The Rural Bus Route

How Taco Johns shaped my future....

2011-08-12T17:19:00.001-05:00

...everyone has had jobs. Well...ok...maybe not that one douchy relative that seems to perpetually be overqualified or "disagreeing on some things" with the boss. But ALMOST everyone has had jobs. And usually people roll through a few jobs before landing in one that they stay with long enough to call it a "career". I'm no different. My most impressionable, however, took place in a drive through Taco John's on West Villard in Dickinson.

That job came at the end of my senior year in high school. (No, I didn't work before that. I had a lot of really important shit to do during the day and Musicland closed at 9). But that summer I had the enviable position as "taco delivery boy" for the local franchise. This job was so goddamned rad that they don't even allow it to be DONE anymore. In reality, I was actually no different from any other poorly-uniformed, grease-covered, teen-aged, Mexican food service employee with a "girlfriend-boss" except that every half-hour or so I got to load up a Coleman cooler with fresh Mexican food along with some "warmers" and deliver it. I italicize "warmers" because they were less "highly advance works of restaurant technology" and more just two large re-purposed Gatorade bottles filled with boiling hot water. And if this seems like steam heat would be a bad idea under those circumstances, let me guarantee that it most certainly was. Not only did it cruelly transform many a delicious hard-shell taco into an inedible, rubbery not-so-hard shell mess some 5 minutes later. But it left my vehicle smelling like hot, wet meat. And trust me when I tell you that once that smell gets into blue and gray upholstery of a 1990 Chevy Cavalier...it's there to stay. Ozium may work for pot smell and puke, but it's nothing but a Valtrex prescription to that sort of vehicular herpes. It keeps it under wraps for a while but it doesn't go away permanently. That car had flare ups well into college.

I became very familiar with the delivery guys in town. Most people (obviously myself excluded) had nice cars. Some of them had good stereos. Some of the more notorious and edgy ones had cool nicknames. And some, like the Candyman, had all three. He had the name, a Thunderbird with a custom, bright metallic purple paint job and a bitchin' stereo. In the mob of delivery men, Candy was a made man. We showed respect to each other with a simple nod of the head or the subtle but effective lifting of two fingers from the steering wheel. And at times, the only thing a person could see as they drove by another driver were those fingers. This is because it seemed as though, in our profession, there was an unannounced race to see who could tilt his/her seat back the farthest and still possess the ability to operate a vehicle. A strongly-tanned driver's side arm was worn like a gang tat and a stark difference between it and a ghostly white right arm meant he/she had serious driver cred. The fact that we did our jobs and never...I mean NEVER...got a tip, lent itself to an air of superiority over the well-compensated pizza guys. It was a tight brotherhood.

It was our mission to deliver quickly. And not because there was some sort of 30-minute corporate mandate (yeah I said it, punks) but because we had pride in our work and a deep seeded hatred of reasonable speed limits on public right-of-ways. The trips got increasingly competitive and thusly, more dangerous. We rode without apprehension or regret. We knew the streets of Dickinson like a Garmin. I remember taking South States to 6th Ave for a delivery and getting back in less than 10 minutes. For you poor bastards that know Dickinson and where TJ's used to be....yeah...fast. For those of you who don't have a clue where that is, it's even faster. I remember one prospective driver...Dan... didn't have the same kind of gumption. He once stopped, while on a delivery, to watch a house fire. He didn't deliver after that. There are stories that simply cannot be told in this forum. Sex, drugs, nachos....I feel every teenager should work food service at least once.

However, only the best of the best could do what we did.

Obviously, I could have taken many paths after Taco Johns...chef, INDY driver, competitive eater...but I chose Lawyering. The skills I learned while shucking tacos for man have come in useful in that career. The ability to speak in public? Honed manning the drive-up speaker phone thingy. "Would you like to try a Chicken Fajita Burrito and a Small Coke?" Exactly. The ability to survive on a tight budget (every public defender must perfect this skill)? Must I repeat...no tips. NONE. The ability to deal with stressful situations? There is no greater stress on the planet earth than watching 78 billion cars leave directly from the 4th of July Fireworks show at the rodeo grounds and seeing all of their headlights coming to and turning into your drive through. The ability to handle difficult people? Most of the fireworks attendees were hammered. "No, sir, we don't have spaghetti". Those pizza delivery guys were rascals. And the dude who insisted on having his fajitas ROLLED? Come on. Makes your average meth addicts and drunks seem like guidance counselors.

I'm not sure I could perform my current job without having gained the skills I did working for the almighty John. When you think about it, delivery tacos for Taco Johns is like ITT Tech and Harvard Law all combined. Kinda.

Just think about. Harder. There you go.

Checking in....yep....this thing is still here....

2011-08-10T17:15:00.001-05:00

....ahoy my merry handful of readers. I was gone for some time on a spiritual sojourn (that incidentally has left me much much less spiritual) but like Odysseus, I have returned. Actually, what happened was less a self-searching journey and more a "bored with writing the blog" hiatus. Oh, and I got an iPhone and that TOTALLY took up a ton of my free time. So....anyway....

My wife and I love our house. It's a charming little bungalow in a good neighborhood. It has tons of character and seems to fit our personalities well. But it does have some negatives. It was built in the early 20's out of bricks that need tuck-pointing and white trim that needs yearly painting. If either material is left un-attended, the house begins to look all "Last House on the Left" and haunted. It has a 60 year-old boiler that runs at about 50% efficiency, smells like gas and looks like a green version of the B9 Robot from Lost in Space. It suffers from ice dams during the winter due to it's shitty gutter system and poorly insulated attic. A recent bout with ice dams resulted in the pantry's ceiling coming down, followed by portions of the dining room ceiling, four walls and the decimation of one original window sill. If not for State Farm's help, we would be living in a mold-infested deathtrap that would make a FEMA trailer seem like a Fijian Villa. It has electrical "issues" (read "wires and shit running everywhere downstairs"). The dude that owned the house before us was an electrical engineer and he did a lot of his own handiwork. Unfortunately for us, it was never documented and now the breaker for the dining room (the box for which looks like the lady who got eaten by the computer in Superman III) turns off the microwave and the outlet on the front porch is turned on and off according to a dimmer switch in Omaha. The sprinkler system had failed to operate since the neighbors decided to put a fence on their property and sever the line from the well thereby leaving our lawn looking like one of those agri-business weed test patches. And to top it off, the house is fairly drafty. Not like "George Bailey's House" drafty. But leaky enough to make it about as energy efficient as a coal-powered Hummer.

So considering the above, my wife and I began toying with the idea of selling our home. We had contemplated that with the money we would receive from the sale we could pay down some debt and put a significant amount of money down on a new home that had recently been built or was being built at the time. On paper, the plan was flawless. It didn't seem unreasonable. But we quickly learned that when it comes to real estate in southwestern North Dakota...check with your doctor to make sure you are healthy enough for a severe disconnect from reality.

