first time) how to date. And if you don't think dating is scary, then you obviously are reading my blog for the very first time.

But I still manage to get up every day, put a smile on my face (sometimes admittedly a fake one), and make a step toward embracing these changes as they hit me.

I learn from each loss - what can I do differently in the future to avoid this happening again? I dissect it with the passion of a high school biology teacher dissecting a frog.

I still hate change. I don't like it when my world comes crashing down around me.

When it happens, I will still have my short bursts of panic/paralysis, maybe a bit of anger thrown in.

But now I know that just because you don't like change, doesn't mean you can stop it.

The only thing that is constant in this world is change.

Nope, you won't find me sitting on a stack of luggage on a scary street corner in London, waiting to be rescued, anymore.

I'll be off searching for that key, so I can find a place to call home for the night.

A Letter To My Sons

2011-10-06T14:58:00.003-05:00

Dear boys,

We're about to enter a new period in our relationship.

You're about to enter what the world calls the teenage years (Nile, you technically already have, and Grady, you've emotionally been a teenager since birth).

And I'm about to transform from the "Dad You Want To Talk To," to "'Oh No, Here He Comes' Dad."

I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

I already felt the tug at the heart last week when I dropped you off at school. You admitted you wanted me to drop you off on the street instead of the front entrance not because it saved me time, but because you didn't want to be seen with me.

I do understand. Believe me, with your Grandma, when I was your age, I have stories that would give you ginormous knots in your stomach.

But that will have to wait for another time, because I'm talking about the three of us.

Please know, that no matter how stupid and lame I become in the next few years, you are without a doubt the reason that I walk this Earth. We may not have the most traditional family, but that doesn't stop us from having our own kinds of traditions.

So I am going to make sure that I can come up with some non-lame ideas for things we can do together once in awhile, when you're not doing homework, hanging out with friends, attending football, basketball or baseball practice, or generally hiding in your room away from me.

Something that when you're my age, you'll be able to look back at and say "Those were great times."

Ok, now to the really important part of this letter . Girls.

No matter how many times I tell you that you can talk to me about "girls and stuff," I know that you won't. No kid wants to talk to their parents about that. I certainly didn't.

So I'm going to tell you some really important things now that I hope you'll remember.

Don't be someone that you're not for a girl. Be yourself. If they don't like you for who you are, they're not worth it.

Respect not just the girls you like, but even the ones you don't. Because every single one of them is somebody's daughter.

Don't date a girl to impress your friends. Date a girl who impresses you.

Girls will hurt you. It's a fact. But you will survive the hurt.

When they tell you they want to talk, don't roll your eyes.

Oh yeah, one more thing, you're not allowed to date anyone until you're 21.

Love you,

Dad

A Date With A Mumbler

2011-10-03T19:45:00.003-05:00

My first date back in the single game was quite interesting.

Sure, it wasn't the Hickey Girl, or Tongue Ring Girl, but it was definitely not what I was hoping for.

Christy and I had been texting and emailing for about a week, and I decided I should probably talk to her on the phone before we meet.

When I called her, I could hardly understand anything she was saying.

I had been having trouble with my droid in the past few weeks, so I thought maybe it was just my stupid smartphone. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. WRONG!

On our date, as we sat down at the restaurant and started looking at the menu, I realized something.

First off, the picture she sent me recently saying it was two weeks old was more likely two years old. She looked nothing like her pic. (Ladies, seriously you do yourself no favor by using these tactics).

Secondly, my smartphone was just fine. She was not.

"I mumble mumble mumble hockey mumble mumble mumble LOVE mumble mumble."

Huh? As she repeated her answer, she put her hand in front of her face. Because THAT always helps when you're articulating and enunciating!

"I mumble mumble mumble hockey mumble mumble mumble LOVE mumble mumble."

Ok, so she's loves hockey I think.

As our appetizer came, she dove into them like she hadn't had a meal in months. I was afraid to put my hand near the plate for fear that it might get bit.

"Mumble mumble LOVE mumble mumble these mumble."

Ok, I think she loves the appetizer.

After about 30 minutes, it got so bad I texted a close friend and requested an emergency call - say my son got hurt at football, my apartment is on fire, whatever it takes!

Luckily she ate so fast that we were done before the call could be made.

I quickly walked out to my car, and as I was saying goodbye, I finally understood something she said. "I'd love to go out again sometime."

I just looked at her with a blank stare.

"Mumble mumble mumble bye!"

Love Stinks, Yeah Yeah. But Life Goes On, Brah.

2011-09-27T12:32:00.006-05:00

So I suddenly find myself single again.

Lady Friend® decided it was time for her to try something different, and we parted ways on relatively good terms.

It was unquestionably gut wrenching, but so very much easier for me this time around than my previous relationships that fell by the wayside.

That's not a reflection of Lady Friend®.

And hopefully it doesn't mean that I'm just getting used to being dumped...but I guess that's possible, too.

All my family and friends, in hindsight, have plenty of thoughts and opinions on the matter.

But frankly, the only opinions that mattered regarding our relationship were mine and Lady Friend's®.

I know that for me, personally, I'd never had a relationship go so smoothly. We could talk about anything, made each other laugh and smile every single day, and very rarely fought.

It was far from perfect - what relationship is? But it was damn good.

But unlike previous break-ups when I sheltered myself away in a self imposed prison with thick walls, not allowing myself the pleasure of enjoying day-to-day life, this one is very different.

There is an empty space in my life where Lady Friend® had been for most of the last year, no doubt. But I learned, through trial and error, that true happiness has to come from within. You can't derive your happiness from someone else. And this time I didn't.

Yes, my relationship with her increased my level of happiness, but my life was not built around the life of another person.

I guess that's the benefit of being an old fart. You learn from your past, and you avoid feeling the same pain by not allowing yourself to go down paths you already traveled.

I'm a better person for the time I spent with Lady Friend®, and I'm a better person for the lessons I learned as the relationship ended.

One key difference this time, compared to the last serious relationship I had, is that I made sure to have a proper goodbye. That never happened with the previous woman I dated, and to this day I remain dead in her eyes.

So this time around, I won't be sitting on the sidelines watching life go by for the next year and a half.

I'll be out there in the game of life, seeing what happens next.

Yes, love stinks. But life does go on, brah.

The Time I Pissed Myself

2011-09-20T14:22:00.007-05:00

Just a little less than three years ago, there was an historic game played at the Metro- dome in the Twin Cities.

The University of Iowa Hawkeyes were playing against the University of Minnesota Gophers in what would be the final college game played by the Gophers in the dome.

The Hawkeyes put on an amazing display, walking away with a 55-0 victory.

And I missed it.

And I had a very good, but stupid reason.

You see I pissed myself. How does a grown man piss himself you may ask? Well, I'm about to tell you.

Back up to the week before the game. I had some major stress points going on, namely proving to a social worker that I was a good dad, despite my ex wife's attempts to the convince them to the contrary.

I had a lot of work stress at the time as well. And, I was getting ready to head to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, with my then girlfriend the day after the game, so that added to my stress level that week.

But as soon as the social worker left my house, assuring me I was indeed a good dad, the party started. It was about 5 p.m. on Friday, just a mere 24 hours, give or take, before kickoff.

So the party continued as my out-of-town guests began arriving for the weekend, ready to cheer on our beloved Hawkeyes.

In what was a blur of party, I somehow managed to be asked to leave one bar (I mean, really, is it THAT bad to try and get other fans in the bar to start chanting "LET'S GO HAWKS!" at the top of their lungs?), and closed down another.

There was some ketchup drinking, and random dancing with strangers thrown in.

The next morning, I woke up around 8 a.m. or so, still quite intoxicated from the night before. Knowing that I wasn't driving at all that day, I did what any other Hawkeye party animal would do...I had a beer for breakfast. And nothing else.

We then ventured off to our planned tailgate - being held in a bar due to cold weather - which opened at 10 a.m. Yes, despite still being drunk from the night before, I started drinking in earnest again with over 7 hours to go before kickoff.

And the bar we picked had a special going all day for Hawkeye fans. For $30, you got a free t-shirt, and all the beer and brats you could drink and eat.

As the 20 or so people who were planning to meet up at this tailgate began to arrive more fashionably late, it became clear to me that this bar was going to be packed, and the line for the free beer was going to be long.

So I did what any red-blooded Hawkeye fan would do, I started pounding as many beers as I could, as fast as I could, in order to make sure "I got my 30 bucks worf."

And so, by noon, I was absolutely smashed. And for some reason, this was the time that my bff, Gina, decided she needed to check into her downtown hotel room, and convinced me to help her find it.

Now there's something you should know about me. Even though I've lived here for 12 years, I don't know my way around downtown Minneapolis. Sober.

So I sure as hell was no help to her as we left the bar for our "quick" trip to get her checked in and return to the bar.

The rest is a blur. I remember being in Gina's car. I remember calling my gf in Mexico, telling her all the lovey dovey crap that men do when they're stupid. I remember Gina taking my phone and talking to the gf. And then it went blank.

It seems I passed out in Gina's front seat, and there was nothing she could do to wake me up. Nothing. She slapped me. She tickled me. She screamed in my face. I was out to the world. Needed a little beer nap, so to speak.

Not knowing what to do, and still not finding her hotel, Gina drove back to the bar, and still unable to get me to awaken from my beer coma, she left me in her car and returned to the bar.

She or someone else in my group would come out and check on me every so often, to make sure I hadn't woken up and stumbled out into the cold streets of the "Mini Apple."

(SIDENOTE: Let it be known that there is an ordinance in the City of Minneapolis that forbids you from sleeping in your car. I know this firsthand.)

So after a few hours of pulling a Rip Van MGD, somehow miraculously I was finally woken up. And after hours of sleeping, and then hitting the cold air, well there was only one thing on my mind.

While arguing with my friend, Ryan, about whether or not I was sober enough to go to the football game in a few hours, it hit me. I had to piss. Really really bad. And I was on a street in downtown Minneapolis, and had no idea where any bathrooms were.

So mid-sentence as I'm telling Ryan, "I'mmm fiiiiiiiine. I am gogin to duh gaaaaame," the cold air hitting me was replaced with a warm, liquidy burst of spent beer. "Ok ok....I am not gogin to duh gaaaaaame," I relented.

So my friends found a taxi driver, told him my address, and slipped him some extra money to put up with a urine smelling passenger for the next 30 some minutes. I made it home safely, and watched the game from the friendly confines of my couch, realizing that had I gone to the game, there was an excellent chance I'd end up in jail, and miss my trip to Mexico the next morning.

A few lessons I took away from this event that I, nor my friends, will forget anytime soon:

1) If you're going to pass out, don't do it in a car in downtown Minneapolis.

2) Ketchup isn't that bad on it's own.

3) Even when a social worker tells you that you're a good parent, it doesn't mean you should get so drunk to celebrate that you piss yourself.

Halloween Only Happens Once a Year

2011-09-12T21:54:00.008-05:00

I love Halloween.

There's no doubt that it's my favorite holiday, which maybe makes me some kind of devil worshiping freak in the minds of some.

But alas, I've always loved it.

There is something about dressing up and pretending to be something else - a football player, a movie star, a psycho with a chain saw, or the President of the United States.

When I was in grad school, my ex-wife and I used to always host costume karaoke parties every year.

I decided to try and string together political costumes for a few years. One year I was JFK back from the dead (complete with entrance wounds in my neck). I couldn't convince my ex to be Marilyn Monroe back from the dead. She didn't share my level of classy awesomeness, I guess.

Another year I was Terry Braindead (a parody of then, and now AGAIN Governor of Iowa, Terry Branstad).

Another year I was George Herbert Walker Bush, and made my ex wear a pearl necklace (wait, what?).

You can be anyone you want to be on Halloween. Your imagination is your only limitation.

But the older I've gotten, the clearer it's become that putting on a mask and costume doesn't mean you've become that make-believe person.

Yes, it's easy for one day a year to pretend you're someone else.

But the other 364 days you better not be pretending to be anyone but you.

As I passed my 40th, and then 41st birthday, I've realized that I wouldn't want to be anyone else but me.

Yeah my hairline is higher than Willie Nelson on tour.

My belly is buddhalicious.

I wish that I could grow a kick ass goatee overnight.

I procrastinate, and get distracted easily.

I forget stuff way too often.

And when I'm hungry, I mean really hungry, I get really crabby.

I have a tendency to take things personally, and I am not good at asking people for help when I need it.

My feet stink when I've been on them all day. And I suffer from chronic halitosis.

But that's me, damn it. And I love being this imperfect, old balls dude.

Yes, I want to do some things for my health requiring that I change some of that (goodbye Hoppy beer, hello water), but I'm not trying to "fix" myself, or become someone other than me.

And you shouldn't either.

It's ok to be a porn star, Steve Bartman, or Hanz and Franz each October.

But the rest of the time, try being you.

And if people don't like it, you tell them Clemmy is hungry (really hungry!) and he told you to tell them to go eff themselves!

Bring it on home...

2011-08-20T19:27:00.002-05:00

One week from today, my parents will be going back home.

And it is an amazing feeling to know that our worst fears, or even our smallest fears, were never realized.

When we were at the end of two days of dizzying work evacuating them from the Dakota Dunes almost three months ago, we all were saying "Let's hope all this work is for nothing."

And it was.

Despite the record flooding, not a drop of water went into my parents' home, thank God.

Tragedy was averted. The sandbags AND prayers helped us escape the flood.

And while it might be easy to second-guess our efforts, I have to say I'm very happy it happened. The entire situation made me realize even more than before why I love my hometown, and most importantly, the people there.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. If I ever have to face difficult times, or face a personal tragedy, God willing it would happen in Sioux City.

Because if it did, I know that I would not be left high and dry (pun intended).

But make no mistake, the flood did plenty of damage. The residents of Riv-R-Land Estates, just north of the Dunes, are wiped out, literally. And many residents of the Dunes also are facing either groundwater or floodwater in their homes.

We were lucky, not everyone was.

And for those impacted, I can only say that your neighbors are good people. Probably people you've gotten to know a little bit better through all this. So lean on them. And let them lean on you.

Next weekend, when I toast to my parents' return to their home, I'll also be toasting to my peeps.

Don't listen to the rest of the world, Siouxland...you people rock!

Mazel tov!

The Time the Auto Mechanic Wouldn't Take My Money

2011-08-08T21:38:00.003-05:00

I detest taking my car into the mechanic.

Almost as much as I detest going to the doctor or dentist.

Ultimately, that fear usually bites me in the ass...delaying the visit makes things worse.

I've had my share of fun incidents with cars.

There was the time the engine on my Chevy Celebrity blew up on I-80, 60 miles from my home at the time in Iowa City.

My then wife was out of town, and I had no way to get home other than riding along with the tow truck. Yes, I used a 60 mile tow as my personal taxi.

Or the time my engine blew up on my Saturn. Or the other time my engine blew up on my Saturn.

So, this weekend, when my engine started to sputter, and surge up and down in RPMs, with a check engine light on, I was positive that the auto mechanic would be telling me my Saturn had cancer.

So much so that I was already shopping for used cars that fit my budget, planning to bring a new car home with me to the Tundra from my hometown of Sioux City.

Alas, I was wrong. As I approached the mechanic working on my car, I was prepared for the bad news.

"Well your engine is in incredible shape," he said.

Wait, what?

"Yeah, and I have it running pretty good at the moment. You could probably take it home with you to Minnesota and get it fixed up there, since that's your hometown."

