What I've Learned

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

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

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?

"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

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.

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

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

"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...."

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

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.