We bought our house back in 2004 for a really good price. We bought it during the original "economic downturn" period when housing prices in the area were depressed. Now, however, North Dakota claims one of the nation's only growing economies, a billion dollar budget surplus and a surging building market. All of this on account of the always-popular liquefied dinosaurs flowing about underneath the state...Oil. Southwestern North Dakota's oil reserves are legendary. And now, with the addition of new technology combined with soaring petroleum prices, the companies have come in droves to suck it out of the ground. There are benefits and burdens abound. While the population influx has brought with it a stream of new money to this semi-rural economy, you can't find a freakin' hotel room within 100 miles. While there are more jobs to choose from in the oil patch, the local businesses are suffering. After all, it's hard to keep employees when your competition is offering 25 bucks an hour, a service vehicle and daily bjs. And while temporary housing and rental properties have begun popping up like Whackamoles to help shelter workers, the general moral compass of those people RENTING buildings in the area has taken a giant shit. Rent prices in Dickinson and the surrounding towns have soared to levels that rival those in Manhattan. A studio apartment in Hebron set up to house 4 guys in one room you ask? How's $3000/month sound? Hey HGTV, you want a show that people will watch? Drop that Selling New York ditty and replace it with a Selling North Dakota. Who WOULDN'T want to watch two transient oil workers from Alabama literally shit in their pants when the local realtor tells them they could rent a basement broom closet for 1500 bucks a month? I'm telling you...can't miss TV. And unfortunately for the people on our position...those looking for a newer home...the same thing has happened to the home purchasing and building prices. If a guy wants a new house or one that was recently built, he better prepare get to selling one of his unnecessary organs...cause that SOB is going to cost him. I remember a home in one the nicer neighborhoods in town going for 600K. The freakin' Silverdome just sold for 500K in Detroit. But people say "Come on Jay...that's Detroit!" Ummm...people...this is DICKINSON.

My analogy for the current housing market in Dickinson is this scenario:

"I'm looking for some new lawn decorations...ours are getting kinda bland and outdated. Still Ok, but older."

"Hey pal, you could buy this nice pile of scrap metal and crispy dog shit in my backyard!"

"Well, I was kind of hoping to upgrade"

"Hey, this scrap metal and dog shit is much newer than the decorations you have now and besides I heard if you sell YOUR decorations, you could make twice what you bought them for."

"It IS nice that I could get that much money for my decorations. And it IS nice that you have all that metal and dog shit for sale. What's the price?"

"It would be 3 times what you bought your original decorations for."

"But then I would be just taking the money I MADE on my adequate decorations and putting it into overpriced dog shit, right?"

"It's NEW overpriced dog shit though....don't forget."

"Noted. So, if I do this, what are the prospects of me selling it again in 15 years for full price?"

"Come on dude....it's fucking dog shit."

Needless to say, my wife and I ran like the Kenyan Olympic team from that idea. Instead, we've refinanced at a much lower percentage and taken out some money in equity. I thought we should blow it all on Miller High Life Lite and Space Camp. But Shanna said no....we paid down ALL of our non-law school and housing debt, fixed most of the problems stated above, replaced the musty old basement carpet and bought some new shiny crap for the kitchen. Probably the more responsible option. But seriously, I wanted to go on that weightless airplane thing SUPER bad.

Maybe next economic boom.

Mountains are for goats...

2010-09-22T16:54:00.002-05:00

...They are not for skinny kids from that Great Plains who hate cold weather.

I was recently talking to a friend of mine about an incident that occurred during one of her family ski trips and it reminded me of all the ill-fated times that I had stupidly ventured out onto the snowy mountainside with wooden planks strapped to my feet. And while all of the ski trips were fun, the LEAST fun part of ALL of them was the skiing.

My high school girlfriend and her patient family had taken me with them on a couple trips to Montana. Before that, I had never done it, so suffice it to say...I was pretty terrible. I stayed on the easy runs...which I'm sure really enthused the rest of them. But despite this fact, I'm fairly certain that I dislocated my shoulder on a fall near the bottom of one of the said "easy" runs at one time. Of course, I didn't say anything for fear that her father would think I was a wuss. He was a man's man who worked on Diesel engines, did home construction, had giant hands with corn-dog-sized fingers and who was generally good at everything a dude was supposed to be good at. So instead of doing the sane thing (which would have probably been an MRI), I lifted my arm above my head and it slammed back into place. At the time I felt like Mel Gibson in "Lethal Weapon"...teetering on the edge of sanity but allthewhile distinctly "tough". But about 20 minutes later I was delirious with pain and my arm's range of motion would have been rivaled by most quadriplegics.

Everyone in their clan was better than I was, having all been skiing since they were neo-natal...including their youngest. Let me tell you, having a 4-year-old girl cruise past you on a bunny hill wearing skis that are no longer than a wiffle ball bat really does something to a young man's ego. When she got up the next morning she immediately began bounding around the condo and I had the sudden urge to lock her in the closet. And I totally would have too if my ass muscles would have stopped cramping up long enough for me to get up off the couch. I was wholeheartedly NOT a "natural". In fact, I firmly believe that the only reason they were able to convince me to continue trying was the fact that I was not yet legally able to drink. If I had been, I would have spent the entire time getting my drunk on at the little lodge thing they have in the middle of the mountain. After all, drinking is something at which I DO excel. And unlike skiing...if done correctly, there is little to no risk of injury.

I also went skiing in Aspen once. Yeah, that Aspen. In college my buddies all decided to go there for an "internship" at the airport. Their jobs included baggage handling and testing the effects of sleep deprivation and glycol contamination on a young adults ability to consume obscene amounts of alcohol. In a moment of weakness, they convinced me to come out there (again over spring break) to visit. And while they had spent the lion's share of THEIR time over the past few months SKIING, I had not. In fact, I had tried my hardest to spend the majority of the Grand Forks winter INdoors. But once again, over objection, I was forced to ski...this time on a mountain made for people who's pocket books AND skiing prowess greatly exceeded my own. I had evolved, however, and by then I WAS of legal drinking age. So after a couple brutal hours of black diamond punishment and taking a pebble in the cheek, I happened upon (read "took the cable cars to") the midway lodge and drank for the balance of the outing. I had thought I had averted disaster this time around. But of course, in my self-aggrandizing, slightly drunken state, I clipped into the wrong (MUCH LONGER) skis and jetted uncontrollably (and quite drunkenly) down the side of this mountain and nearly crashed into the grooming machine.

The final chapter, however, came when Shanna and I decided it would be a good idea to go skiing at Mount Hood Meadows while living in Portland, Oregon. As you can tell from my prior skiing experience, there was quite a lot yet to be mastered about daytime skiing. So it will forever stump me as to why we opted to go at night. That was mistake one. (Well, mistake two I guess...if you count "deciding to ski at all" as number one). Of course, the weather forecast that night was "cold as shit with a chance of fucking sleet". So in addition to the pricey rental equipment, we had to BUY goggles to keep from permanently damaging our corneas. It was terrible. This aside, we were determined to get our money's worth. And to be honest, drinking wasn't an option this time. Hell, I could barely see two feet in front of me. Seriously, Nick Cage couldn't have found the bar in that shitstorm.