I cringed.

"That's not my hometown. I just live there. This is my hometown," I told him.

I told him I was a little bit nervous, since he said that once my engine got cold, it would probably act up again.

"Well I can't get the part here for 4 days minimum. I bet they have it up in the Twin Cities. Plus then you'll be in your hometown where you know people."

I cringed again.

"That's NOT my hometown. I live there. I grew up here. THIS is my hometown," I reiterated.

I explained to him that this week at work was really crucial for me, and that I couldn't afford to have my car go out on me once I got up here.

"Well don't you have another car up there that you can use?" (THANK GOD he didn't end the question with "in your hometown.")

"No, no, I'm a single dad. No other car. That's all I've got," I told him.

"Well, Steve, if it was me, I'd drive it up to Minneapolis and get it fixed up there."

After a few dizzying moments of having my car doctor telling me to go home and find a different remedy, I put my foot down.

"No, go ahead and order the parts and I'll come back down to pick the car up when you're done."

He shrugged, and agreed...but only after I told him that I didn't want to risk having the car go out on my drive back to Minnesota with my boys in the car.

"Oh you have kids, well, yeah, I guess I wouldn't risk that either."

But he was okay with letting me get stranded in the middle of nowhere?

And so, in the end, we were in agreement. It was much better for me to get my car fixed in my hometown.

*Facepalm*

In the Blink of an Eye

2011-07-18T18:31:00.003-05:00

It was 22 years ago tomorrow that my life changed forever.

A faulty metal fan disk on a DC-10 flying over fly-over country broke off and severed all the hydraulic lines, making the plane nearly impossible to fly.

That faulty metal fan disk, manufactured who knows where, would change my life, and lives of thousands of others, forever.

I was just an 18-year-old know-it-all lifeguard who was more concerned about my tan and where the beer party was at that night. Invincible.

But for the passengers on the plane, that faulty metal disc put them in a lottery for life, injury, or death.

These total strangers who fell from the sky probably had never thought of a faulty metal disc when they boarded the plane in Denver that morning.

I know I had never even really thought much at all about plane crashes in general before that day. It's what happened in the movies and on the TV news.

But for the passengers and crew, the emergency workers on the ground, the volunteers who helped out wherever they could, that faulty disk changed everything. In the blink of an eye.

I'm a better person today than I was before the crash, but that didn't happen overnight.

But the main point is this. You never know when that blink-of-an-eye moment will occur for you, and whether it will change you forever, or end you forever.

So take more risks. Don't be afraid of tomorrow, because it may not come! Live your life deliberately. Enjoy every moment.

Live.
Stop worrying.
Breathe.
Drink.
Celebrate.
Cry.

Whatever it is you need to do, do it.

Because your blink of an eye can happen, well, in the blink of an eye.

Hate to Date? You Will Now!

2011-07-13T17:48:00.003-05:00

As I begin to venture back into the dating world, I thought it would be a good time to share some of the top dating stories I've written on my blog over the past few years.

So here we have a collection of funny stories brought to you by the world of dating as a single old dad!

First, we have my top 5 online dating tips. This is a collection of what I felt, at least in 2009, were the top 5 things to know if you are deciding to venture into the world of online dating!

Second, a little tale about how I ended up at Golden Corral for my first New Year's Eve date with my former Lady Friend®. Relax, it wasn't her fault - her step dad picked it out!

Next up, we have the bet I made with yet another former girlfriend, on whether we'd end up alone or not. The winner, er, loser, gets steaks!

And we can't cover that former girlfriend without the story of how I had to really go # 2 on my date #1 with her, and the situation that prevented me!

The final two blogs I'm sharing are my two personal favorites from my dating days. The stories, NOT the women I went on the date with.

The first of these, The Tongue Ring Girl, wath jutht purely epic!

But if you want to read what is to this day probably my post popular blog entry, revisit the night I had with The Hickey Girl.

Happy re-reading, or reading for the first time for my newer fans, and beware the world of dating!

Just Like the Dinosaurs, This Too Shall Pass

2011-07-09T00:07:00.004-05:00

A good friend of mine once asked me how I did it.

He watched as I was going through one bad thing after another, and he couldn't figure out how I kept moving on.

Because I don't have a choice.

When I went off to college, grossly under prepared for the academic rigors of Grinnell, my dad pulled me aside as they were getting ready to send me off into adulthood.

He reached out his closed fist and said "Here, take this."

As I opened my palm, he dropped a small rubber dinosaur into it.

"What's this?"

My dad then gave me one of the best pieces of advice I've ever received.

"When I went off to college, my dad gave me a toy dinosaur, too," he explained. "He told me I was about to embark on a path that would include tough obstacles and no map to navigate through it.

"And he wanted me to know that when I was in the middle of facing those obstacles, to remember that just like the dinosaurs, this too shall pass."

I don't know if I ever properly thanked my dad for those words of wisdom.

But I can tell you that I still have that dinosaur. And someday I plan to give it to my sons as they venture down the broken road of life.

This too shall pass.

Life as an EastEnder

2011-07-06T21:25:00.003-05:00

The last two weeks or so, I am now officially an EastEnder.

It's been a bit of a culture shock, but in a good way.

I have been very happy to drive down the street and see stores and shops owned by moms and pops, and not a major corporation.

It has been refreshing to see the diversity - economically, socially, racially - in my former western burb, everyone pretty much was 1) rich, 2) white, and 3) Republican.

I have nothing against rich, white Republicans. I used to be one (well except the rich part). But I do have something against my boys thinking that's the reality of the world.

This new world I'm living in, just 30 minutes from my old world, is like a clean canvas waiting for the boys and I to paint our own masterpiece upon it.

We're already developing some new traditions. Trips to The Clemcuzzi©, grabbing a bite to eat at a Mexican restaurant without the word "Bell" in it, or just sitting on our first floor patio instead of our third floor balcony, putting our bare feet in the grass and enjoying the weather.

And even our family cat has adjusted. She went from a wide-eyed wanderer, sniffing every last corner, to now lounging near the open screen door, letting the sun beat down on her while the birds land nearby to unsuccessfully taunt her.

And the gas station attendant near my apartment already knows me. Tonight I pulled in to fill up my tank, and had already started pumping when I read the sign that says "Please Pre-Pay after 5 p.m." Whoops!

I went in to pay and grab a few snacks for the boys, and apologized to him for not pre-paying. "Oh no, sir, I know you! You can do that anytime, anytime. No problem."

This isn't a slight of my old digs. I have plenty of great friends, as do my kids, back that way.

But right now, it feels pretty damn good to be an EastEnder.

A Funny Thing Happened On My Way To The Dunes

2011-06-12T16:59:00.004-05:00

Earlier this month, when I returned home to help my parents load up their entire life into a semi- trailer, I had a major epiphany.

I need to be back in the Siouxland area sooner rather than later.

I'm overwhelmed when I think of the family, the friends, and the complete strangers who came together to help out two families overcome a very disheartening event.

The epiphany I had was simple, really. I need to find a way to move back home. I don't know when or how it will happen, but it's now a goal of mine to figure out a way to make it happen.

And despite my blog title, and my general opinion on my life in the tundra, I don't state this goal of mine as a slam on my current living situation.

It's more a response to how amazing it felt to know there were so many people there who had my back.

Who would do what needed to be done. Who would listen to me bitch and moan when maybe I should have been getting things done. Who understood when I said I had enough, and had to go home.

I miss my peeps, plain and simple. I miss the friends who have been there for me, lost contact for decades, and reappeared. I miss the friends who never left. I miss the people of a place that prides itself on hard work and compassion, without an interest in being recognized for that hard work.

My family is so indebted to the people who came out and gutted their home of everything that wasn't nailed or glued down.

And I am so indebted to the people who helped me, as well. Whether it was lifting furniture, giving me a bed to sleep in and a hug to comfort me, or letting me have a temper tantrum over something random and minute.

And anyone who grew up in Sioux City is indebted to all the people who have ever called it home, and are still proud to call it home. We may not be flashy, but we got your back. See you ASAP, 712.

xoxox,

Clemmy The Clemster

"Never Forget Where You Came From"

2011-06-02T19:42:00.005-05:00

If you were fortunate enough to know Walt Fiegel, the late football coach/ teacher from Sioux City East High, you'd most likely know two favorites among his many favorite sayings.

"Never forget where you came from," was one. "Tough times don't last, tough people do," was the other. (He had many!)

Well old Walt is looking down smiling right now at the community he called home for 40 years.

As thousands of people in the Siouxland area are dealing with the rising water levels of the Missouri River, those two phrases are living and breathing in the bodies of thousands of volunteers helping people out.

People drove from Omaha, Sioux Falls, Minneapolis, Chicago and beyond to help out their hometown and their friends and family. That's a whole lot of remembering where you came from going on.

As the people in Dakota Dunes, South Dakota loaded all of their life possessions and memories into semi-trailers, pick up trucks, or whatever vehicle they could find (rumor has it one man was seen riding a Segway down Dakota Dunes Blvd for a box of garbage bags), it was very clear that these were tough people that were going to outlast the tough times.

As I helped my parents load up their entire life into a 53' semitrailer, I found myself running on adrenaline. Just keep going, there will be time to rest later. And then I had moments where I knew a short break would be worth it to make sure I had more energy built up to keep moving on.

There were moments of sadness, like watching my friend Jill Dodds crying while she struggled to get her parents moved out of their home in the dunes. There weren't enough hugs or words of encouragement to go around with the group of people shuffling between the two houses.

There were also moments of humor, like during a break, when the topic of conversation turned to my left foot, which I was unwrapping my ace bandage to put ice on it (new rule, don't play basketball against my oldest mini-me ever again). "Hey man, that's a pretty ugly foot, you probably need to go get another pedicure."

There were moments of anger. Like the frustration of knowing we couldn't load up the Dodds belongings for over 6 hours because the state patrol had shut off access to the neighborhood to all traffic other than the large dumptrucks bringing dirt to build the levee. Yes the levee was the most important piece of the puzzle, but if it ends up failing, God forbid, that is valuable time lost in getting people safely out of the dunes.

There were moments of gratitude to the core, like when I couldn't keep up with the text messages from total strangers who were trying to come help us out. People who didn't know us from Adam showed up and worked their asses off. For us. For nothing. Because that's what you do.

And there were moments of guilt. Like when I left last night at 8:30, knowing that the Dodds house wasn't completely done. But I was. My body and my brain and my soul couldn't take one more minute.

After experiencing this extreme range of emotions, I realized that it was a little bit like deja vu all over again. I worked at the crash site for United Flight 232 back in July, 1989. This was the same exact feeling, only 22 years later.

And in both of those instances, I found myself feeling so damn proud of my hometown. And if you are from Sioux City and don't feel that pride, I feel sorry for you, because it is something that doesn't just happen anywhere.

If you are going to force me to endure a major tragedy, Lord, please make sure I'm in Sioux City, Iowa when it happens. Because those tough people, they're the reason why I'll never forget where I came from.

Oh, and Walt, I did hug my mother before I left town.

Dear World, It's Been a Good Run

2011-05-20T19:37:00.004-05:00

May 20, 2011

Dear World,

Hey, just wanted to thank you for a cool time.

I mean, I'm not just talking about the good times either.

The bad times you gave me made me a much stronger person.

I tried to not take you for granted too much, in case you were wondering. I did really love it when you gave me lots of sunshine, but let me say, this last winter in the tundra, I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive you for that yet.

Also, and don't take this the wrong way, but I would have stopped recycling YEARS ago if I knew that things were going to come to an abrupt end like this.

I know that we all eventually are supposed to leave this place, but I guess I wish I maybe got the memo more than a few weeks before The Rapture begins the End Times.

But really, it's my own fault. I wasn't attending enough meetings at the Tin Foil Hat Church, apparently.

Listen, I just want you to know that I know where I'm going. It's alright. You don't have to feel bad for me, because I've known my fate for quite awhile, now.

But yeah, outside of that, I wanted to also thank you for starting this whole thing while I'll be in my hometown for my nephew's HS graduation reception. At least I'll be with family when meteors start hitting the earth, and hail the size of elephant dung begins to fall.

Oh yeah, and one last question...why the hell did you let people settle in Minnesota?

Hope you enjoy your time as a comet field, buddy!

xoxox,

Steve

A Salute to General Jean

2011-05-08T21:24:00.003-05:00

I love my mom for so many reasons.

I love my mom because she taught me to tie my shoes (it was hard on her, I hear, since I was not a fast learner).

I love my mom because she was always there when I was hurt, whether by falling off my bike, or a fifth grade girlfriend, or when I was scared that I wasn't going to make it through college during my first semester away from home.

I love my mom because she taught us that we could always do better.

I love my mom because she taught my brothers and I at an early age to be self-sufficient and responsible.

We did our own laundry by junior high.

I remember learning how to make my own breakfasts (a hard boiled egg) and after school snacks (PBJ and hot chocolate) by third grade.

And we were regularly reminded of the things we had to do on a daily basis, whether it was at school, home, or elsewhere.

Chores were not an option.

So it shouldn't be a surprise that my mom's nickname was always General Jean.

Some families have matriarchs. My family had a military dictator.

But make no mistake, the mutiny runs rampant in the Clem Corps.

My brothers and I (perhaps or perhaps not learned through informal tutorials led by my dad) have tormented my mom for more than 35 years.

She's down with OCD. So we have fun rearranging her knick knacks and furniture.

She's not one for someone changing up a schedule. So we'll arrive late and leave later.

She doesn't like chaos. So we do what we can to create it.

Yet she still loves us unconditionally.

And that might very well be the reason I love my mom the most.

Happy Mother's Day to every mother out there tonight!

The not so United States of America

2011-05-02T17:41:00.006-05:00

For a brief moment last night, the days following 9/11 began to reappear before me.

During the post 9/11 days, people seemed to put our differences aside.

What a proud moment for our nation.

Despite the controversial presidential election of 2000, less than a year later we were all united in our disgust at Al Qaeda's actions.

And last night, as the news broke that we had finally found and killed Osama Bin Laden, there was a very short time we were together again.

Sure, it was odd to be uniting at the death of this evil figure. It was strange to see kids who couldn't have been over the age of 8 on Sept. 11, 2001 chanting "USA! USA! USA!"

But there was something right about it. Like finding out a criminal has been caught, tried and convicted for his crime.

And then by this morning, the unity was gone.

Fragmented by people who had to turn this into a political story: "Bush deserves the recognition for this, not Obama, because he started this war."

"Obama couldn't have done this, because he wouldn't want to hurt his brother or cousin in Pakistan."

"I thought they said Obama died. What's the big deal?"

And just to be fair, there were those on the left who disgusted me, criticizing former President Bush on a day when we should be patting him on the back for his role in helping make this happen.

Or my favorite...the conspiracy theorists.

There's one guy on a Hawkeye message board that I frequent that says Osama Bin Laden has been dead for a decade, and this is all a ruse so that we can invade Pakistan and continue bombing.

These actions are not being done by our government, he says, but by the shadow government who actually runs things. Of course he still believes Obama wasn't born in Hawaii.

Enough.

Enough of the "right wing nutjobs." Enough of the "communist lefties." Enough of the tin foil hat brigade.

Nearly 10 years ago, our country was forever changed by a group of young men who were inspired by Osama Bin Laden.

Last night, we finally got the inspirational leader behind the most heinous act of terrorism ever to occur on our shores.

And we couldn't even go 24 hours without it turning into a fight between ourselves. It's sad, really.

