Dear World, It's Been a Good Run

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.