Now, my wife and I had (notice the past tense) very contrasting skiing styles. I tended to be very careful. I kept from getting anywhere near "out of control" and was generally scared to death of pointing my skis straight downhill for fear that I may get going too fast. Shanna, on the other hand, tended to ski on the wrong side of "in control" and liked to take sweeping paths across the run like a blind person. Whether she did this for fun or to try and slow down I do not know. What I DO know, however, is that these two styles did not mix.

I remember that it was going fairly well. I may have actually been enjoying myself for a couple minutes when Shanna came up beside me. She was, as usual, gathering too much speed when she turned right...up the slope of the run. She went into the sleet further than I could see so I slowed down a bit...but continued down the mountain. Then I heard her scream "watch out" or "heads up" or "holy fuckin' shit we're going to die" or something to that effect and I turned my head to the right just milliseconds before she smashed directly into my knees...sending me flipping through the air like one of my son's worn stuffed animals. When I landed, the first thing I did was take inventory to make sure that all of my body parts were attached and that they still operated (at least generally) as they were supposed to. Everything seemed attached. However, I didn't have my goggles anymore, my skis were gone, my hat had been sucked halfway off my head, my coat was partially unzipped and I'm fairly certain that, underneath my snow pants, one of my legs had managed to make its way out of my underwear. The next priority was to find Shanna. She was sitting down just up the hill, very near where we collided. She had apparently tried to avoid me by falling to the ground onto her butt. However, her momentum and speed had made her slide right into me. People had stopped to assist her and to check her pulse I would imagine. I also remember the people on the lift yelling down to make sure that everyone was alright. We had single-handedly made the entire run come to a stop. Shanna was OK as well, but had developed quite the limp. I managed to find my skis...which was quite the feat. And imagine my surprise to find out that it had been broken. In fact, when Shanna smashed into me, her ASS had actually broken the tip of the ski OFF. I struggled not to tell her she deserved it.

Again, I had to ski the remainder of the way down the hill. Only this time, instead of a drunken adventure with someone else's equipment, it was on a ski with its tip dangling like a cigarette that needed to be ashed. I lied to the rental dude about hitting a rock on the slope and how he was lucky that I didn't seriously injury myself...lawsuit...blah blah blah. I could tell that he didn't quite believe the story. I mean, I would have to really smash into something to actually tear the tip off of the ski. I don't blame him. However, I'm POSITIVE he wouldn't have believed a story about my wife breaking it with her ass, either. So whatever.

That was the last time I went skiing and I really have no desire to ever do it again. It's ridiculous. I have since decided that while I may continue to backpack during the summer months, I will steer well clear of mountains in the winter. The only thing civilized people should do in snow is shovel and write in it with pee.

I scream, you scream, we ALL scream....for HYGIENE!!!!

2010-09-01T15:51:00.006-05:00

...Sometime last year I finally convinced myself to go to the dentist again. It had been roughly 8 years since my last appointment and something told me that a time span approaching a decade wasn't in compliance with the recommended regularity of visits. Truth be told, my kids were due for a visit and I figured I couldn't lambaste them for their dental hygiene unless I kept up with my own. But I absolutely hate it there. And the weird thing is that I haven't had a cavity...ever. In fact, other than braces, I've never had anything wrong with my teeth that required any real work. And even the braces were pretty tame. I didn't have any rubber bands, or headgear or Frankenstein-esque bolts that required tightening. Outside of the occasional stray wire, resulting in a bloody cheek, there wasn't much to them. So why, then, do I absolutely loath having them work on me? I'll tell you why...because even routine check-ups hurt like a bitch, that's why.

It makes me squirm just thinking about those seemingly-gentle ladies jabbing into my face with their little mouth sickles and manhandling my teeth with an orbital sander as though they were weathered planks of an oak floor. Have you ever seen a knee surgery on video? The way they just bend and contort the leg all over the place as if there wasn't a human attached to it? Well, they do that same thing with your mouth when you get your teeth cleaned. The only difference is, you are awake the whole time so you can see, hear and FEEL every poke, prod and bludgeon. You get to smell your enamel being sanded off your teeth. And you get to taste the bloody mess they've made of your gums right before you get your tongue sucked out of your mouth by the hand-held Dyson they cram in there. All this work to make sure your teeth are pretty and functional. To me, this seems to be the equivalent of keeping one's car running smoothly by every six months having a mechanic dump a toolbox full of wrenches into the open engine compartment and driving around the block.

Of course, after they're done and my mouth feels like I ate a razor blade pie covered in minty sand, they asked the question..."do you floss?". My thought was "Lady, it took me 8 frickin' years to get into the dentist, do you actually think I've taken the time to run a waxed rope through my teeth every day?" And I don't think for a second that she actually wants to know whether I floss. I think she knows she just detonated a bomb in my mouth and she wants to shift the blame to me. Like "Sir, if you would floss then I wouldn't have to use this rusty metal hook and you wouldn't leave here feeling like you spent an hour chewing on thumbtacks." I'm on to them.

And perhaps what scares me even more than enduring that "cleaning" shitstorm is that there is a chance they MIGHT actually find something wrong and have to do "major" work as well. But after my experiences with "routine" cleanings, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be around when they get into the heavy duty shit. During the light stuff they scrape invisible goo off your teeth with a sharpened hook and blast your face with a super-sonic mini water cannon. So for a cavity do they roll a fuckin' Bobcat next to you and hammer away at your face like they were busting up a sidewalk? The fear is rational people.

And now it seems as though my daughter has inherited the gene that allows one to sense the danger these sadists represent. I know this because the last time I took her and Max to the dentist (their second check-up) Lucy absolutely LOST. HER. SHIT. Everything was fine when we got there. Her and Max went straight to the little play area that they have set up next to the gigantic fish tank where they promptly made a mess. They were happy and enjoying the day...and then they called their names. Max went into his room and began the process. But she immediately froze up. It was like someone had called her into Orwell's "Room 101". I went over to her to try and help her move along and she grabbed onto my leg and would not let go. Now we were both immobilized. I tried to pick her up and she yelped. I tried to kneel down but her grasp tightened and she wouldn't let me bend my legs. So I bent over and asked her what was wrong. It was at that very moment that it started.

Somewhere within her tiny frame a connection was made with the depths of hell and, as though her throat was an expressway from the lakes of fire, demons POURED from her mouth. She writhed. She gasped. She flailed. She screamed. I kept looking around to see if Max von Sydow was outside the door. She would not let the hook-lady touch her. And every time she said something like "It's OK Lucy, we just want to count your teeth", she got louder and more incoherent. I think she started sweating. I knew I had. The hook-lady said "maybe I'll step outside and you can have a moment". (my thought was that instead of taking a "moment", she could be "taking" me to where they kept all the liquor.) So she left the room and I tried to get my daughter to calm down. But she wouldn't even look at me. Instead, she kept thrashing her arms around and kicking her legs out. At one point she kicked me in the chin. Now, my chin is pretty large and hard to miss, so I didn't get too bent out of shape at that point. But then she kicked again and plugged her baby brother in the head and knocked him over. Now HE'S crying, she's having a freakin' seizure and I'm starting to get pretty pissed off. I mean, like "in about 10 seconds I'm taking away birthdays and Christmas"-type pissed off. And to top it off, my lovely wife, who was supposed to have been there 10 minutes prior to this little shit show, was nowhere to be found. So there I was with a crying baby, another toddler (who was bravely enduring everything in another room thank GOD) and this frickin' SPAZ curled up in a ball on the dentists chair sobbing and kicking like a drugged rodeo horse. Nice.