So I'm done talking about it. You all can fight until you're blue in the face. I'm going to quietly be proud of all the people who helped last night happen, and be thankful that they are there to protect me.

You can choose how you want to react.

Slower traffic move right you motherloving apple!

2011-04-24T22:43:00.003-05:00

This blog should probably be written in at least two parts.

The focus is on horrible Minnesota drivers.

I've been collecting data on this for the last 20 some years. 12 as a resident.

But today, I hit my limit.

Driving home with my oldest (the youngest stayed back for Easter weekend to attend his buddy's birthday party he just couldn't miss), I reached a new low.

My son asked me to promise to stop swearing.

"I'm sorry, Nile. But these *&@#*& drivers are killing me!" I replied.

"Dad, can you promise me you can stop swearing for the last hour of the drive?"

"Yes. Yeah, I can do that.... @#*#!&!#&'n &^%$&!" I lasted less than 30 seconds.

"Really, Dad?" Nile asked with a condescending grin.

So I decided I could do it. I'd stop cussing for one hour.

Even if these drivers don't get the simple things they should have learned in driver's education.

The number one offense of Minnesota drivers?

They don't understand that the left lane is for passing, the right lane is for slower traffic.

I encountered the following scenario exactly 5,032 times in the last 80 miles of my trip home today: Driving in the left lane, passing slower traffic. Suddenly there's a logjam of cars. Two cars at the front are driving side-by-side, perhaps texting each other what they have their cruise control set at so as to make sure they can piss off* the maximum number of drivers.
*(My son doesn't read this blog, so that use of a swear word is hereby declared "ineligible" for review by said son).

And mind you, this is always a logjam set at 61 MPH in a 65.

But, alas I was good for the rest of the trip.

Those motherlovin' apples can kiss my God-amped ask!

They can just shut the front door!

Nard scratchin' sons of beaches!

Spring Cleaning

2011-04-10T21:42:00.010-05:00

There's something about when the thermometer creeps up above 60 that makes us turn into "doers" more than "sitters," especially here in the great tundra.

This winter, even the die hard Minnesotans were bitching about the snow and cold. It was THAT bad.

So this past weekend, I did the mother of all spring cleaning jobs.

My apartment had become pretty much a cross between a science experience gone bad and a broken beer bottle shank factory.

Throw in a few mystery spills here and there, and well you get the picture.

I'm lucky, because I happen to have a Lady Friend® who is down with OCD. And she was visiting this weekend.

Within a day of some pretty hard work, my place is renewed. Refreshed. I'm sore, tired, and still a little embarrassed to have let my Lady Friend® see my Mancave™, and by Mancave™ I mean more cave, and less man.

But Lady Friend® didn't bat an eye. She was like Patton if he had faced the battle of "WhyTheHellIsThisLayingHere?"

But truth be told, just as letting go of our mental clutter cleans our soul, so does throwing out a Shit-Ton™ of garbage and old clothes that didn't fit anyone in the house, other than the cat who made them into her own personal tunneling system over the last few months.

And so I share with you my "after" pics of my humble abode. Think of it as the "Prisoner in the Tundra" episode of MTV Cribs. Minus the fancy furniture, exotic artwork, or fancy ass volcano pool in the backyard.

May your spring cleaning include falling asleep on crisp and clean sheets when you are done. Goodnight. And thank you, Lady Friend®!

Thoughts from the 712

2011-03-31T17:29:00.010-05:00

Now Main Street's whitewashed windows and vacant stores. Seems like there ain't nobody wants to come down here no more

_ Bruce Springsteen, "My Hometown"

The short version of the story?

I was planning a vacation to Mexico in my head this week when I got my annual bonus check back in January.

That plan changed when I rolled my car near Madelia, MN approximately 5 hours later.

So I'm instead writing this while vacationing in Sioux City, Iowa. My Hometown.

Let's be honest, if you pressed me on the advantage Sioux City has over Mexico as a vacation destination, I'd say I prefer the water here to Mexico.

But really, there is something that soothes my soul when I'm home.

I drive past the Washington Elementary playground where I had my first kiss in fifth grade.

As I loop around the old neighborhood, I don't see houses.

Instead I see the faces of friends from the past, some of whom I'm lucky enough to have reconnected with all these years later.

A trip to the country takes me past the farm of my best friend, Jeff, where I was lucky to have mostly left in one piece given our ability to get into trouble.

Driving through downtown past City Hall, The Orpheum, my dad's old law office, I remember nights in high school spent cruising the downtown loop of Sioux City.

No question, the times I had here in my youth were great.

The time I spend here now is nothing short of that either.

Because even though a place that once relied on a world leading stockyards and a world leading computer manufacturer to drive it's economy has nothing near that now, they are still the same people I grew up with.

They don't stand around talking about how to fix a problem. They roll up their sleeves, get sweaty, and fix the damn thing.

If you want someone to respect you in Sioux City, you don't have to drive a fancy car or wear fancy clothes. You just have to earn their trust.

And yes, Sioux City is small enough that there's a little bit of small-town gossip here. But don't knock it. It can keep a person honest.

But I think what I like most now is that the people here are still happy to live a simple life. No fuss. Come as you are. Stay as long as you want.

I'm glad that I'm not sipping a cold drink in Mexico right now. Okay, that's a complete lie, but I truly am glad that I'm sipping a cold drink in my hometown.

It makes me feel sorry for people who don't appreciate their hometown. They're missing out on staying connected to something that shaped who they are as a person, like it or not.

Sioux City. She ain't always pretty. But she's mine.

Sons and Brothers

2011-03-09T19:19:00.005-06:00

A weekend alone with my sons, stuck inside due to snow, produces some interesting laboratory experiments.

Lots of fighting. Lots of "Dad, he called me a _____." Lots of me just wanting to shut the door to their room and crack open a beer.

Why don't these brothers get along? I was never like that as a kid.

Well, okay, actually my sons are saints (so far) compared to the things my brothers and I (mostly my brothers) pulled as kids.

There was the time that my brothers were left in charge of watching me while my parents left for the afternoon. Apparently my brothers, who are 5 and 6 years older than me, had other plans that day.

The next thing I knew I was chained up to the tree in the backyard, with a glass of water and slices of bread on a paper plate within reaching distance.

My parents ended up coming home early and finding me chained to the tree. I'm pretty sure my brothers ended up having to do some sort of home improvement project for my dad as a result of that one.

There was also the time when my parents left us alone for the day, and my brothers and I had watched one too many James Bond movies. We decided to rig the house with booby traps, including trip wires going into bedrooms.

Needless to say, we all got in a bit of trouble when a few hours after returning home, my mom tripped over a wire going into my bedroom as she was bringing a load of laundry in for me to put away.

But one thing about having two big brothers...when push came to shove they had my back.

Bully on the playground? Brothers to the rescue.

Older neighbor kid picking on me? Brothers to the rescue.

My oldest brother even took care of me for a week straight when we both had chicken pox at the same time. I seem to remember a lot of Swiss Miss hot cocoa and pre-microwave popcorn on the menu that week.

As I watch my sons today interact, even when they're ready to tear each others eyeballs out, it reminds me fondly of my brothers and I as kids.

My brothers and I don't live near each other anymore. But it hardly means we're not close.

I can only hope that Nile and Grady will have the same fondness toward each other 30 years from now.

The End of The Rope

2011-02-23T19:38:00.003-06:00

Tom was really thinking about it.

After all, he was worth more money dead than alive.

Lost his job, lost his girlfriend, lost his home.

So Tom was ready to just say enough is enough. A sacrifice, he thought. "End my life," he whispered to himself, "and help avoid further despair for my loved ones."

How to do it? Pills? Running the car in the garage? Hanging? Slit the wrists?

There were only 4 people on the Earth that could keep Tom alive, and 3 of them responded.

Two of them were his sons. More on that later.

The other two were one of his best friends, Jenna, and his now recent ex-girlfriend, who was on the vacation they were supposed to be on together.

Jenna, knowing that Tom was at the end of his rope, called the ex-girlfriend. "He's seriously scaring me. He's not well and ready to do something stupid," Jenna pleaded. It fell on deaf ears. "Are you going to call him or do I have to deal with this? Because I will just call the cops at this point to deal with it," Jenna heard back on the phone.

Jenna knew what she had to do. She had to keep Tom alive.

Tom on the other hand, was not on the same page. The logistics phase of ending the pain of everything happening had begun.

The more he started thinking logistically, the more Tom realized that he would have a major problem when his kids got home from school. His ex-wife was on vacation this entire week, so he had his two sons for the entire week.

Shit. His sons would find him. Dead. While their mom was in Florida.

And Jenna hounded Tom. Every day. Made him rate his days on a scale of 1-10. There were a lot of 1's. An occasional 2. Then he started having the occasional 3 or 4. Each time Jenna made sure to praise Tom for the progress he was making.

And Tom began healing. He started having a better relationship with his sons than ever before, because he had come so close to never being a part of their lives again. They could sense that somehow, in an innocent childlike way.

Tom realizes today that it would have been the biggest mistake of his life if he had followed through on his thoughts at the time. It's been two years. Tom is happily enjoying his life, enjoying his sons, and in a new career path. Things are going great for him now.

The point of this story?

I am "Tom."

Think about that the next time someone you know reaches out to you for help.

*This blog is dedicated to Jenn Mattern, for inspiring me to write this after reading her brave blog entry on mental illness as a single parent, and to "Jenna" for being my lifesaver.

That's How I Roll

2011-01-31T17:45:00.008-06:00

Within about 15 minutes of rolling my car, I knew what I was going to post as my Facebook status update*

*(this blog post will not address the pathetic nature of the above sentence).

I had already called the people who would be most worried about me. And I realized that it was somewhat twisted that I always liked to use the phrase "that's how I roll" on Facebook and in real life, and here I was, living it out literally.

Leading up to the rolling of my car, it was just the average drive between the Twin Cities and Sioux City. A drive I first started making on a regular basis back in 1989. One I can do in my sleep. I think I know every single bathroom stall and gas nozzle between these two locations.

The weather was light snow. I've driven through countless ice storms and blizzards, even torrential downpours and the occasional tornado warning. This didn't seem to be anything to worry about.

I had told Kim I'd be there between 4:30 and 5:00. The roads weren't bad. Light snow falling.

Kim is pretty much a wimp when it comes to winter driving. She's the first to admit it. And she freaks out when people she knows are driving in bad weather. Which is why I generally found it was better to either lie or omit evidence when letting her know how the roads were.

But this time I was telling the truth. Light snow. Roads weren't bad.

So imagine my surprise when, while going around a curve, I found my car weaving from left to right, a little bit like a first-time ice skater. I quickly downshifted, one factor into why I'm lucky to be here typing this blog entry right now. The downshifting probably brought my speed down from 65 mph to about 45-50 mph.

Despite my best efforts, my car finally decided to win and my rear bumper swung around as if to say "Hey, Kim's going to know you're lying right about now."

The next few seconds, or minutes, or however long it was, were a slow motion blur. If you don't know what a slow motion blur is, well, you haven't seen your life flash before your eyes. I did. And I literally said to myself "This is it, I've had a good run." Well I also said a few words that I don't want to type.

As my car slid into the median, which was essentially a large mound of snow in a deep ditch, it smacked the snow sideways on the passenger side. It flipped over onto the roof, then flipped back onto the tires. The car thought about rolling one more time onto the roof again, but the snow won the battle.

The first thing I did was check the keys to see if my engine ran. It worked. Then I was wondering why if felt like I was outside, and then I looked up and saw my sunroof was gone. Oh, hey sky. what's up?

By now, a passer-by had stopped and opened my car door to see if I was okay. "Yeah I'm fine. But I don't think my car is so happy."

The man looked at me like I was insane. "I just watched you slide and then roll your car. I didn't know if I was going to find you conscious here." Touche.

"Yes, I'm very lucky. I should probably call 911, huh?" I replied.

The next little while went fast. In fact, between getting a ride to the gas station, then waiting for a different gas station to send the tow truck, then talk to the sheriff, then the state trooper, then get the car pulled out of the ditch and reports filled out, and payments made, and having all 3 entities telling me that my car looked like it was drivable and fine, well, you get the point with this run-on sentence, don't you?

Suffice it to say, I was an hour and a half late to my destination. Not bad for my first rollover. Let alone first car accident.

I've felt a mixture of emotions over the last couple days after my first car accident.

Number one...I'm reminded of what I learned at age 18 while working at the United 232 crash site - Live every day like it might be your last, because we don't choose when it arrives.

Number two...I've been laughing and smiling and grateful as hell realizing that I am one lucky person right now. I'm fine. My car is mostly fine, outside of a smashed roof.

Number three...I am going to have one hell of a bar story to tell when the topic of car accidents comes up. And an awesome nickname care of a Facebook friend..."Stevel Knievel."

And the punchline of the bar story will always be "Because that's how I roll."

The Big Snipper

2011-01-13T19:45:00.008-06:00

CONTENT WARNING: This blog entry contains material that is not appropriate for non-mature readers. Contains adult language, nudity, and mild sexual parts language.

About two years after Gman, my youngest mini-me blessing, arrived, I decided it was time to get the big snip. The big road block. The big V. Vas-ect-o-my.

Mind you I wasn't thrilled about it. Had some doubts. But I did it.

I still remember how scared shitless I was before I had the pre-procedure appointment with my doctor.

It didn't help that the doctor's name made me giggle. He was from India, and if I remember correctly his last name was Jakkuhav, which when he pronounced it sounded like "jack you off." I know, I know, I'm still in 7th grade mentally.

Anyway, during the pre-procedure consult, Dr. Jakkuhav tried to use a metaphor to explain the procedure. "A vasectomy is like cooking a chicken," he said with a big grin and thick Indian accent. "Sometimes it's really good, and sometimes it gets burned."

So THAT's why they told me to buy a bunch of bags of frozen peas for after the procedure!

The night before the procedure, I was a nervous wreck. I'd already done the manscaping they requested, and as I found out the next morning, "and then some!!!"

I had talked to my relatives and friends who had vasectomies to ask for thoughts on how bad it would be. The best advice came from my brother, Jim. "It feels like you got kicked in the nuts for a couple days." Ok, I can live with that!

The next morning, as Dr. Jakkuhav was preparing things, the nurse brought me back to the room where I'd be giving up my manhood. Turns out this nurse, who was pretty attractive, I'll admit, was going to be assisting the doctor, and this was her first vasectomy.

So as I laid down and they prepped me (they essentially tape certain things out of the way so they don't accidentally have a lawsuit for giving a bonus circumcision), I realized it was going to be a longer procedure than normal.

The cute nurse was asking a lot of questions of Dr. Jakkuhav because she wanted to learn what he was doing, and what her role was to be.

As they injected the local anesthetic, I realized that local as really local.

The attractive nurse decided to keep her free hand resting on top of my "taped part" during the entire procedure, which was very much NOT part of the local anesthetic.

Let's just say there is something very demeaning about having an attractive woman touching your taped part while you are having your manhood snipped away from you and cauterized with a laser. And I'm going to leave it at that.

I confess that the next 2 days were pretty nice, though. Between the painkillers and the tons of frozen peas used on my chicken, and the football games and requirement to not do strenuous activity (no honey-do list for me!), it wasn't too shabby, really.

And please allow me to offer some final advice to the men who complain about having to get a vasectomy.

First, if you've witnessed the birth of your child/children, then you know that the pain won't be anything close to that. So don't talk about your pain fears in front of mothers.

