The Time I Got Sprayed By a Skunk

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

*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!

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.