Then the lady came back in and gave her the word..."the doctor said that we'll have to try again next time. He can't see her if she's like this". And as though the director had screamed "SCENE"...the show ended. She straightened up, gathered herself, de-wrinkled her dress and went into the other room where her brother sat with sunglasses on (I was in no position to care why), getting his teeth sealed. And then her mother showed up. I left.

I was so torqued at my daughter that I momentarily began looking for toddler military schools on my blackberry "Point" app. But in the back of my mind, I could not stop thinking about how well her antics had worked and how absolutely flawless her execution was. She didn't want to go to the dentist and by letting all that evil come out of her and by laying waste to the entire dentist's office, she prevented me from making her go. And to top it off, I'm scared to even try again. GENIUS!!!

So now I have a safety net. If I ever go to their office and they tell me I have to have something major done I'm going to go succumb to my inner demons and go to a very dark place. Let's see those bastards jab me in the tongue after I start chanting in Aramaic and bite one of their fingers off.

Twins v. White Sox II tonight...

2010-08-11T18:10:00.004-05:00

...and after last night's thrashing, there may be some questions as to how THIS particular White Sox team has managed to keep the race tight. I'm going to go with my own theory here: It's a liberal left conspiracy. There isn't any other way to explain it. The god-hating, morally-devoid members of the Obama administration and their White Sox adoration have done something nefarious to upgrade the White Sox pitching staff and to keep their no-hitting, no-defense squad of degenerates in the race. In the same vein, it's undoubted that these same dirty tricks have led to a rash of early-inning exits by starting pitchers, bad mustaches/goatees and Blue Jay's second baseman come saboteur John McDonald's flying knee smash to Justin Morneau's head. It's cold-war shit here people, with espionage, bow-tie cameras and antidotes...and the Twins are Russia.

But despite the efforts of the imperialists; last night's game was like one of those crazy Red Army parades with all the straight-legged, marching robot soldiers, giant missile trucks and tanks. It was an exhibition of might, intended to frighten the opponent. The Twins teed off on Chicago starter Freddy Garcia, chasing him out of the game before the conclusion of the third inning, and tallied 12 runs total. Ozzie Guillen didn't care that we were coming to town. The Twins made sure to remind Ozzie that he SHOULD care.

Tonight may prove to be a different story, however. The Twins send Glenn Perkins to the mound to face the steady force that is John Danks. And while Scott Baker was anything but sparkling in last night's game, Glenn Perkins will be making his first Major League start in over a year. Further, his MINOR league starts this season have been less-than-stellar as well. Danks has been pretty good this season and Twins batters may struggle to score runs. And further still, other than the fact that his LATEST starts have been better and that he may feel he has something to prove tonight, there is little to make Twins fans confident that Perkins will pitch with any success. Hopefully the squad didn't use up all of it's bullets in last night's smash-fest...because they may need some for tonight's game.

Update:

Well, let's just say that Glenn Perkins was anything but sharp, John Danks was more than adequate, the Twins defense was less than stellar and the outcome was short of desirable.

Twins send Ramos to Nats for Capps and Cash...

2010-07-30T12:28:00.008-05:00

...you have to admit...that has a great ring to it.

That's the big news this morning regarding the Twins and the trade deadline. Capps, the closer for the cellar-dweller Nats, has notched about 26 saves and only blown a handful in the process. The web's all atwitter about whether this was a good trade for the Twins. Gleeman and Kneeland say it's terrible to just bad, respectively. Seth Stohs, on the other hand, has warmed to it. We're all over the map here.

My take? Kind of the same as Stohs'...meh. We needed pitching help. Big Jon ain't a closer and with Deunsing moving to the rotation and Blackburn just plain sucking, there were holes. This fills one. We don't need catching help. We have a more-than-serviceable backup in Butera (no bat, good glove) and we have that one Mauer dude. Ramos was good and he was definitely better than Capps valuable, but he isn't going to get much of a sniff here in Minnesota. If you don't have any Ken Griffey Jr. rookie cards and I have three of them, you value them much more than I do, right? Blah.

So all 3 Twins fans that read this blog are going to wonder....why was I so opposed to the Hicks/Ramos for Cliff Lee deal and then AOK with the Ramos/Testa for Capps deal? After all, Cliff Lee is a better pitcher with much more value than Matt Capps. This is true...but. First off, that's too much to trade for almost anyone. And especially since Cliff Lee would have been a 2 month rental with his eyes perpetually on the Bronx. Capps is 26 and under Twins control until through 2011 (read "not a rental"). He can provide exclusive closer duties this year and into the post-season. He can also provide a decent fallback to Joe Nathan next year should Nathan struggle to recover from Tommy John. So as for this year and next...the Twins are a better team. I, for one, am excited the Twins decided to make a move that improves the team. I'm also excited that they did so by making a move that, although not a "bargain" (Ramos might be the next Johnny Bench and Capps might have a terrible psych-me-up video for the Target-Field jumbotron), it also wasn't asinine (like giving up TWO top prospects for a 2 month rental in Lee, whom I've never liked anyway 'cause I always thought he was a bit douchey for scowling at a two-strike bunt).

Now, I'm no nut. This isn't a blockbuster, by any means. But you'd never know that from the tone of the spin machine over at Kirby Puckett Way. Most notably, they keep referring to Capps as "All-Star Closer Matt Capps". Bill Smith has been repeating this meme and Twins mouthpiece Kelly Thesier has been using it as well. Come on now people..."All-Star Closer"? He plays for the Nats. Who the hell else is going to fill the "everyone has to have a player" roster spot from the damn Nats besides Capps? Christian Guzman? Capps is a "good young closer" or "National League Save-Leader" etc., but "All-Star Closer" is trying too hard. It's a good sounding jingle for the uninformed rubes in desperate need for justification. Knock it off.

So, we bid adieu to Wilson Ramos: "It was nice knowing you Wilson. Have fun in DC...gag"

And we say hello to Matt Capps: "Welcome kind sir. We enjoy fishing and winning. Just ask Livan."

My daughter, the party girl...

2010-07-28T17:54:00.001-05:00

...Every morning we go through the same routine at my house. My wife wakes up much earlier than I and undertakes all the morning "chores" including making coffee, putting the dogs outside and bitching at me about sleeping in past 7. Then, after I stumble out of bed, spend 10 minutes trying to find where I dropped my glasses, search through the sheets for the alarm going off on the Blackberry that I took to bed with me and try to figure out why my mouth tastes and smells like I ate a plate of wet cigarettes the night before...I head downstairs to wake my oldest two children from THEIR slumber. On this particular morning I tugged my robe from my wife's closet door. Despite it being my wife's door (or closet), it is usually where MY robe can be found. In other, more specific words, despite my wife hating it when I dare wear a pair of her booty socks to work out, she readily commandeers my robe. And sometimes when she's really courteous, she leaves it on the hook without the part that keeps it wrapped around my body...as she did on this day. This brought to mind two things. First, it made me wonder what the hell my wife was doing with a wide open robe in front of our bedroom window (where her closet is located). Second, it made it fairly impossible to use it for it's intended purpose of covering up my unmentionables. But being in a sleep-drunken, recently-revived state, I didn't really care. I put it on and went downstairs...banking on the off chance that I might run across the belt part on my way through the house. Sure enough, I ran across it near the bottom of the stairs near my child's teddy bear. It's at that point that I remember that he was using it the night before as he was demonstrating to my wife and I about how he planned to go on an expedition to the Theodore Roosevelt National Park where he would "strangle buffalo", which is another blog post entirely.