Second, call ahead and request either a male nurse, or an unattractive one.

And pray to God your doctor's name isn't Dr. Kutyernutz.

Happy New Year! From Golden Corral!

2011-01-02T19:17:00.016-06:00

"I recommend the Macaroni and Cheese."

I was having a New Year's Eve dinner with my date, Kim, at Golden Corral.

Before you say anything, this wasn't my choice. And it most certainly wasn't Kim's choice. She protested loudly at the suggestion.

We were going to an impromptu dinner with her mom and step-dad, and well, we got outvoted and Golden Corral it was.

So as we grabbed our neon plates and crusty silverware and moved toward the first buffet line, I leaned to Kim and said, "I recommend the Macaroni and Cheese."

She wasn't amused.

She looked like a deer in headlights as we walked in to the place just minutes earlier. And as we sat in the car in the parking lot just before that, she made it a point that she as a nurse knew what kind of public health risks buffets like this could offer.

But Kim was a trooper. She found a few things she would eat without fear of vomiting before we started having some New Year's Eve cocktails later that night.

I had some mashed potatoes and gravy, some pot roast (actually they labeled it the "Awesome Pot Roast" if I remember correctly). A few green beans and some kind of a potatoey, bacony thing that I couldn't pass up.

Washed it down with a few Pepsi's (They only serve Pepsi brand soft drinks, if you're planning a romantic dinner there in the near future) and some mixture of chocolatecakepuddingcookiesandcreamthingie.

It was an awesome start to the night, because it was something that created some great memories that make me laugh until I snort.

My only recommendation is not to put that kind of a meal into your belly before you head out to enjoy some schooners/pints/shots/pints/shots/pints/water/champagne/pints/shots/pints.

And also, for your future reference, if you do combine the Golden Corral/Heavy New Year's Eve Style Drinking, be prepared for a much worse hangover than usual. My only guess is that for some reason, the Golden Corral Awesome Pot Roast must repel the alcohol rather than soak it up.

I had an outstanding New Year's Eve, regardless of the GCH (Golden Corral Hangover) syndrome.

Because when you're with good company, it doesn't matter where you are or what you eat. Laughing until you snort is sometimes worth a trip to the GC.

Happy New Year, everyone!

And I highly recommend the Macaroni and Cheese!

Non-Religious Specific Seasonal Greeting to You !

2010-12-21T22:34:00.005-06:00

I used to send out e-Christmas Cards. But then I got lazy. Or lazier.

So now, you have my blog, and my first annual "A Prisoner in the Tundra" non-religious specific seasonal greetings blog.

So without further adieu, here is my first ever "Winter Solstice Letter."

Dear Friend/Neighbor/Former Neighbor/Classmate I haven't spoken to in over 20 years/Acquaintance/Colleague/Dude I pass on the street each day:

2010 has been such a GREAT YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We started with a short jaunt in the French Riviera. January isn't the best time to be there, but it beats Minnesota in the winter. I try to exercise my options at my many international properties to avoid the Minnesota winter as much as I can.

Nile, who is in 7th grade, had a pretty decent year. He ended up having to turn down chairing a program in Tel Aviv to help end international violence because it conflicted with a Future Leaders of America camp. I'm so proud of how often he decides that his country comes before other nations!

He balanced his civic responsibilities nicely with a respect for a sound body. He has only received 12 division I football scholarship offers, and 21 division I basketball scholarship offers. He knows this is an area requiring improvement, but he is committed to working on it.

Grady, who entered 4th grade this year, has some catching up to do. He has only received 8 full academic scholarship offers to college thus far, compared to the 11 from his older brother. We are working closely with him to understand the ramifications of not applying himself fully for his future academic endeavors.

He is cute with his many hobbies, though. The best is his small scale research project in molecular biology, where he is trying to regrow organic tissue using stem cells. It makes putting up with his temper that much easier!

Myself, I would say I've had a great 2010. Upon turning down the U.S. Ambassadorship to the country of Zimbabwe, I did decide to remain as a special envoy to Japan. I mean, I love Sapporo (Japanese Beer) much more than I like Zebra's Head Stout (Zimbabwe beer), so the choice was a no brainer.

I was very wise and frugal in my stock portfolio this year, and it turns out that we will be able to add about 10 more property purchases to our assets in the coming year. It might require jettisoning a few of my slum rental units throughout lower-income neighborhoods in the U.S., but that is a smart move with the current state of the economy anyway.

I hope that this letter finds you all as healthy, wealthy and wise as my sons and I this non-religious specific seasonal celebration period. May you have an even better 2011!

With much love,

Steve, Nile and Grady

My First Year in Retail...the Smack My Head Moments

2010-12-15T18:34:00.005-06:00

Let me just say as I look back on my first year in retail, I literally mean my first year in retail.

I didn't even have the "pleasure" of working retail back in high school because I thought it would be way cooler to be a summer lifeguard. I'm pretty sure I was right then and right now.

But between the interesting customers, employees, and neighbors, it's been a very entertaining year in terms of "Did you really just say that?" moments.

The customers. Ah, they are the lynch pin of my store. They're always right. And sometimes quirky. A few of my favorite moments:

- A group of women walk in, and after a few minutes in the store walking around the store, one of them asks me, with a straight face, "Do you have anything for vegans?" Really? I mean, really? You come into an Omaha Steaks store and ask whether we have anything for vegans?

- A younger guy walks in, strolls to the back of the store where all the steaks are located, and asks "Do you guys sell beef?" After a brief pause to make sure I heard the question correctly, I responded. "Well no we don't. But we do sell plastic bags, and then we give you free beef to put into it."

- A man walks in wearing flannel pajama bottoms, flip flops, a tattered t-shirt, and a lime green baseball cap. After buying more than $200 worth of our best porterhouse steaks, he decided to hang out for the next hour telling me about how he was close friends with John Travolta and Tom Cruise, and how Scientology was the truth of the world.

- While not a customer of my store, a frequent customer at Toby Keith's Bar & Grill deserves a shout out. Because if you're a little person with a skullet (receding hairline mullet), you deserve that at the very least.

The employees, well what can I say? They've given me some pretty good "say what?" moments as well, such as:

- The employee who insisted the reason he was late every day for his shift was because the time on his cell phone was not correct. I explained to him that cell phones were linked to satellites and towers that transmitted the real time to the cell phone, which was why we didn't have to change the time on our cell phone when Daylight Savings Time kicked in. He replied by saying he was with a really cheap cell phone company, and he didn't think they used those things.

- The employee who pulled what we call a "no call, no show" in the bidness. Since I was close friends with his cousin, which was why he got the job, I called my friend to inform him of his cousin's absence. Not five minutes after that, the employee called up and said "Steve, I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier but I just got out of jail." Seriously. That was his excuse. I'll skip the part of not wanting to tell your boss that information if it was true, since in this case I knew it wasn't true. I told him he'd need to bring in the paperwork that shows he was in jail. He said he was so mad when he left the jail he threw the paperwork away in a trash can on his way out. I told him to just have the jail fax a copy of the paperwork to the store. That was the end of that conversation.

Last, but most certainly not least, are the neighbors in my brand new mall, and the interesting things they bring to the table, including:

- The women of Toby Keith's Bar & Grill. They're the nicest women you'll ever meet when you're sitting at the bar with an open tab!

- The Booger Eater. If you missed it, there was an employee from another store in the mall who would eat her lunch on the bench in front of my store everyday. Then she would pick her boogers. And eat them. And mumble to herself. Winter is cruel in Minnesota, and unfortunately I think I'm done with Booger Eater sightings until spring.

Yes, this year has definitely been educational for me, and every day I can say at the very least that I've learned something new, or seen something new, or laughed my ass off for a new reason.

Here's to the second year, when I hope I'll be able to top the booger eater, midgets with mullets, and jailed employee stories.

Explaining DJK To A 12 and 9-Year-Old

2010-12-09T22:02:00.003-06:00

I was expecting the question when I picked my sons up after school yesterday.

"Dad, what happened to DJK?"

To those readers who don't know the Iowa Hawkeyes, DJK is Derrell Johnson-Koulianos. An All-Big Ten wide receiver who has played (but not started) for four years. He seemed to always be in trouble with the coaching staff for the Hawkeyes. And on Tuesday, he was arrested on seven charges when the Iowa City Police Department executed a search warrant involving a drug investigation of DJK's roommate.

In Ferentz's doghouse more often than not, DJK had fast become a man of flash and pizazz both on and off the field.

And his story was right out of The Blind Side. Born to a teen mom in Youngstown, Ohio, Koulianos bounced around town as a virtual orphan for much of his youth before his current family brought him into their lives and adopted him legally.

And let's also be clear. He is a phenomenal player. He broke the career receiving yards record at Iowa held by perhaps the second most popular Hawkeye football player ever behind 1939 Heisman Trophy winner Nile Kinnick, Tim Dwight.

But for every touchdown, there was a tweet. For every record broken, there was a Facebook status update. For every media interview request there was a sideshow that resembled T.O./Ochocinco light.

But DJK had fast become a favorite of my sons. I'm not going to lie, they were Ricky Stanzi fans first. But my oldest, who played wide receiver last fall in his first year playing football, looked to DJK before any other when it came to who he wanted to be when he stepped on the field.

And I respected DJK. So much so that I had personally commended him this fall on the strides he made to stay out of the doghouse this year.

So when I was forced to answer the questions from my sons, wanting to know why their hero was indefinitely suspended (aka kicked off) the Hawkeye football team, I chose to be honest. And factual.

After telling them he was arrested on drug charges, they asked what drugs. I told them the drugs that the police found (my oldest has been through D.A.R.E. and knows what the different drugs are from that, my youngest just think drugs are everything that is bad for you, including fatty foods).

They both said maybe DJK wasn't involved, maybe it was just his roommate.

I explained that he had admitted to police that he had done various drugs in the past 24 hours, and submitted to a drug test that confirmed it.

Then they both quickly came into the acceptance stage. "Well hopefully he still gets drafted to the NFL. Wow, we're going to get killed in our bowl game. But Sandeman is a good receiver. Not great like DJK, but good."

And after reading meltdown after meltdown from various Hawkeye fans all over the Interwebz yesterday regarding DJK, I realized my sons had a really good perspective on it. "That stinks that DJK isn't playing in the bowl game. Do we have any chocolate molton lava cakes?"

Heck yeah we have chocolate molten lava cakes. Would you like some whip cream with that?

I hope that Derrell does the right thing in the coming months. Take responsibility for your actions. Apologize to your fans (in particular the young ones who look up to you as a role model). Move out of Iowa City, you're not doing yourself a favor staying in the fish bowl. Work hard at preparing yourself for the next phase in your life, whether that involves football or not. Be careful who you keep in your company, there's no reason to create temptations you don't need.

And to my sons I say work hard every day.

Be careful who you call a friend.

Think about what might happen tomorrow for your actions today.

You don't have to be mistake-free, lord knows I have been far from that...but you should learn from your mistakes.

And perhaps the most important, when your superior, whether it's a teacher, coach, or boss, tells you to do something, just do it. And smile. And be thankful that you are lucky enough to have that teacher, coach or boss who cares enough to try and teach you something.

We've all made mistakes, we just don't usually get the attention that DJK is getting for our mistakes. But that goes with the territory since we also don't get the attention that DJK received for his performances on the field.

Live by the sword, die by the sword. Let's hope that DJK can find his second chance in life.

By George, It Really IS Wonderful

2010-12-06T15:53:00.005-06:00

"I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world." _ George Bailey.

It is no secret that "It's A Wonderful Life" is my favorite movie of all time.

And I'm not ashamed to admit that, even though I've seen the movie roughly 2 million times, I can still cry like a baby when I watch it.

I've seen it in black and white. In enhanced color. I'm waiting for the 3-D version to arrive in theaters.

And yes, I do realize the movie has become a cliche of the Holiday season. But I don't care.

The underlying themes of the movie speak so much to me, in particular since in many ways my life has been very anti-George Bailey.

I didn't stay in my own personal Bedford Falls (aka Sioux City). I went away to college as quickly as I could and learned a lot of new things. A few of them were even in the classroom.

I also lived in London, England for a semester, and made sure that my homework load didn't interfere with my nightly dart game at the neighborhood pub.

Then I went on to grad school in Iowa City to pursue my dream of being a newspaper reporter.

I ended up living there for 8 years, and Iowa City quickly became my second Bedford Falls.

And I wanted to stay there. I had found my "home."

But I didn't stay. Having family close to us was important to my ex-wife and I during the years we tried to juggle diaper changes with careers.

So I spurned Bedford Falls not once, but twice.

Not George Bailey. He stayed despite his hatred for doing so. Because that's what had to be done.

And while George couldn't see it without the help of an Angel, his life was complete despite all the pipe dreams and destinations he never followed up on visiting.

I don't have a Clarence to guide me back to Bedford Falls, but I have a ton of friends in both Sioux City and Iowa City who make it so easy for me when I return.

And in the long run, I know I'll be back to one of the two. Just not sure which one yet.

But I know this much...I'll be happier than Mr. Potter in a bath of crisp 100 dollar bills if when I do return, a room full of friends sing "Auld Lang Syne" and pass around a bucket for donations.

If that happens, the kegs on me, kids.

As the inscription in the book from Clarence to George read, "Remember George: No man is a failure who has friends."

"I wish I had a million dollars! HOT DOG!" _ George Bailey.

Thankful For The Little Things

2010-11-24T16:33:00.003-06:00

This time of year we always take time to be thankful for the things in our lives.

Such as my nephew who announced at the Thanksgiving dinner table years ago, at the age of 3, that he was thankful for his penis.

There was a time in my life when I would have been thankful for the big house I owned, or the new furniture that filled it, or the hot tub in my back yard, or my brand new pickup truck. Or the expensive vacations I was able to take.

But as I've mentioned before, the combination of becoming single again and the craptastic economy over the last four plus years has really brought me back to the basics in terms of what I'm thankful for.

Today, and every day, I'm thankful for...

My beautiful sons, who teach me almost as much as I teach them each day.

The roof over my head. I know firsthand how easily that can be lost.

The food I can provide for my sons.

The job I go to each day, happily, because it is so much better than the alternative.

My friends, perhaps some of the best people on this earth if you ask me.

My family. They have been there for me when I needed it, and even when I didn't.

Being able to see a special someone's smile or hear their laugh, and feel a butterfly in your stomach.

Music. The sweetest sound to my ears, which can soothe my soul easily.

Laughter. The second sweetest sound to my ears. Medicine.

That I was born in the greatest country on this Earth.

The fact that I'm an Iowan. Forever. No matter where I live.

And the list would not be complete without Iowa Hawkeye Football!

As you sit down to feast tomorrow, and begin listing off the things that you are thankful for, let me challenge you with this closing thought.

Why do we only do this one day a year? Why can't every day be Thanksgiving. Because let's face it, each and every day we wake up is a gift to be thankful for in and of itself.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and enjoy the Tryptophan!

The Time I Got Sprayed By a Skunk

2010-11-14T20:11:00.005-06:00

Growing up, my best friend Jeff and I got into plenty of trouble.

Like the time we decided we were going to build a baseball stadium in the front pasture of his farm. My mom arrived to pick me up and found Jeff sitting on a fence post, yelling at me for what part of the project I had to do next.