So I tied my robe at the waist and spared those people who happened to walk past our egress window the shocking, sight-robbing horror show that is my bare chest and legs. I continued to the room where my kids slept so that I might discontinue their doing so. They have bunk beds that are located right next to another egress window. My normal routine is to turn on the light in their room and open the shade on the egress window, taking the room from "slightly dark" to "really freakin' bright" in a matter of seconds. When I was young, I used to think my mom was an evil despot for doing the same thing to me. Now, as a father of two children who refuse to listen to anything I say and who have grown quite fond of staying up past their bedtime only to struggle to get up in the morning...I find this particular method GENIUS. That being said, like so many other mornings, it didn't work. They stayed in bed for another 10 minutes despite the beaming sunlight, my repeated requests for them to get out of bed and the draft caused by me removing all of the blankets from their beds at minute 7 (request 5 I believe)...also a method my mother used and about which I have gained respect.

Normally, while I wait for them to de-zombie, I will get their clothes ready for the day. Understand, at this point I'm still not completely awake most days and sometimes I do a rather crappy job of picking out color-coordinated, season-appropriate outfits. In fact, on this 85 degree day in particular, I was able to pick out (for my oldest son) a nice long-sleeved polo shirt and two pairs of his brother's shorts. Needless to say, other than the underwear, we had to find a different ensemble. However, I picked out a complete outfit for Lucy. Kept it simple. Underwear and a dress. Simple. Dare I say "fool-proof".

Of course, after the kids actually got out of their beds and dragged themselves to the living room, it took another 10 minutes and 45 threats of physical harm to get them to get dressed in the outfits that I have picked out. But I have at least made it commonplace for them to get these clothes on while I am busy taking a shower and getting myself dressed. Therefore, if all goes to plan, they are fully clothed when I emerge from the bathroom. I was able to do this by making "getting dressed" into a ridiculous game. Today's game was the same as every other day...they "race" me to get dressed. Really, when you think of it, that's totally unfair. I have to shower, shave (sometimes) and dress and all they have to do is put on shorts and a t-shirt. A normal person with any motivation whatsoever would be able to kick my ass on every occasion. But due to Nickelodeon, my children have a tendency to get distracted. And oddly enough, sometimes they don't complete the steps necessary to "win". This is why making "winning" a fluid concept is crucial in making sure kids actually continue to play. You gotta think on your feet. And there's a lot of sandbagging involved too. For example, today I came out and my daughter was dressed but my son (who stood, drooling, in front of a Spongebob episode he has undoubtedly seen before) didn't have a shirt on. He was dissapointed when I told him that he was losing. Miraculously, he was still able to "win" due to the fact that I suddenly developed a palsy that made it impossible for me to tie my shoes, I kept twitching and falling down...and he bought it. He took his new-found time and rushed to get his shirt on. All it took was me being pathetic. But bluntly...I'm not above looking like an asshole if it means that my kids will try to be even REMOTELY self-sufficient.

So I got them upstairs, got their 11-month-old brother dressed and changed, got them into the car, got them buckled and took them to daycare. I got them inside, gave them a kiss and hug, waved goodbye and got out of there before my son could crap his pants. I normally try to hurry in and out of the daycare place. My wife takes eons when she picks them up. And for the life of me, I cannot understand what the fuck she talks about in there. The heartland food program only has about 3 minutes of good conversation material and I can only listen to so many theories on exchange-student Asians shoplifting from Walmart. I, for one, am not one to linger, because in addition to the aforementioned "wanna get out before my son soils himself again" reason, I'm also fairly certain she thinks I am the world's WORST parent ever. After all, I don't always have my daughter's hair tightly harnessed in a pony tail and I don't make my kids wear snowsuits and moon boots when it's 45 degrees outside. I can tell this by her poorly-veiled comments, not to me, but to my kids. Such as: "Dad should put boots on you Lucy..." and "Max, tell your dad he's lazy". That and the silent judging at my infant son's lack of shoes and the fact that I wear jeans to work on Fridays.

So imagine my horror when I received the following phone call from my daycare lady, not 2 minutes after dropping the kids off at her house:

Me: Hello
Her: Yeah, Jay? This is _____. We have a problem.
Me: Oh God, what did I do?
Her: Nothing, but we just realized that Lucy isn't wearing any underwear.
Me: Oh man. Sorry. I will bring some as soon as I can.

Jesus. Tap dancing. Christ. There really are very few ways to better start the morning than having to walk into a daycare with the underwear your daughter was supposed to be wearing in public but was not. And if I was in danger of losing her vote for "North Dakota Parent of the Year - 2010", I sure as shit wasn't going to get it after letting my daughter go commando at her daycare.

So, moral of the story, no matter how ridiculous it sounds...make sure your kids are wearing underwear when they leave the house. And, unfortunately, do it well before they are promiscuous, hormone-addled teenagers.

Missing Missy...

2010-07-28T12:06:00.001-05:00

...This post over at 27b/6 might be the funniest thing I've read this year. Man, that's good stuff. Go there, and read it...or risk dying having not read it only to be ridiculed by everyone in Heaven (or Hell, you immoral heathen) because they DID read it. God...DON'T BE SO DUMB!!!

My favorite IPA...

2010-07-27T17:16:00.002-05:00

...Terminal Gravity. That is all.

Courtesy of the Google Hamsters.

To be honest, I only posted this so shamelessly secure readers from Facebook fanpage. I really do love TGIPA. But posting a picture of it was nothing more than a bribe. That being said, I'm not sorry.

Seriously, this is the picture the local paper posted of Anthony Slama...

2010-07-27T11:59:00.000-05:00

...I know he hasn't been up with the team for very long, so I'm sure there is a shortage of pictures. And I know that it IS exponentially harder to find a good picture of ANYONE with a mustache...but seriously? They couldn't find anything better than this?

Man, that's straight-up creepy uncle territory there. Combine this pic with some thick-rimmed glasses and some armpit stains and he isn't going anywhere NEAR a school zone.

Kansas City Royal Pain in my ass...

2010-07-26T16:01:00.008-05:00

...I always get anxious when we play against the Royals. I shouldn't. I mean, they're pretty terrible. And it seems to me that we've done OK against them as of late. But they hit really well and they have a couple good hurlers. I'm always leery of how the lineup is going to stack up against their pitching talent. Tonight's game isn't any different. The Twins send one of their best starters (Liriano) up against the reigning Cy Young award winner Zach Grienke. To be honest, he hasn't been very Cy Young-ish so far this season. But he's got ridiculous stuff and he's been known to stymie the Twins in the past. But this is why I get worried. We only HAVE two reliable starters right now and tonight one of them is matched up against a damned pitching Jesus.