Or the time that we decided to add a fireplace to the fort we built right next to the farm's gasoline tanks. A fireplace would be bad enough, but we built a fireplace without a chimney (such things are lost on 10-year-olds). Jeff's mom returned from an errand to find us putting the fire out, wondering if she'd ever be able to leave us alone again.

But there is no memory with Jeff more vivid than the time we got sprayed by a skunk.

It started innocently enough. We were going snake hunting.

Jeff lived on a nice farm just outside the city limits. A rolling piece of land was our playground. And on this day our chosen form of entertainment was snake hunting.

So he and I built our weapons of choice. We whittled long sticks to have a spear on one end. Primitive, yet effective. Jeff's two older cousins joined us in our hunt. We set out and found a series of holes along a hillside path that looked like they needed further investigation.

When we came upon a slightly larger hole, we looked at each other, and Jeff said "I think this might be a really big snake living here."

We all decided the best tactic was to attack as a team. As we moved closer, a set of eyes peered out of the hole at us. "Wow, that's a big garter snake," I remember thinking to myself.

The next thing we knew, a little black cat with white stripes came bolting out of the hole and immediately turned around to run back into the hole.

Or so it appeared.

This was no cat. This was Pepe Friggin' Le Pew. A skunk that was not at all happy that we woke him up from a nap looking for snakes.

Before we knew it, we were all sprayed by Pepe. And it burned our eyes. And stunk. Worse than nearly anything else I've ever smelled in my life.

We made our way slowly back to Jeff's house. As we arrived, Jeff knocked on the kitchen window to tell his mom to come outside. Upon learning of our situation, she quickly called my mom. My mom arrived and took Jeff's cousin and me back home. She made us ride in the back of the station wagon. Many moms may have made their kids walk home.

A few tomato juice baths later, and many repeated loads of clothes washing, my world returned to normal. But in that short time, I learned a very valuable life lesson.

Don't go hunting snakes if you're not ready to be sprayed by a skunk.

From The Mouths of Mini-Me's

2010-11-08T21:16:00.004-06:00

*WARNING: This blog entry contains material that may be inappropriate for those who have not been around young boys who like to discuss topics like testicles and poop. Please do not read it if you are scared by the mere mention of those topics.*

So I'm sitting in the living room, minding my own business, because that's how I roll.

My mini-me's and I had just finished discussing the fact that their neighbor friend at their mom's house was going to be having surgery because one of his testicles (not the term they used) was larger than the other.

They giggled as they told me of course. And I tried to explain to them that while the topic can be funny, not when someone has to have surgery for it. My oldest mini-me then asked me "Dad, if one of mine is a little bigger than the other does that mean I have a problem?" I told him I didn't think so (he's my hypochondriac).

So a few minutes later from the bedroom I hear my youngest mini-me yell out "Daddy!"

"What, Gman?"

"My balls are dangling and they look like a butt crack."

At which point I realized that I was doomed.

Which made me think about a few other times over the years that these two have made me wonder how much karma could come back to bite me in the butt for the things I said as a child to my mom and dad.

There was the time a couple years ago, when they were complaining about whatever horrid dinner I cooked that night. I pulled a "I sound like my father" moment, and exclaimed "You know there are kids starving in China who would love to have that food!"

My oldest mini-me shrugged his shoulders at me and said "Well good, then lets just send it to them."

Doomed.

Or the time we sat down to fill out a fun survey together, and when the question came up "What's something your Dad is not good at doing?"

And my oldest mini-me answered with a crap-eating grin, "Picking out girlfriends."

Freaking. Doomed.

Then there was the time shortly after I moved into my own townhouse following my divorce. My mini-me's had a propensity to use the toilet and not take care of flushing on a regular basis. As I walked into the half-bathroom off my kitchen, I noticed a package left for me in the toilet.

I walked back out to the living room and interrupted a very intense Lego construction project. "Hey guys, which one of you left that in the toilet without flushing?"

Both mini-me's in unison announced "Not me!"

The only response I could think of was, "Oh, so it must have been a ghost."

About an hour later, as we were driving to the store, my youngest said, in his still little boy voice, "Daddy, I fink I know who pooped in your toiwet."

"Who?"

"It was a goat."

Short pause.

"Or a pirate."

Yep.

I'm definitely doomed.

Get Out And VOTE!

2010-11-02T13:48:00.004-05:00

I tend to listen to advice from my mom.

Two things you don't bring up at the dinner table: politics and religion.

And in this virtual dinner table we call the interwebz, I tend to follow those rules as well.

But since I brought the topic up, let me first tell you I'm a complete mish-mash politically speaking.

I've been a registered Republican, and I've been a registered Democrat. I've worked for campaigns for both parties. I've left both parties when extremists inside the party push out those who are more moderate.

And I've become very jaded about the system.

Good people don't run for office anymore, and the few that do end up being corrupted by the money/lobbying game soon enough.

Getting re-elected has become a full-time job for nearly every politician, as opposed to doing the right thing. Or doing anything.

And the political debate in this country has become a shouting match full of name-calling, finger-pointing and half-truths.

And both sides of the aisle have become so obsessed with maintaining their power hold, they've forgotten how to work together and compromise on the things we can all agree on.

Yes, the American political machine is a bit like a hot dog...I don't really want to see what goes into it.

But I still vote.

Because the day I stop caring enough to vote is the day that our already fractured system may as well just be declared obsolete.

So I don't care who you vote for, or why you vote for them.

But for God's sake, just vote.

It's all we've got left.

Trick or Treat...

2010-10-26T18:42:00.007-05:00

I can't really explain why Halloween is among my favorite holidays, because I've had my share of Halloween tragedies.

There was the time when I was 6 years old when a group of teenage girls surrounded me, grabbed my bag of candy, and dumped it into their little brother's bag and ran off with my bounty. My mom took me around to all the houses again to explain that my candy had been stolen, so they didn't think I was trying to double dip. Some people didn't buy the story she was selling.

Then there was the time when I was 11 years old, working at a haunted house at the KD Stockyards basement with my best friend, Jeff. Apparently I must have drank a lot of Coca-Cola before we arrived for our shift in the haunted house. About 2 hours into our shift, I really had to pee. Badly. But I couldn't leave my station, or else people who paid good money would not possibly pee themselves. So I'd like to think I was the Messiah of Haunted Houses. I pee'd myself so that others would also pee themselves.

And perhaps even better, there was the time when I was a 20-year-old college student studying abroad in London. My "flatmate," Lev, and I had decided to hit a local thrift store and buy prom dresses to use as our Halloween costume for the party some fellow students were throwing. We spent hours getting pretty, then ventured out the door for the 2 mile walk to the party location. One minor thing that we didn't realize before we transformed ourselves from Steve and Lev to Stephanie and Levita. The United Kingdom doesn't celebrate Halloween. Sidenote, we had a lot of offers for a free drink along the walk.

Despite that, well, I've had some incredibly awesome Halloweens in my 40 years. Whether it was building haunted houses in my garage or basement to scare my neighbors, or hosting costume karaoke parties that featured fog, strobe lights, a stage, and a professional DJ, I take my Halloweens seriously.

The evolution of my Halloween priorities thus far is essentially:

Stage 1: Get an awesome costume, eat lots of candy
Stage 2: Get an awesome costume, hope the girls at the party get an awesome costume
Stage 3: Get an awesome costume, drink lots of beer
Stage 4: Get your kids an awesome costume, drink lots of beer while you take them trick or treating

I'm not sure of the rest of the stages yet, but I'm pretty sure it will end up with a final stage of "drink lots of prune juice, and yell at the kids with awesome costumes to get off your lawn!"

So as a gift to all of you at this festive time of year, I give you my favorite 3 costumes I've worn for Halloween:

1. JFK back from the dead. I bought a vintage suit from a secondhand store, some basic stage makeup kits, and hair dye. I had bullet entry wounds in the front of my neck, the back of my head looked like spaghetti, and I talked in a thick Boston accent all night. Unfortunately, I could not convince my then wife to dress as Marilyn Monroe back from the dead.

2. I did, however, convince my then wife to dress as a brick one year. I took a cardboard box, painted it, cut the proper holes. Why would she dress as a brick, you ask? Because I asked, and because I was dressed as a bricklayer. My ex-brick ended up leaning up against the wall at the party. She ended up staining the wall of my co-worker. In her new home. Her American Dream. Stained brick red.

3. Tim Dwight. Yeah, if you don't know who that is, you can just stop reading now, it's ok. Thanks for reading this far. If you do know who he is, well, you'll know that I have alot in common with him. I'm bald, he's bald. We're both Iowans. Ok, so that might be about all we have in common, but still, this costume was awesome. Trust me.

Happy Halloween, and may you get the awesome costume you're hoping for.

Benchwarmer at a wedding dance

2010-10-10T20:19:00.007-05:00

There's nothing like a wedding to drive home how single you are.

You're there for a special moment in two people's lives, and for an instant, even as a divorced dad, you can even let go of the jaded idea that marriage sucks.

I realized this weekend, while attending my niece's wedding in Sioux City, that I have been single at every wedding I've attended since getting divorced over 4 years ago.

Now mind you I haven't been single the entire time since my divorce, but every time I was attending a wedding, sure enough, it was either me solo, or me with my sons.

Last night, I was enjoying myself on the dance floor numerous times, when I was forced to my seat by the song selection of the DJ.

For every "You Shook Me All Night Long" there's a "The Way You Look Tonight." For every "YMCA" there's a "Have I Told You Lately?" For every "Macarena" and "Chicken Dance" there's a Couple's First Dance and Father/Daughter Dance that usually brings tears to the eyes of every woman in the place.

And every time the sappy slow dance song comes on, I made my way back to my lonely table, full of empty beer cans and plastic cups, and chairs covered with suit coats and ties.

Don't get me wrong...I've made a choice the last year and a half or so to pretty much ignore the thought of dating and focus on my boys and myself. But that doesn't mean I don't second guess that decision when I'm faced with a night filled with superlatives about how great marriage is, how they're beginning the rest of their life together, and how great they seem for each other.

I know I've already neutron-bombed the post-modern American Dream of a mini-van, a happy wife and kids, living in an idyllic suburban 4 BR 2 BA home.

But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in having someone to approach at a wedding reception, grab her hand, and say "Hey beautiful, want to dance?"

Someone to wake up with a hot cup of coffee waiting for her in bed.

Someone that will want to laugh with me as I watch the world around me and just want someone to turn to and say "Did you just see that?"

Someone to take the good days and bad days in stride.

Together.

So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I need to knock down the brick walls I've erected and start figuring out what options are out there again.

Because I sure the hell am getting sick of having to sit out on the sideline every time a Lionel Ritchie song comes on at a wedding dance.

The Definition of A Friend

2010-10-07T21:52:00.004-05:00

You are a friend if you (check all that apply):

__ Make me laugh

__ Laugh at and/or with me

__ Teach me something new

__ Back me up when I deserve it

__ Tell me when I don't deserve it

__ Tell me I'm a good cook, even though I'm not

__ Call me when you know I'm lonely

__ Leave me alone when you know I'm not lonely

__ Fed me when I was hungry

__ Called me "Clemmy"

__ Called me "Higgy"

__ Called me "dumbass"

__ Root for the Hawkeyes

__ Root against the Huskers

__ Know my "breakdancing" name

__ Have seen me with lots of hair, parted down the middle

__ Have seen me at my best. And my worst. And still acknowledge me.

__ You like me, you really like me!

Total up your points. (0 = You're not my friend), (1 and greater = You're my friend, and you rock, and thank you).

Good night. Tip your wait staff. Try the veal. I'll be here through next Tuesday.

Jumping out of a plane, Part Deaux

2010-09-21T20:46:00.003-05:00

So perhaps in this case, insanity can be defined by doing the same thing twice expecting the SAME result.

After successfully surviving my first tandem skydiving experience in May 2009, for some unexplained reason, I decided to cheat death a second time last weekend. And I have to say that it was a completely different one -- both better and worse -- from the first time.

Let me first say that I was WAY more nervous the second time around. Perhaps because I actually knew what to expect. The first time, adrenaline started the minute the door plane closed and continued for a few days afterward. This time, the adrenaline wouldn't last as long, or help me through the hours before my jump.

Let me also add, it's not real wise to do youtube searches for videos of skydiving accidents the night before you jump. Call me morbid.

I jumped in a new location this time, in Winsted, MN, where the tandem instructor I had last year...Jumpin' Joe, formerly known as Crazy Joe, had opened his own place.

My nerves subsided by the time I got to the airport and started talking to Joe. His mixture of humor ("We haven't had a death, yet, which means we could have one any day") and intensity and passion for jumping helps keep you calm.

My last order of business was to hug my kids, hand them all my possessions, and tell them if it looked like something was going wrong when I jumped, to turn around and not watch.

As my plane took off, a Zen-like calm came over me as I realized that if I did have to die, this might not be that bad of a way to do it, other than the guarantee of no open casket funeral.

The view this time was so much better. Last year's jump was in flatland farm country in Wisconsin. This year's jump was in flatland farm country in Minnesota. But there were lakes. Thousands of them. Which I guess is how this state got it's nickname. Crazy.

But you could also see the famed lake of the Twin Cities, Lake Minnetonka, as well as the skyline of downtown Minneapolis.

As the moment of truth arrived, and they opened the door on the small Cessna plane, it was me leaning out over the edge of the wheel with 10,000 feet of air between me and the ground. There really are no words to describe this feeling. The wind is whipping you before you even begin to plummet at 125 miles per hour.

And as Joe and I tipped out of the plane, unlike last year, we tumbled backward and did a few flips as we left the plane behind and watched it soar into the distance.

The free fall experience is something you also can't put into words that aptly describe it. You really are flying at this point, albeit because of gravity, not wings. Nearly twice as fast as you typically are going down the freeway in your car.

I love the peacefulness of the descent after the chute opens, but the free fall is what keeps me coming back. Maybe it's the rush of knowing you're dropping like a lead weight toward Earth, and there is still a chance that the chute won't open. Cheating death. It can become addicting.

And while it's not the same thing, if you'd like to at least see what I experienced (even though it doesn't really do it justice), check it out here:

http://realxstream.com//video/5v6ghhz908z664tl

And if you ever find yourself with the opportunity to take life by the balls, do it. After all, life isn't a dress rehearsal. Happy jumping!

GUEST COLUMN: From my friend G, who is from Canada, which explains her weird spelling

2010-09-05T22:58:00.005-05:00

I finally belong....

The 2010 college football season is about to begin and there are no words to describe the way I feel about this game, or how it has changed my life.

About 3 years ago I was inadvertently led to an online football message board and while there I started to get to know some real down to earth, genuine people. Each day I’d post about some random topics and engage in everyday conversation and banter.

These average folks posting along with me live in small town America and truly love their football. Some might say it's because they have nothing else to think about and nothing else to do, but I think they have something more than most. I think they belong to something simple, yet unspoken, I know they belong to something more than just a game.

It seemed peculiar to me at the time, their unusual relationship to football and their relationship to each other, but as I got to know them I realized that they were bound to one another. Their Hawkeyes connected them and I was intrigued, like a science experiment I was drawn to uncover the secrets to the bond they formed.

At first I tried to buy into what they were selling, but I will be honest I thought those young guys tossing a football around in tight pants were just kids and the people who loved the game just got together to drink beer and hang out with other like minded. I didn't know a “drop back” from a “drop kick” and I definitely didn’t realize why these people would count down the days until the next season started.

And now look at me, I’m counting down the hours like some love-sick teenager who spent an hour on the phone with her boyfriend, but is waiting for it to get dark so she can climb through her bedroom window just to spend whatever time she can with him. I admit it, it’s addicting. The more time I have had, the more time I want, and I never want it to end.

This probably seems a bit foolish to anyone who doesn’t love college football, especially the Hawkeyes the way I do and I am continuously questioning how it all happened. All I can say is that something transpired the first time I went to a game in Iowa City. On that crisp October morning I tailgated on the streets with almost complete strangers; I simply never felt alone, or uncomfortable. I was scooped up and taught immediately that being a part of game-day was full of tradition, a deep faith, a powerful loyalty, and patience for what’s meant to be.

To be part of this relationship you had to have staying power and you had to believe, always believe. Those Iowa Hawkeye fans never give up on their team and they never give up on anyone who comes along, curious about what they have, someone like me. They continue to embrace me, not only during the actual season, but each and every day until a new season starts. Talk about loyalty and faith, huh?

I don’t pretend to know what this season holds for my team; whether they will be winners or losers, and frankly I don’t care, that isn’t why I am here. You should know though that the promises by experts are that it will be an awesome year, with the word “championship” written all over the place.

If you are reading any predictions when it comes to college football, you won’t read an article anywhere regarding the Hawks that doesn’t state the expectation they will go far, further than they ever have in their history. Doesn’t that just make you want to watch one Saturday morning to see if “they” are right? I do.

It’s so tempting to think I am just star struck, and you know what I’m not going to lie, I am. When those eleven players walk out onto the field I get goose bumps, my heart swells with pride, and it’s a feeling I can’t describe.

I will tell you this though, my being enamoured with the Hawks has nothing to do with them winning, it is because I know those young men play each Saturday because I am there, and because I care and that is why I belong to the Hawkeyes.

It is why I also belong to the tens of thousands of other followers just like me, who shout each week, for 12 weeks, “LET’S GO HAWKS, LET’S GO HAWKS, LET’S GO HAWKS!” Every chance they get.

Yes My Car Is Possessed. But You're A Jerk. And I Can Fix My Car

2010-08-27T19:03:00.006-05:00

So I'm snoozing away, minding my own business, when I get a call at 1:53 a.m. from a number I didn't recognize.

"Mr. Clem, this is Officer Miller with the Plymouth Police Department. We are here on the scene at *my address here* where there has been a noise complaint because your car alarm is going on and off all night."

"Ok, I'll be down to take care of it."

My car pisses me off sometimes. Ever since a small leak developed in the seal around my sunroof, anytime it rains, water seems to be collecting in the fuse box area inside the car, which is wreaking havoc with my electrical system.

Sometimes the door locks will just lock and unlock randomly. Sometimes the dome light will just decide it wants to stay on all night, no matter if you have it in the off position. Sometimes a taillight will work, sometimes it won't. And yes, sometimes, the car alarm decides to go off randomly.

I've been meaning to get it fixed, but was somewhat reliant on receiving my tax refund for 2007 and 2009 from the government. Now that that has FINALLY happened, I've got an appointment scheduled for early next week to get it repaired.

But back to the problem at hand. It's 1:58 a.m., and I can't find my flip flops. I knew I left them by the front door, but the kids must have moved them. I wander around in a sleepy haze, trying to find them without turning on the lights. Then I decide I'm just going to shove my stinky feet into my stinky hiking shoes because I really, really, really want to go back to sleep.

As I go out the front door of my apartment building, I notice not one, but TWO squad cars parked next to my vehicle. As I walk closer, one squad car peels away and parks about 25 yards behind, shining his lights on me as I approach the other police car. As I get within 5 feet, the female officer in the squad car looks jolted, and jumps out quickly as if she is preparing for me to launch a vicious attack or something.

I explain to her that I was the owner of the car she had just called, and was going to move my car to the unattached underground parking for the night, where nobody would be able to hear my alarm.

After a lecture about proper car maintenance and telling me I needed to update my DMV address, she moved aside so I could move my car to the underground parking.

And then I saw the notes. Two of them. Stuffed under my windshield wiper on the driver side. I pulled them out and read them. The top one said "RUDE! TOO LOUD!"

The bottom note read "Your Car Alarm is TOO SENSITIVE! It went off all night. I reported this noise pollution to the office. One more night & will report to police."

One more night, my ass.

And let me clarify, oh anonymous note writing neighbor. Despite the rumor to the contrary, not every man thinks of his car as an emotional attachment, or as a means to make up for a lack of height, size, or girth. I don't control my car. I don't like it when the car alarm goes off. So please stop calling me rude for my car's actions.

Secondly, oh note writer, you may want to edit your time frame for calling the cops before you leave it next time.

Thirdly, I'm getting my car fixed next week. When are you going to do something to fix your approach to life and people? Why don't you leave a note on my car to let me know.

xoxox,

Clemmy

I'm ready for the boom

2010-08-16T22:21:00.006-05:00

I don't know when exactly I fell in love with the Iowa Hawkeyes.

I know it was before Hayden Fry came along to save the football program from near death.

Because I remember walking to school wearing my Hawkeye shirt, and getting made fun of by my Cyclone and Nebraska fan classmates.

But I will tell you that my love affair with the Hawkeyes has not waivered in over 30 years. Not once. It's in my blood. Win or lose.

My ex-wife, well, she probably wished she was the Hawkeyes at some point, I'd imagine.

Luckily for me, I've created two monsters in my sons. They both have their Hawkeye #12 Ricky Stanzi jerseys. They both talk about the Hawkeyes and the state of Iowa as if it is a religious experience for them. When we drove past the Gophers' TCF Stadium (The TCF stands for Terrible College Football, fyi), my kids yelled out "That's where the Hawkeyes are going to smash the Gophers this fall!"

I mean, come on, my oldest son is named Nile. (If you don't know who Nile is in Hawkeye lore, read here.

I'm happy that I get to share that experience with them, the same way I got to experience it with my parents. Growing up, Saturdays meant get the chores done so we could listen to the game on the radio, or watch it on TV (which was much less frequently back in the old days).

And they've learned very quickly that as a Hawkeye fan, we don't whine about losing. Only Nebraska fans do that.

So, my blog tonight has very little in the way of a point. Except that we're now less than 19 days away from the kickoff of the 2010 Hawkeye Football Season...and me, I'm ready for the boom.

GO HAWKS!

Not excited enough? Then click this link now.

The Silver Lining, I Kan Seez It.

2010-08-06T21:16:00.006-05:00

I refuse to let this crap get the best of me.

I will not let the negative energy drag me down.

I'm focusing on the positives, such as:

I am 93.6 percent sure that I'm more knowledgeable about head lice than everyone in North America except for whatever guy did all the research papers I read online.
I've learned that my sons really, really, really, really, really don't want me to move away from them. Given some tough times in the last few years with my youngest, in particular, this brought a tear to my eye.
I know who my friends are. And they make sure I know they are there.
I still have my sense of humor. It's my medicine in life. If you can't laugh at the crap in life, you're going to be pulling a Mona Lisa for the vast majority of your life.
I'm employed. I have a roof over my head, and more importantly Nile's and Grady's heads. I have my car and the repo men aren't anywhere nearby.
I have two awesome sons. I mean we're talking 101.2 percent awesome. They're far from perfect, but they know I don't expect them to be. I just expect them to learn from their mistakes in life. As I am still doing.
I am not as schadenfreude as some people. Which is nice. And schadenfreudian.
I'm pretty sure that I'm going to survive pretty much anything at this point in life. Which makes me a ninja.
I still haven't been arrested, so I'm doing something right."
Football season is only 28 days away.

GO HAWKS! And remember to accentuate the positive!

The Two Wolves: A Cherokee Story about Native Wisdom

2010-07-27T23:09:00.003-05:00

Thank you to Amy H. for posting this on my Facebook page tonight. I absolutely love it. First appeared somewhere else, a long time ago:

A Grandfather from the Cherokee Nation was talking with his grandson.

"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.

"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves."

"One wolf is evil and ugly: He is anger, envy, war, greed, self-pity, sorrow, regret, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, selfishness and arrogance."

"The other wolf is beautiful and good: He is friendly, joyful, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, justice, fairness, empathy, generosity, true, compassion, gratitude, and deep VISION."

"This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other human as well."

The grandson paused in deep reflection because of what his grandfather had just said. Then he finally cried out; "Oyee! Grandfather, which wolf will win?"

The elder Cherokee replied, "The wolf that you feed."

What I've Learned

2010-07-23T21:00:00.005-05:00

As I near my 40th birthday next month, I've realized that there is at least one advantage of being older than dirt... knowledge.

I've learned some great lessons in my first 39.9 years. I hope to apply the wisdom in my next 39.9.

So here are some thoughts from an old, balding, almost 40-year-old guy. Take them for what they are worth.

- You are lucky if you find love and it lasts. If it doesn't last, you we're still lucky.

- When you have some money, enjoy it. It can disappear fast...so there's no harm in spoiling yourself once in awhile.

- Cherish the moments you have with your children. They do, I hear, eventually stop listening to you for a good 5-10 years.

- Appreciate your friends and family when you are with them. None of us are here forever.

- A night of eating, drinking, and making merry can cure all of your ills for the time being.

- Don't hold grudges. Or rattlesnakes.

- Make sure at least once in your life, you allow yourself to wake up and walk along a beach on the ocean.

- Women who wear capri's, a baseball jersey, and a baseball cap with a ponytail are perfection.

- You really can't go back. But it doesn't mean you have to forget.

- Hug your mom.

- When you wake up tomorrow, after you check all your extremities to make sure they work, remember to be glad you've got another day to screw shit up.

My Dead Cat

2010-07-13T21:28:00.005-05:00

My cat, Rosie* died two years ago this summer.

* (Disclaimer: My sons named her. Not. Me.)

Well so she didn't totally die. Guess she technically has eight lives left.

But I remember her death vividly. I went off to a college friend's wedding in Dallas, and left my cat with my ex wife to have my sons watch her for the long weekend.

After a little bit of time in the NWA/Delta VIP Lounge at MSP Airport, my buddy, Gingo, and I boarded the plane for what was my virgin first class flight. By the time we arrived in Dallas, we were feeling JUST fine.

As we checked into our hotel, hours later than planned due to some beer-fueled detours, I got a phone call from Minnesota.

"I am kind of afraid that your cat is dead," my ex whispered into the phone. She whispers often when talking, both in person and on the phone, but she does it extra quietly when she has really bad news.

"What?" I asked back, mostly because I truly didn't hear what she said.

"I think my dog ate your cat today."

Now, many things flashed through my mind at that moment, but not once did I entertain the notion that her dog - remember the MINI-dachshund? - had eaten my cat.

"I'm betting she is just hiding, she's in a new place, and is likely hiding someplace where the dog can't find her," I said in my slightly buzzed state of calmness.

"Well, I went outside, and I found a carcass. All that is left is a bit of tail, and it looks like the same color hair as your cat had."

Ok, wait, is it physically possible for a mini-dachshund to eat a cat? My intuition said no, and I told her that it was probably a squirrel or raccoon skeleton that the dog had found nearby.

"No, I'm 99 percent sure this is your cat."

The last sentence would keep me guessing.

As I hung up the phone, not sure what I was supposed to do from Texas, my friends in the background were all breaking out in laughter, with all of them very familiar with the kind of relationship my ex and I had going back to the beginning.

"So, there's a chance that my cat is dead, but I'm guessing more likely it just got outside or is hiding." My friends know that I will be making jokes, as will they, about dead cats for the rest of the evening.

The humor was stifled for a moment when I got a second call from my ex's phone. It was both my sons, crying hysterically into the phone about how they hated their dog for eating their cat.

I spent a few minutes reassuring them that we didn't know what had happened to the cat yet, and that she could just be cleverly hiding, or got out, but will find her way back.

The fact that they said they never wanted pets again almost broke my heart. Especially since we didn't KNOW what had happened yet. But I couldn't undo that thought for them at that moment.

The next morning, a rather groggy minded, slightly achy me answered a bright and early phone call from my ex's phone again. "DAD WE FOUND HER! SHE WAS HIDING BEHIND THE FURNACE!" I heard two little voices screaming into the phone in unison.

After a conversation ranging from how they never really thought the little dog could eat their cat, to what kind of special treat they were going to give Rose the dead cat, I hung up and rolled over and tried to sleep.

But every time I tried to, I would start to laugh knowing that this was one occasion I felt very good to be right.

Now, a regular greeting for Rose when we return home from both boys is "Hi Rose, remember the time you died?" or "Hey Rosie, remember when Daisy ate you?"

And I smile to myself. To rip off Harry Chapin as I bid you goodnight, my boys are just like me.

Yippee Ki Yay, Mr. Banker Man, I'm Hittin' The Trail

2010-07-09T19:25:00.003-05:00

Dear Mr. CEO of My Bank of 11 plus years:

Please accept this letter as my official two weeks notice as your customer. As soon as I finally get the automatic deposit of my long overdue tax refund, I'll be filling out a withdrawal slip for the full amount of my account that day.

With your recent $25 billion acquisition of one of your failing competitors, I can understand how you may not have time to hear from a customer. No I'm not a commercial customer. Nope I'm not a CEO like you. No, I just have been banking with your place for awhile, and thought I'd let you know why I'm leaving.

I'm sure you are aware that times are tough. I hope that your bonus this year was wisely invested. But if it wasn't, perhaps you can get another $25 billion bailout from the Federal government? Or perhaps get an additional $25 billion tax break for buying another failing competitor?

And during these tough times, your bank has steadily become a place where I am no longer a person, but instead a risk or reward, identified by a routing and account number, and PIN code.

Your personal bankers are not allowed to be personal. They are trained to be robots who follow your edicts passed down through your layers and layers of management to the front line.

I realize that I am responsible for some of my frustrations regarding my bank account with you. I will own that much. But there also comes a time where you have to take some ownership as well. And I don't mean of more of our tax dollars.

Anyway, Mr. CEO, thanks for taking time to read this. I need to run now because one of your competitors is running a promotion to sign up new accounts. I see the bankers there everyday through my job, and they know me on a first name basis, and ask about my kids and my store. They don't just do it because they want my business. They do it because that's what people do with one another. Interact. And give a shit.

So I'm going to wander on down the trail, now, Mr. CEO. I know you've probably got a yacht party or wine tasting or charity event or something to go to. Have a great weekend, and I know you won't lose any sleep over losing my little tiny checking account with you. But don't worry, the feeling is mutual.

Sincerely,

Your Now Former Customer.

Permanent Mexican Vacation Anyone?

2010-06-29T12:52:00.003-05:00

"O h, Mexico. It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low. Moons so bright like to light up the night. Make everything all right" _ James Taylor, "Mexico"

Today has been one of those days where I'm so tempted to pack up what I can fit into my little car and start driving south.

All I would need for sure would be some cash, my passport, some shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. Probably my laptop too.

I'd probably head west to Arizona, then south to Puerto Vallarta. I'd sleep in my car along the way, and live off chili dogs from the Kwik-E-Mart.

When I arrive in Puerto Vallarta, I'd probably head to the downtown bars first. Because that's what one should do in Puerto Vallarta.

Then I'd set up shop that week selling photographs and short stories on the beach. I'd sell them cheap, too, because all I would need to pay for is a bed, a roof, some food, and some cervezas.

Life for me would be cut down to the bare essentials. Work, sure, but only to pay for the good things in life, and most of them are free. The sun. Dancing to the vibrant music. Enjoying the sound of the ocean. The smell of authentic Mexican food cooking in the distance.