In other news, Twins put Orlando Hudson on the DL...again...with a pulled muscle in his side. And because his replacement is Alexi Casilla, this certainly is a double whammy of suck. Nick Blackburn pitched last night, handlebar mustache and all, in mop-up duty. He got rocked for like 54 hits in a couple innings. Must be "mechanics" or "overthrowing" again. It most certainly is NOT because he's just crappy right now. Joe Mauer continues to struggle but remains in the 3-hole of the lineup. Justin Morneau may be nearing the end of his DL stint, having practiced and gotten in a good, dizziness-free, workout. And in what can only be attributed to sheer luck, it's been an eon since Scotty Ullger has sent a runner to his death at the plate.

MADS - Delmon. It's just freakin' ridiculous. He's playing out of his mind right now at the plate. However, I still think that watching him take routes to balls in the outfield would be better if accompanied by a dated rendition of "Flight of the Bumblebees" blared through the PA. But that would only make him COOLER. We can't handle that.

CSMA - Oooh. I'd have to go with Blackburn. Overthrew his way out of the lineup and into scrub duty in a game where the team was up by 9...and then he gave up 3 in two innings. He's a ground-ball pitcher who's sinker ain't sinkin'. Silva v2.0. I heard Seattle likes pitchers with that resume.
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Ok, fine. so my trepidation was a bit misplaced. But only a little...

Photo courtesy of MLB.

Because why WOULD the Twins want to salvage one game against the division's worst team?

2010-07-21T11:47:00.002-05:00

...the Star Tribune article this morning:

"Twins look to avoid a sweep without Mauer, Gardenhire"

This is getting ridiculous. I understand that catching is a very demanding position and that the team's most valuable player needs an occasional rest from the daily grind at said position...however...why does the team's manager ALWAYS feel the need to sit him in games to avoid sweeps? Even with all this apologetic nonsense concerning his position, a dude making 24 mil a year and batting 3rd in the lineup doesn't need to sit every third game. That's freakin' ridiculous. Besides, with a sub .300 BA (.297) and an OBP (.367) a couple ticks above league average (.340), it's not like the old boy's been running the bases too much.

Although, to be fair, I suppose it is possible that they're keeping him on the bench if it becomes necessary to have someone sacrifice drag bunt with two on and one out.
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Update: Of course, after writing this, the Twins go buck wild in the get-away-game. I know nothing.

Twins gain 2 games on the White Sox....

2010-07-19T11:12:00.000-05:00

...and I love it. I hate the White Sox and their stupid announcer and his "he gone" garbage and AJ being a big poophead and Paul Konerko and his vagina-face goatee. I just don't like 'em...no I don't.

So it was a great series for the Twins. They took 3 of the 4 games from the division-leaders. This was totally rad and all, but there was a much more interesting development with the Twins over the weekend. You see, it appears that certain members of the team have decided to grow various modes of mustache. Of course, Carl Pavano was the first of the Twins to sport that most macho of facial follicular adornments. A couple days ago, more mustaches began appearing. Nick Punto showed up on first base with the beginnings of a Snidely Whiplash. Nick Blackburn went whole-hog in homage to both Pavano and Mauer by shaving in some handlebars and scary-pointy sideburns. And one could also see the unmistakable shadow of stubble through the mask of Brian Butera behind the plate. They've formed their own little hairy uncle club. It's so cute.

Personally, I hope more people take the cue and show their team solidarity with a mustache of their own. I know Joe Mauer won't do it. He's already got the sideburns and his "people" want the public to concentrate on them. They certainly don't want some dirty rapist mustache detracting from the wonderousness of his burns...because let's be honest...they rock. Justin Morneau probably won't do it either because he's really superstitious. Everyone's heard the one about walking under a ladder causing bad luck, right? Well, a lesser-known adage is that mustaches can cause hitting slumps (notice that of the four people with 'staches so far, two are pitchers and two are normally at or below the Mendoza line). So he's out. But everyone else should be fine with it. They can make it into a rallying cray. "'Member the Mustache" or something.

Let's do this fellas.

Not your Grampa's 4th of July...

2010-07-08T23:52:00.002-05:00

...There is no County Fair here in Stark County, North Dakota. This, in and of itself, is especially queer to me considering the local culture. It would seem as though Stark County would lend itself to a "fair" atmosphere very amicably. We've got a bevy of farm animals and people who are oddly willing to doll them up and parade them around. We've got rodeos on an uncomfortably regular basis. We've got weekly stock car races. We are MORE than willing to look past the numerous shortcomings of the traveling "carnival" and its less-than-charming brand of "employee" so that we can relive our childhoods by making ourselves throw up. We've all been born with highly-evolved livers which come in rather handy because we pride ourselves on our ability to arrange an impromptu beer garden in under 5 minutes. We LOVE parlor games. And, frankly, we'd eat cat turds if someone deep-fried them or wrapped them in bacon. There simply isn't anything that this area lacks that would damn the possibility of a County Fair. But, you see, we have "Roughrider Days".

For those not familiar with this area; "Roughrider Days" (hereinafter RRD) is a yearly tradition that so closely resembles a fair that perhaps the residents of Dickinson feel that an ACTUAL fair would be repetitive. That spending the money on that type of County conglomeration would be silly considering the effectiveness of the system currently in place. After all, RRD has the creepy animal beauty pageants. RRD has the rodeos and week-long smell of animal poop. RRD has a parade. RRD has booze. RRD has weird (yet frighteningly normal) food like fleischkuekle and the always-popular "taco in a bag". RRD has fireworks...in both safely done group settings and backyard bomb-making parties where people lose eyesight and fingers. RRD has a propensity for uncontrolled jingoism and boisterous Nationalism. RRD has loud race cars that don't look like they would go any faster than a lawnmower but, from what I hear, actually move fairly quickly. RRD has the Orwellian "Art in the Park" which is actually a lot less "art" and a lot more "solar lamp birdhouse welcome sign" or "rosemaled gun rack". RRD has "Party on the Pavement" beer garden, which is essentially an orgy of halter tops and booze...a bar fight encased in cattle guards. And, of course, RRD has a Demolition Derby. For those who do not know, this is like a Thunderdome for cars. A "30 cars enter...one car leaves" extravaganza filled with twisted metal, sleeveless denim and banquet beer. And it lasts FOR-FUCKING-EVER. Seriously, I crashed my fairly new car in the UND parking lot and I couldn't drive it two feet to the parking spot before the tow truck came. Somehow, these people speed around in shitheap rustboxes, smashing into each other repeatedly, and it takes 6 HOURS to determine a winner. Fascinating.