I'd spend my days on the beach, peddling my wares, and my nights enjoying the cool ocean breeze off the bay of banderas, hopefully on a balcony on the mountainside, sipping a cold Bohemia.

And everything would be all right.

Nile and Grady, some day I hope you know how lucky you are that your dad loves you more than the above scenario.

RIP Jeff Doyle, You Are Missed

2010-06-24T21:05:00.005-05:00

Tonight I got an email from an old friend from Iowa City.

She told me that she had received word that one of our common friends, Jeff Doyle, had died this week of colon cancer.

It was one of those "getting hit by a ton of bricks" moments.

Jeff and I got to know each other through the Iowa City-Coralville Jaycees, and we quickly found ways to get into trouble together.

There was the night we planned to hit the bars in Iowa City. I had to call my then wife and explain to her that I was still at the bar at 3 a.m. "The bars close at 2!" she replied in a sharp tone. "Not in Illinois, they don't," was my reply.

Then there was the time he hosted a Super Bowl party and bought a pony keg. He didn't bother to tell me that there were only 3 of us attending. That was the same Super Bowl party he had champagne chilling on ice so we could pop it and toast Tim Dwight when he scored a touchdown. Sure enough, that bottle got popped. Only. Time. I. Missed. Work. The. Day. After. The. Superbowl.

I also remember many nights turned into morning, sitting on my patio, enjoying cheap cigars and cheaper beer, and solving all the world's problems.

And now that Jeff is gone, I think it is safe to tell one of the most awesome secrets I've kept for over 15 years.

Jeff, a devout Hawkeye fan, made a habit out of stealing football helmets from Kinnick Stadium. He had seats behind the visitor's bench, and he wanted to collect as many helmets from the opposing teams as possible. He was a master at it. Even after having newspaper articles written up about the mysterious helmet thefts, he was never caught. The best newspaper article details a time when the starting QB for the opposing team went to grab his helmet from the bench only to find it gone. Yep, Jeff had it.

He had them all tucked away in a special display case that only his close friends got to see.

Jeff could be a pissy mood bastard, and he could be the life of the party. You never knew which Jeff you might get, but one thing you always knew with Jeff. You had someone who would give you the shirt off his back, and then make sure it fit right.

I'll miss you, buddy. I'll sing "In Heaven There is no Beer" in your honor, and pour out a 40 ouncer for you.

Thank you, dad.

2010-06-20T23:36:00.004-05:00

My dad is the most moral man I know.

He won't jaywalk. He might say he will, but he won't.

If he had a late DVD return at the movie store, you can bet your ass he wouldn't drop the DVD in the night return slot. Nope. Because he wouldn't have a late DVD.

I admire my dad on so many levels.

I admire him for his work ethic. When we were young, my brothers and I didn't always see my dad much. Because he was working harder to bring home money to feed our ever-growing appetites.

I admire my dad for the fact that he doesn't waffle. He knows what he believes in, and stands by it.

I admire my dad because he has always understood the notion of the greater good. After receiving his J.D. from the University of Iowa, he promptly enrolled in the U.S. Army. His pay in the military was not anything compared to what he might make practicing law. But it was consistent. The turtle beats the hare. An important value he instilled in me.

I admire my dad because he not only made us laugh, he taught us how to make others laugh. And laughter is medicine...and has helped keep my brothers and I close over the years. Despite many a fight, many an angry moment, and many a mile between us as we grew older.

I admire my dad for his faithfulness to my mom. Just shy of 51 years, things aren't perfect for them, but they're perfect for each other. I only wish that I could find the person in my life that would be with me 51 years later (stop doing the math, I know I'll be dead by then).

Most of all, I admire my dad because he has lived his life the right way, from beginning to present day. Is he perfect? No. I learned some of my best cuss words when he'd be doing wallpaper projects for my mom.

But he's my dad. And he did a helluva job considering all the things he had to put up with. And without speaking for my brothers, I can still say that all three of us are who we are today because of the role our dad played in our lives.

Thank you dad. I can only hope that someday I'll have two boys who feel the same way about me as I do about you.

Refugee Clembo

2010-05-31T18:57:00.007-05:00

Just as I was beginning to settle in for an afternoon nap on a day off with no kids, the phone rang.

"Dad!" It was my oldest son, Nile. "Dad, they're coming for your car. Get out of there quick."

In my semi-dazed state, I asked him to repeat himself. "They're coming for your car. Two men. Hurry."

As I hung up the phone, I had a few thoughts going through my mind. The first of which was "I hope I get out of here before they find me."

Adrenaline. A hell of a natural drug. Found that out firsthand when I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane last year. It was kicking full blast at this point, as I ran down to my car, wearing sweats, a Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt that rarely makes it in public, and some skateboard brand baseball cap I bought for Nile in Mexico that was the only baseball cap I could find in my 30 second escape from my apartment.

Remember the scene from Fletch, when he was sneaking in and out of his apartment to avoid bill collectors? That was what I felt like, minus the Lakers attire.

I hopped in my car, looking for a tow truck the entire time, and zoomed off onto rural roadways, not sure of my next move.

Quickly realizing from my previous repo experience (yes, it's happened once before, but was buried in a mountain of issues - losing my townhouse, my job, my girlfriend) I knew that if I could pay off my balance due before the repo men found me, they couldn't take my car. I quickly called my store, where my employee, Deanna, helped me out by logging in and making a payment to my account for me. She uses the same car loan people I do, and has been in my same shoes of trying to dodge the repo man herself.

Paid my amount owed...but the damn business office was closed until Monday morning. I had to hide out for another 36 hours or so.

So I called a friend who knows what it is like to have to lean on someone when there is no way to stand on your own.

I quickly told Fish what was going on, and he just as quickly assured me that the repo man wouldn't find me in Nordeast Minneapolis.

So off to Nordeast I went. With an empty bank account, and a feeling as if I was Harrison Ford in The Fugitive, I showed up in my sweatpants, t-shirt, and borrowed hat from my oldest son.

A quick plan of action was devised - beers and roast beef sammiches at Mayslack's - a Nordeast Institution.

We walked the few blocks to the bar, and went between time inside (it was cloudy and cold when the day began) to time on the patio, when the sun had come out, as if to remind me that everything was going to be ok. Fish told me as we got ready to leave the bar that the afternoon of beer and food was on him.

What started out as a normal day, then a stressful day, suddenly had turned into one of those moments where you stop, and remind yourself "none of this really matters in the end, outside of good times with good people."

As I hopped in my car, planning where I was going to park my car for the next 36 hours, I realized how karma really does happen.

Fish had needed me a few years back, and I helped him out. I needed him for a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, and he was there for me.

I raise a glass of Nordeast Beer in honor of Fish, and more importantly, all friends who are willing to step up to the plate and help a friend out at a time when others may just sneer and judge them for being in the predicament to begin with.

Life is a hard mofo at times. Having good people around you can make all the difference between it being worth it, or not. Remember that the next time a friend asks you for some help.

Interwebz Friends: Debunking the Stigma

2010-05-23T20:29:00.004-05:00

"So how do you know so and so?"

What a friggin' tough question that is when you are a bad liar.

"Through a social group."

"We have common friends."

"We met at a work thing."

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Truth be told, people, I met them on the interwebz. Get over it.

I've met girlfriends on the interwebz. I've met probably near hundreds of Hawkeye fan friends through the interwebz. I've even been in the wedding of someone I met off the interwebz.

So sue me.

Despite what you read (on the interwebz of all places) and hear and see, the interwebz is not all creeps and pedophiles and con artists.

Despite what you hear:

Craigslist is not completely made up of ax murderers.
Match.com is not entirely full of registered sex offenders.
Facebook.com is not 99 percent men pretending to be women.

The stigma surrounding the interwebz is really a tired cliche at this point. After all, you're reading this blog because somehow you are connected to me via the interwebz.

Yes, dear reader, there are people who I originally met on the interwebz who I would go to hell and back for. And 99.9 percent of them I've met in real life, long after first meeting them on the interwebz, and they have enriched my life immensely.

Think about it...we use the interwebz to be more efficient in every other facet of life - paying bills, keeping track of our finances, ordering groceries, planning vacations - why wouldn't it make sense for us to use it to more efficiently make new friends with whom we have much in common?

Who are these people, these strangers from the interwebz?

There's my bestest interwebz friend ever. She knows more about me probably than my ex-wife...and is always entrusted with said privileged information. Even if she spells things in that funny Canadian/Queen's English way.

There's my former girlfriend, who has remained a great friend throughout the last 3 years.

There's my buddy from Des Moines, who I usually try and tailgate at least once or twice at Hawkeye games each year. Typically we'll talk on the phone at least once a week to catch up on how things are going.

There's my many high school and college classmates, who, while I may have known them in the past, I was hardly friends with them. But now, through the powerful magic of the interwebz, I'm fortunate to have them all as people who I can vent to, help out with their problems, or just make each other laugh for a little while.

So the next time you meet someone new at a party, or the grocery store, or a bar, or at the park while walking your dog...

Remember that they could be a pedophile. Or a scam artist. Or a convicted sex offender.

And in the meantime, please stop making me feel weird for having interwebz frenz. lol. omg. ttyl.

"When I was your age...."

2010-05-11T22:56:00.004-05:00

As I near my 40th birthday this summer, it is really hard for me to not start to feel old.

As I watch my sons and their lives, and compare it to what my experience was like at their ages, there is no comparison.

Or is there?

They play Wii, I played Atari Pong.

They listen to MP3s on an iPods, I listened to cassette tapes on a walkman.

They have the Internet, I had a library card.

They like to play backyard football pretending they are Brett Favre and Adrian Peterson, I liked to play backyard football pretending I was Terry Bradshaw or Franco Harris.

They watch music videos on Youtube.com, I watched music videos on MTV, back when they still played them.

They get excited to build a pinewood derby car designed the way they want it, just like I did many many decades ago.

They play with Star Wars figures and G.I. Joe, just like I played with them. As an aside, I'm really hoping they don't pick up the habit of using firecrackers to make the battles more realistic like my brothers and I did back in the day.

As much as I'd love to break out the "back in my day, we walked uphill both ways" stories, because that's what dads are supposed to do, I can't do it.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Or something like that.

I am so blessed to be able to watch them navigate life, and help where I can.

Don't feel bad for feeling good

2010-05-10T01:18:00.005-05:00

A friend texted me tonight to tell me she had had a few too many drinks at the bar.

My response? "So what?"

Now I know that the proper way to react in our new "politically correct" world would have been to tell her to stop drinking, hand her car keys to the bartender, and walk home. I already knew she was walking home, so I jumped right to the "who gives a shit?" stance.

People, it's time we talk about the "Midwestern Work Ethic Guilt."

We already know about the "Jewish Mother Guilt."

And the "Catholic Guilt."

But very few are familiar with the "Midwestern Work Ethic Guilt."

It goes something like this:

1) Work is the most important thing in your life.

2) You must remember rule #1 at all times.

3) When you don't remember rule #2, see rule #1, and remember it at all times.

4) Fun is bad.

I don't know what it is, but even when I'm not broker than a mule that's been ridden across the continental US, I feel guilty for spending $.99 on a crappy double cheeseburger. "That's $.99 I could save."

"Have I worked hard enough to earn this $.99 piece of crap excuse for a double cheeseburger?"

"I really don't deserve this $.99 craptastic pile of crapola."

"No, seriously, I should pay you $99 to not give me this double cheeseburger. $99 I worked hard for, but it would be better for me to suffer from that than suffer from spending $.99 on this excuse of a burger."

People wonder why I would spend money to jump out of an airplane when I had just lost my townhouse, my car (temporarily) and a bit of my bearings.

Well why the hell wouldn't I spend money to jump out of an airplane? That one experience gave me enough of a new outlook in life to justify spending the equivalent of 300 crapalicious double cheeseburgers on it.

So let's take a minute to re-write these Midwestern Work Ethic guidelines, now, so that they match our newfound post-modern self-absorbed approach to life:

1) Work is really important, and we should do our best at it.

2) Work eventually ends, usually when you walk out the door at the end of the day. If it doesn't, then ask them why it isn't.

3) Life is short, so work has to eventually give way to play. Embrace it.

4) Play is not only good, it's required. Even if it means something mundane like going for a walk around your favorite lake, or splurging for a $.99 piece of poop double royale with cheese.

Take it from me...life is really effin' short. So if you don't take time to enjoy the moments you have, you may just not live to regret it.

Time to scarf down this burger that's been calling my name. Time to get living and playing. Go on, now.

Live. Play.

Dorks of a Feather...FLOCK TOGETHER!

2010-04-30T23:03:00.005-05:00

It was 20 years ago today, that the dorks of a feather came to play.

Ok, maybe not. But I do know that 20 some years ago, there was a little thing called a Keg Race held, and I may or may not have had something to do with it.

And there was "Ten Guys Throwing A Party," "Guys Who Stuff Their Crotch Disco Party," "Frank Sinatra Birthday Party." A party for all occasions, and I may or may not have had something to do with it.

Bricks on the hood.

Bottle rockets buzzing Sgt. Randy Hansen's head.

The Oompa Loompa.

White Lines dance.

My circle of friends from Grinnell College are much more than just friends. They are brothers. We don't see each other often, but when we do, we pick up right where we left off, at least in spirit. There's no way possible for us to pick up where we left off physically some 20 years ago, when we may or may not have been involved with "that one time when... ."

Grinnell was a tough school, academically. But for some reason, my friends and I didn't let our classes get in the way of our education.

Underwear parties. Another great memory.

Night Train Party. Kamikaze Party. It's Clem's Birthday Party. We found a reason to get a keg quite easily.

At the time, we proclaimed of others that "dorks of a feather flock together!"

Now we proudly proclaim the same cheer toward ourselves.

We could have all achieved so much more in college. If only we had put down the beer stein and picked up our book a few more times each week. If only we had applied ourselves more.

To quote one of my Grinnell brethren, "Mmmm, nah."

My brothers and I all are in agreement these days that we wouldn't have changed anything. Anything.

I raise my glass to my fellow dorks of a feather!

My Slice of Heaven - Spearfish Canyon

2010-04-26T20:32:00.006-05:00

As the summer inches closer to reality, my mind drifts away to a favorite spot that I don't take advantage of often enough.

My little slice of Heaven, nestled into the rimrock of Spearfish Canyon in South Dakota's northern Black Hills.

My brothers and I inherited our family cabin from our great uncle Herman. It is a place where I can essentially melt into the canyon's always changing colors and forget that a problem exists in the world.

Herman was quite the character to put it mildly. He stood all of about 4'10, I'd imagine, if that. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and walked with a humpback gait. He'd always be telling jokes, even if half of us never got the punchline. He was known for squeezing your knee and saying "Do you like girls? If you like girls you'll squirm when I do this." As my oldest son, Nile, used to say when he was 5 years old "Herman looks like Yoda."

The cabin was Herman's pride and joy. He had hand-built it after moving to the Black Hills to work as an x-ray technician at the VA Hospital after serving in World War II. He went and collected every rock that forms the foundation. He found every wood plank that covers the floors and walls. He religiously chopped down trees on the property to provide fuel for the wood burning stove and fireplace, and to help take away fuel from the constant threat of fire in the canyon.