So there is quite a bit to take in during the week. Our weekend started with the parade. I actually had to participate in the parade this year, having volunteered to walk alongside North Dakota's lone member of the US House of Representatives, Earl Pomeroy. It's an election year and it was a favor for cousins Geoff and John who work for the ND Democratic Party. And besides that, although I'm not a member of the party, my parents have known Earl for decades and although I disagree with his stance on the climate bill, (I get it, he's from a fossil fuel state) I'll most certainly support him over any Republican candidate they trot out. My kids took up residence in the same spot as years past and they were able to 1) see me in my Earl Pomeroy T-shirt; 2) see their grandfather on the Dickinson High School 40th reunion float; 3) see their great uncle shooting a black powder rifle and donning a skunk hat; and 4) collect a trash bag full of candy. By the time I met up with them after the parade, they had ingested so much sugar that they were literally vibrating and I think my son was speaking in a different language.

We then headed up the street to the aforementioned "art in the park" to check out the wares...fully expecting to be disappointed...but actually came away with a couple purchases. Shanna found a jewelry and handbag maker from the Pacific Northwest that she really liked and I made my routine purchase of what can only be described as a kettle corn feedbag. And since the line for Indian tacos (don't ask) was too damned long, I also treated myself to a foot long chili dog...which may have looked like someone had crapped on a bun, but tasted like heaven.

After the kettle corn, junk food, sun and candy...our children were in need of a nap. Of course, they didn't agree with us. But Shanna and I have become quite adept at sensing when naps are necessary to prevent our children from transforming into screeching, brain-eating demons. This was one of those days. Later that night we had a campfire, ate smores and...after the children went to bed...drank some beer. I accompanied my friend Bob to the first night of "Party on the Pavement". It's always an interesting scene. I saw people that I hadn't seen for a while and, like always, engaged in those same awkward conversations where I did my best to listen intently and to not use cuss words when I spoke. I imbibed. I did not dance...at all. That was all normal. Now, I did see some stuff that WASN'T normal. I saw a burly, long-haired biker dude talking to a black man, who apparently didn't see the Nazi swastika tattooed on his left arm. I saw a girl with an eye patch. And not a cool "I'm a pirate" type eye patch. It was more of an "I just had surgery", eye patch with sterile tape and gauze. Personally, I would've stayed home. But it demonstrates the kind of draw that this event has become. Not even people with serious ophthalmic issues would dare miss it. And I saw clients....oh man did I see clients. I started walking home when I heard whistles.

The next day we headed out to the grocery store to get some stuff for grilling and then we did what used to be a July 4th family tradition growing up...we went explosives shopping. When I was younger, we bought everything. Black Cats, smoke bombs, bottle rockets, roman candles, tanks, spinners, fountains, cones, artillery shells, snakes, sparklers, jumping jacks, Saturn missiles, Chinese Pagodas, Howlers, snaps...you name it and it was fair game. There weren't really any rules governing their use either. As long as there was a parent outside (sober or otherwise) within earshot of us, we had free reign to blow shit up at will. Nowadays bottle rockets aren't even SOLD in North Dakota. But when I was younger, my cousin's dad made us a bottle rocket gun out of PVC pipe and we actually shot them at each other. We once took my cousin to the hospital after having a bottle rocket blow up on the side of his face. My wife, however, was not privy to this particular way of celebrating our independence from Great Britain. She did not spend any time honing her pyrotechnic skills on an asphalt driveway. Her hands are free from the scars of second-degree burns. So it should not surprise anyone that my expectations were not fulfilled with the purchases we made at the fireworks stand. Nothing we bought exploded. NOTHING. Most of the items we got did their business on the ground. And the things that produced any type of sparks or showers did so below eye level. The only things that was propelled into the air were the parachutes that I had to lobby for in the check-out line. It was kind of bunk. Now, my wife's argument, of course, was that "the kids loved it". Well no shit they loved it. They saw sparks and stuff made noise. But they don't have any idea what COULD have been presented to them. Its like having an opportunity to bring a starving man to Ruth Chris Steakhouse, but instead opting for McDonald's. Undoubtedly, the dude is going to say that he enjoyed the garbage that he ate at McD's. But that's only because he wasn't able to experience the other options. Give him a medium rare New York Strip from Ruth Chris and see if he thinks the 10 piece nuggets is an option. Not gonna happen. But whatever. Sooner or later my children will break free from their oppressive mother and spend the day like any self-respecting US child should... teetering on the edge of combustion and risking one's digits for the joy of seeing a pop can explode. It's gonna be special. God. Bless. America.

We had a great weekend. And we hope you did too.

Please God say this isn't true...

2010-07-06T17:07:00.002-05:00

...Aaron Gleeman has linked to a report from Hardball Talk that touts a Cliff Lee to Minnesota for Wilson Ramos and Aaron Hicks trade. And like the esteemed Mr. Gleeman, I certainly hope that this is a blatant exaggeration. I would love to see Cliff Lee on the Twins roster. I wouldn't mind giving up Wilson Ramos for him either. But Hicks AND Ramos for a dude that will most certainly wear pinstripes next season is WAY too much. Like one astute commenter pointed out in the article...Cuddy ain't going to be a spring chicken forever and Hicks should mature right about the time Cuddy or Kubel take a dump production-wise. So while Mauer makes parting with Ramos doable, there is no one on the Twins outfield roster that makes trading Hicks for a rental reasonable in any way. Now, if that were a sign and trade (which it most certainly would not be)...then perhaps.

I'm always bitching about Bill Smith not making moves at the deadline...but let's not get nuts here.

UPDATE: Ken Rosenthal from Fox Sports is saying now that the Mariners weren't satisfied with the Twins ridiculous offer above, and have asked for MORE than what was proposed. Am I missing something here? Why is it that the Mariners seem to be holding all the cards? After all, if they don't make a trade before the end of July, they essentially get NOTHING guaranteed. Cliff Lee leaves for compensatory picks and the Mariners are stuck with rookie ball prospects that are 4 years from playing in the bigs. I don't get it.

Kids update....aka "where I liken my baby to a farming implement"

2010-07-01T17:10:00.003-05:00

My wife told me that if I needed to do an update on the blog. I inferred from our conversation at the time, that she would prefer that my update be more about the children and be less of a profanity-laced tirade about the Twins or an offensive highlight of political douchebaggery. So, fine. Here is where we are with the kiddos right now.

We recently had Max's 5th birthday party. It was a Lego theme (because right now the pegged block is his sole purpose in life) with Lego invites, Lego coloring activities, a fan-freakin'-tastic Lego cake created by Shanna and a jumping castle. Yeah, that's right...we rocked the jumping castle. And it was Top. Shelf. All of the kids loved it and all of the adults loved that their children were jumping their little assess off for a couple hours...knowing full well that bedtime would come much earlier as a result. Some of the adults tried it out too...and not just my Pygmy little sister...and they all thought it was a blast. It did rain a little bit, which put a small damper on some of the festivities (pun kind of intended after-the-fact). But being our resourceful selves, the jumping castle quickly morphed into a lawsuit-prone, inflatable slip-n-slide. And although they got absolutely soaked, I didn't hear any complaints. Most of all, Max had a blast. He told his mother afterward that it was the "best birthday that he's ever had". Now, he's had exactly three "parties" and he probably only remembers two of the three. But I'll take that as a success.