What makes the cabin so perfect is the tranquility. Hearing the gentle sound of the water cascading down the canyon in Spearfish Creek. Seeing in every direction that you look a watercolor mix of pale white, rust-like orange and charcoal gray rocks that have been chiseled down by years of Mother Nature having her way with them. The smell of evergreens and wild flowers from the creek bed combine to give a hint of nature's perfume to the air.

If you want to get groceries, you better plan for at least an hour long round trip. If you forgot something at the store, you're more apt to adapt and figure out a way to make something out of what you have.

Going for a walk at the cabin might mean ending up scaling down rimrock while only inches away from falling down to your certain hospitalization, if not death.

Time moves at it's own pace at the cabin. Nobody is calling you. No computers to distract you. There's TV, but that's really only for the rainy days, if you don't have a good book to read.

When the time comes for me to sit down and take my collective life experiences and craft them together into the great novel I know I have in me, it is a safe bet that you'll find me in Spearfish Canyon. Sipping my coffee or beer on the front deck, watching the world slowly pass by like the clouds above me.

And you can rest assured that somewhere in the book, there will be a humpbacked man with a "unique" sense of humor who looks like Yoda. Thank you, Uncle Herman.

I'm a one man guy

2010-04-16T19:44:00.006-05:00

I'm gonna bathe and shave
And dress myself and eat solo every night
Unplug the phone, sleep alone
Stay way out of sight
Sure it's kind of lonely
Yeah it's sort of sick
Being your own one and only
Is a dirty selfish trick.

__ "One Man Guy," by Loudon Wainwright

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyW0dbZPg8Q

When I went through my divorce four years ago, my good friend E.C. Fish, who had gone through his own divorce already, burned me a CD full of songs that have become very personal anthems for me. Included was the song quoted above and linked on youtube.

At the time, the song didn't really describe me. I was hardly living a life of solitude. After being with just one person since I was 18 years old, I did what any red-blooded man would. I was a dating whore.

Fast forward four years, with a few serious relationship gone bad thrown in for good measure, and this life is definitely me now.

But as the song states, it's not something you should pity me for. Hell, I know quite a few married friends who would KILL to be able to be in my shoes, though I'm not sure why outside of the "grass is greener" mentality.

Regardless, in the past 12 months plus, I've really become comfortable in my own skin (which doesn't mean I wish it to stretch or sag so much where it shouldn't, but I'm comfortable nonetheless).

Between frightening images of me as "the 80-year-old guy who sits his front porch yelling at kids who come in my yard" I have learned a valuable lesson. If you can't be ok on your own, you can't be ok in a relationship.

I didn't make a purposeful decision to be single the last year, it just felt right. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't worried about making someone else happy (other than my flesh and blood of course).

I was focusing on me. What made me happy? What kind of people did I want in my life? What were my goals for myself going forward in regards to my sons, my career, my social life, and how did the people in my life fit in with those goals.

Over the last year, as I focused inwardly, I began to get better at rejecting the bad energy around me. Pushing people out of my life who brought that energy with them. Most importantly, I learned to start saying "no" to people asking me for favors. Was it selfish? Maybe. But was it good for me to do it? A resounding hell yes.

So while I make my Hungry Man frozen TV dinner, watching infomercials at 3 a.m. in my boxers and a smelly t-shirt, I don't ponder for one minute why I'm here and not somewhere living a "normal" life with a wife, 2 kids, a picket fence, and a dog. I embrace it.

Do I want the good life, to know what it's like to grow old with someone and wake up every day feeling lucky to have them in my life? I'd be full of crap if I said no.

But I don't need it. And THAT is the secret to my happiness.

'Cause I'm a one man guy in the morning
Same in the afternoon
One man guy when the sun goes down
I whistle me a one man tune

So I've Got This Friend...

2010-03-19T19:59:00.003-05:00

S o I've got this friend.

Most of the time, this phrase is code for "this story is about me, but I'm thinly veiling it so as not to embarrass myself."

But this isn't one of those times.

Not that it couldn't be. See my friend and I, we were pretty much sliding down the path of destruction and depression at about the same pace.

One day everything seemed ok. Then suddenly our worlds were upside down. Divorced. Fighting to retain our parental rights. Dealing with a legal system that is still heavily biased toward the mother in custody matters. Being owned by that system.

And while it is true that when you hit bottom, you bounce back up, it's not always as fast of a path as we'd like. There's two steps forward, three steps back. There's good days and bad days.

But my friend, well, he endured quite a bit more hell than I ever had to. But we stayed in touch, albeit sporadically.

The last time I saw him a few months back, he stopped in to see my store and buy some steaks. He seemed to be doing pretty well, but seemed a little tired. That wasn't uncommon for him though, as he tends to burn the candle at both ends 24/7.

So when I returned a missed call from him today, he greeted me in a tone I hadn't heard from him before - giddy.

"Hey. I'm moving to Florida next week," he said with the smile coming through the phone.

"You're what?"

"Moving to Florida. Remember that high school sweetheart I had told you about reconnecting with on Facebook?"

From there, it was an hour long conversation about how he couldn't find words to describe how he was feeling, and that he felt like this was the reason he endured hell.

"I believe in karma," he said, still grinning through the phone line.

"So do I, and you're obviously riding a nice payback wave of it right now," I replied.

As the conversation turned deeper, he said something that made a hell of a lot of sense. "I guess I got tired of driving off cliffs. In the past, it didn't matter if I was driving, or someone else was driving and I was just along for the ride, the car went right off that cliff."

This time, he said, he moved to the backseat, and didn't have any involvement in the path of the car. And now, he's headed down the highway, literally and figuratively, to a better life. Almost a Zen-like quality to something that he can't even put into words.

A toast to my "friend." May his good karma continue on. And may we all sip of that cup of indescribable bliss at some point in our lives. Cheers.

You farkin' fork in the road!

2010-03-17T18:08:00.004-05:00

Anyone close to me knows this: I suck at making decisions. Really suck.

Actually, let me clarify that - I can and have made great decisions, I just take forever to get there. I'm one of those ruminaters. I ponder. And ponder some more. And some more.

Last weekend was a prime example of this. I had originally planned to attend a wedding in Iowa City. Then I hit a financial speed bump, and had decided not to go. Then a few friends who were also going tried to convince me it would be a good time, and they'd take a rain check from me on the costs of the weekend.

It took me over 3 days to sit on that one before I finally, two hours before I had to leave for Iowa City, decided to go. I'm so damn glad I did, as I had an incredible time with friends, and soothed my soul through making some new fun stories and laughing quite a bit in the process, but we'll save that for a future blog.

So before me right now is one of the most difficult decisions I've ever had to make. To move or not to move.

My ex-wife and I have been talking off and on for the last few years about the fact that we aren't necessarily in our "ideal" spot in terms of where we live. Without getting into the mundane details of school district rankings and the voting tendencies of various Twin Cities suburbs, let's just say I have yet to find a place in the Twin Cities that feels like "home."

Add into this the fact that she is wanting to move so she can be closer to her boyfriend she has been seeing off and on for 3 years or so.

So...while I'm not exactly in love with my current apartment, or my current social life in the suburb I reside in, it comes down to what is best for my kids.

I have never in my life been so torn. The last time I made a similar decision, to leave two great jobs, a dream house, and an incredible social life in Iowa City to move to Minnesota (if you aren't real quick on the uptake, it's where the "Tundra Prisoner" idea for this blog's title comes from ;) ).

My kids have all of their friends here. They are both doing very well in school. If you ask both of them, neither one wants to move.

At the same time, the older they get, the more pressure will be on them academically. And they can presume they won't be making any varsity sports teams unless they plan to be signing a National letter of intent to a major university.

I've done the cost/benefit analysis, the pro's vs. con's list, I've flipped coins, and prayed to St. Ronald, the patron saint of wisdom, but at the end of the day, my mind is frozen on what to do.

So the farkin' fork in the road is one I'm not ready to decide upon just yet. I think I'll go read some Robert Frost while I try to make a decision.

Still no closure for Z

2010-02-20T20:26:00.006-06:00

Tammy Zywicki was a familiar name to many people in August of 1992.

Her name and photo and story were a constant for about 10 days nearly 18 years ago.

But unlike others who watched this story unfold, from her disappearance on a rural stretch of interstate in Illinois, to the finding of her body on a rural stretch of interstate in Missouri, I knew Tammy.

"Z" as many people called her at Grinnell College, was known by me and many of my friends at Grinnell. The school was small - 1,200 students or so at the time - and it was pretty difficult not to to know most everyone, in some way or another.

Tammy was such a strong and vibrant young woman. She was athletic, artistic, and knew how to mix working hard and playing hard. At just 5'2" tall, her personality made you think she was 6'1".

For most of the country in August 1992, Tammy Zywicki was a sad story.

For those of us from Grinnell College, she was a classmate, a teammate, a friend, a study partner, a drinking buddy...anything but just a headline.

And the reason it was her that lost her life to some monster who has never been found guilty or even charged? Because her car broke down.

In the year after Tammy's death, a group of current and former students started a non-profit group, Fearless, in her honor. I served for a short time on the board of directors, and one of the early goals was to do something to stop this from happening again.

An early plan was to fund putting emergency call boxes at certain distances across the entire US interstate system. This was in the days when cell phones were still a luxury, not commonplace.

As time went on, the technology of cell phones eliminated the need for the call boxes, and in fact made our streets and highways much safer. But it shouldn't be assumed that Tammy's story couldn't be repeated.

It could be your sister. Your girlfriend. Your neighbor. Your co-worker. It could be you.

One small thing you can do is join the group linked below on Facebook. With some strength in numbers, we might just be able to get Tammy's case back on the front page again.

http://www.facebook.com/n/?group.php&gid=71031476920&mid=1ea9a99G689dfce8G4f10c9G6&bcode=TI14e

Let's find out who killed Tammy Zywicki.

She deserves that, at the very least.

The Bet? Love. The Stakes? Steaks.

2010-02-15T20:39:00.005-06:00

As I listen to Jason Mraz playing on my mp3 shuffle...

I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend, lucky to have been where I have been, lucky to be coming home again

...I begin to cringe.

It's the day after Valentine's Day. And the day before an anniversary of a bad break-up.

I try to remember if I have J. Geils Band's "Love Stinks" in my MP3 collection. Nope. Time to add that to my wishlist next time I'm downloading music.

I'm texting with an ex-girlfriend who to this day is such a great friend to have.

We're lamenting our situations, knowing each other very well, and knowing that we can pretty much finish off each other's sentences if we were talking in person.

We are also both keenly aware that we were not meant to be together, for whatever reason, as more than friends.

Which makes it great, because we can be blatantly honest with one another, and give the perspective of an ex-lover.

I assure her that she is going to find the right guy, and she tells me she doesn't think so.

I tell her she needs to stop going for the bad boys. She knows she needs to, but doesn't know why she can't stop.

Finally, I remind her to not settle...that I saw in her at one time someone who deserves so much more than a guy who will ultimately break her heart because with the bad boy image comes bad boy actions.

She feels better.

I then go on to tell her how I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to find "the one." Or really at this point, "any"one.

In the last year I've really built up some walls in terms of dating/relationships. And this mofo is huge. We're talking people should be taking tours of it, and taking snapshots like they do on that one in China.

But my friend reassures me that she saw me before the wall was there, and that maybe there's a woman out there who can knock it down to dust.

And she does know me well.

Thinking for it a little longer, I decide to test her on her prediction.

A wager: That I will remain single the rest of my life. The stakes: A box of steaks.

So at the very least, if I remain without a partner the rest of my life, I'll be eating me some steak with my gums in the nursing home some day. I know you're jealous.

We Are Living in a Retail World...

2010-02-12T18:49:00.005-06:00

So I'm now a few months into this whole retail thing, between time in Chicago training at existing stores, and then opening my store 5 weeks ago.

I'm thoroughly enjoying the interaction with people who come into and out of the store, and am already finding some repeat customers coming back and remembering me and my staff by name.

And 99.9 percent of the customers are really pleasant and interesting to talk with.

It's that .1 percent you have to watch out for.

Take for example, Mr. Magic.

Mr. Magic called our store the first day we were expecting large crowds due to a marketing mailer that had gone out.

"Hello there Omaha Steaks, I'm Mr. Magic, and I'm trying to find your store." Well if you're magic, buddy, shouldn't you be able to find it?

Mr. Magic came into the store wearing an orange t-shirt, blue jeans, and a black blazer with a multi-colored flower on the lapel. Eyeing the flower, I thought to myself that if he squirts water out of that thing at me, I may be the shortest tenured store manager in the history of retail.

He performed some lame card trick to a few scattered applause, and then approached the counter to pay for his purchases. I looked over at the sales rep ringing him up and noticed Mr. Magic laying out about 50 $2 bills across the entire countertop.

"Mr. Magic pays in $2 bills, because just like magic, they are rare to find and amusing all at once," he announced to everyone in earshot. It wasn't a magic trick, but he stopped for effect, as if he was waiting for the customers and staff around him to break out in applause.

*Crickets*

My only thought was that I needed to remember to deposit those $2 bills in the bank so that I didn't have a bunch of useless bills in my cash register.

After about an hour of "entertaining" people in the store while we were busy trying to keep up with the crowd, Mr. Magic finally went on his way. But not after handing me a business card for Mr. and Mrs. Magic (yes, his wife was in on the act as well).

"Call me if you ever want me to come in and entertain for your customers on busy days." I told him I would, knowing I wouldn't.

And I thought he was now just a bad memory for me.

Until the next morning.

As part of my morning routine, I count the cash for the registers. As I went through one of the stacks of dollar bills, I came across a stack of approximately 50 $2 bills.

Damnit.

A Day That (ALMOST) Brought A Tear to My Eye

2010-02-08T19:59:00.004-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was originally written, before the blog, "A Prisoner in the Tundra" was started. It was originally written as a Facebook note on 3/22/2009. Tonight, I ran into the dad mentioned in the story again, and it brought back my memory of the day written about below. For those who have already read it, thanks, and for those who haven't, enjoy. -Steve

So today was camp day for the Cub Scout den my youngest son belongs to. We had an awesome day of bonding...hiking and looking at wildlife, doing skits, learning how to use a compass in the woods, talking about deer poop.

At one point during a hike, the dads all congregated at the back of the line of the hikers, and the conversation turned to the economy. We all talked about some of the things that have been impacting us, and I was blatantly honest about my situation as a single dad who pays 50 percent of my kids' expenses despite the fact that I make far less (well nowadays even more so) than their mom does. The law would not set it up to be this way, but I agreed to it because I'm 50 percent of their parents.

Fast forward to the dinner time prep, and another dad, one I had not met before today, approached me. He asked if he could tell me something. I said sure, assuming it would be something like "your gas is really stinky, I smelled that bomb you dropped on the hike."

He looked me in the eyes and very genuinely said "I want you to know you are really great dad." Kind of threw me, since I wasn't expecting that. Not something I'm used to hearing often. He went on to say "I know I don't really know you, but I can tell you have sacrificed alot in your life for your sons. That is something that money can't buy."

We had about a 30 minute conversation after that, and he talked about his first marriage, and how because of difficulties with his ex, he was not active in the kid's life that he had with her. He essentially said in the fight or flight moment, he chose flight. And he told me I could have done the same, but I didn't. He told me he could see how much my son that was there admired me, and that I was doing an incredible job.

So it made me think, too many single dads are not praised out there. We always hear what a great job single moms do, and they deserve that praise. But single dads need a shout out now and again too. So I'm raising my glass to the single dads out there. Cheers!