Max has grown into a very intelligent, very verbal, very SENSITIVE little sweetheart. He looks almost exactly like his mother and he has inherited quite a few of her personality traits as well. Like his mother, he prefers the predictable and logical. Getting a new toothbrush is like moving to a new country. He does not like surprises or changes to the routine. Like his mother, he is apt to tear up. He cries when he misses us and he gets scared when there are zombies on Scooby Do. We've been trying to prepare him for kindergarten next fall, but he's not fond of taking breaks from Lego's to learn. As a result, despite the fact that he knew all of his colors before he could talk and he uses words like "armada" to describe his numerous Lego creations... he still thinks a 9 is a 6 and he writes his name backwards. He creates the individual members of his Lego space fleet at what can only be described as a kind of Lego "laboratory" he has fashioned on the egress window sill...complete with stool, instructions and table lamp. He loves being outside and we're still trying to figure out whether his propensity to hoard all of his toys into large piles is a sign of some deeper seeded problem or just proof that he is messy as shit. He's exasperating and exhilarating at the same time. And although he's only 5, he's still quite thought-provoking.

Lucy is a nutbag. Plain and simple. As much as her brother has become a mini-Shanna, Lucy has inherited the weirdness of her father. She counts in Spanish until she encounters a number she doesn't know, at which point she simply makes something up. I think she assumes that because I don't know the language either, I'm not going to figure out that "Gargales" actually ISN'T the correct translation of "six". She dances....horribly...just like her father. Sometimes she gets so insanely into a hippy-style funk (where she closes her eyes, juts her arms out to her sides, and sways like a tree) that she actually falls down. Speaking of falling down, she does that...a LOT. When she eats, she gets her face covered in ketchup. And it doesn't matter what she having to eat because she puts ketchup on EVERYTHING... seriously. Yesterday she wanted ketchup. On her plate was cantaloupe and yogurt. She'll spend 30 minutes sneakily putting on makeup, only to emerge from the bathroom with powder and eyeshadow all over her eyebrows and forehead. Before Max's party she emerged from downstairs (after rifling through her aunties makeup bag) with one eye encircled in bronzer. She looked like the dog from "The Little Rascals". And while she is horrible at going to bed (offer numerous excuses to delay including that she "has to poop" before she can get comfortable), when she sleeps she assures me that she dreams of "tutu dancers". And just like me, she doesn't like getting out of bed. It's not saying much for my own maturity level but even at 3 years old, I can relate to her. And like her brothers, she has become the thing I look forward to every morning when I wake up and every day when I come home from work.

Oliver is something different entirely. If Shanna and Max are square pegs and Lucy and I are circle pegs..Ollie's just a big, giant peg that doesn't fit into any hole because he's too damned big. For those who have not met him...imagine a baby version of Brock Lesnar. He is 2 weeks from his 11th month and he weighs (I would guess by now) around 26 pounds. He has a new tattoo on his shoulder that merely says "FOOD". He is proficient in two things...eating and tackling. Despite his size, he is deceptively quick. He can cover ground in an impressive speed-crawl and can scoot along by pulling himself up and shuffling between the pieces of furniture on which he can balance. In the process of moving from one area of the room to the other, he lays waste to all his path. Everything within reaching distance is pulled from its sitting place...coffee cups, glasses, phones, remotes, papers, wallets, toys, plates...all of them commandeered and stuffed quickly into his mouth. He does this to determine whether they can be eaten. Those things that are inedible are discarded...covered in a thick layer of spittle. Those things that CAN be eaten are dispatched with haste. He's like a miniature, human version of a combine. Everything in its path is collected. The foodstuffs are stored. The unusable are scattered in a whirling puff of destruction behind him. Max was actually a sizable baby as well. However, when Max started moving around, he dropped weight and slimmed down. I thought that might happen with Ollie as well. But I actually think he's getting bigger now. Yesterday morning I came into his room and he had repelled down the side of his crib and was doing pull-ups off the side of the changing table.

Why is he so damned big? Well, I can think of at least one thing...as I wrote above, he is nearly 11 months old, but I can count on my one hand the number of times he has slept through the night. He wakes up once, if not twice, a night. He does this not because he's lost his pacifier or because he's scared by himself. No, he does this because he's STARVING. Shanna and I aren't ones to coddle either. We champion "Cry It Out" and implemented it with both Max and Lucy with great success. Both of them were able to grasp it within a couple nights. We also tried it with Ollie...twice...and failed miserably both times. After all, it's not the act of falling asleep that is his problem. It's the fact that he wakes up with hunger pangs every 5 hours. And, of course, it would be easy to dismiss his habits as "night snacking" or wanting to eat in order to get to sleep, IF HE DIDN'T EAT AN ENTIRE 10oz BOTTLE EVERY TIME!. It's ridiculous. I'm wondering whether I should start mixing his formula with protein powder and feed him pork chops at dinner time. The problem is compounded by the fact that even the size 4 overnight diapers he has to wear cannot contain the amount of urine he produces overnight after all this liquid. And because of that Shanna and I have to deal with wet sheets on a regular basis.

And on top of this, he bites. Oh man, does he bite. He, like all of our kids, gives "kisses" as open mouth head butts to shoulders, faces and chests. The difference between Ollie and the other two, however, is that once he lands the head butt, instead of just soaking the person's shirt with slobber, he actually clenches his jaws and drives his four little fangs into the recipient. At the moment, his sister is the object of most of his affection. And he is terrorizing her every second. Whenever she sits on a chair, he's below her trying to bite her feet. When she's on the ground, he's positioning for a tackle. When she gets too close...she loses a chunk of shoulder. We've tried our best to get him to stop doing it. The problem is, it breaks his heart when we tell him no. It's an automatic, instantaneous sobbing fit. It's as though biting is his passion and we've cruelly stymied his creative outlet. Like he's a painter and preventing him from clamping down on his sister's shoulder is akin to taking away his canvas. As though he is saying "without biting, what's my motivation for living?" He simply cannot go on. Now, you can't have a biter. That's for sure. Kids don't play well with biters. They end up having imaginary friends and reading Manga. But breaking him of the habit is that much harder when scolding results in flailing arms and crocodile tears. But we've got to hurry up, because at the rate he's growing I'm pretty sure that by the time he's 2, he's going to be able to kick my ass.

So there you have it. We have a full house with three very mobile kids...all with distinct, wonderful personalities. And we love it. Don't get me wrong, we don't want any more. In fact, I've made quite SURE that we don't have any more. Like Bill Cosby said about his five kids...I have three kids. And the REASON I have three kids is because I do not want four. But we love them dearly and are anxiously awaiting their next developments. Have a happy 4th of July and don't blow your fingers off.

My dogs are ugly...

2010-06-18T12:31:00.001-05:00

...I'll just come right out and say it.

I have two dogs that we got from two different rescues. The smaller one, Pip, is a "terrier" that we got from a place called "Portland Terrier Rescue" when we lived in Oregon. The designation of "Terrier", we've come to learn, is what rescues call mutts for which there really isn't any sane description. Also, lets' admit it...it just sounds better than saying "plain old weird lookin' dog". It was actually a wedding present we gave to ourselves, obviously prior to fully thinking it through. She's a sweet dog and is very playful. However, she's HAS to be the dumbest dog to every grace the earth. She's never quite grasped potty training (after 7 years) and even the easiest of commands like "come here" are met with a vacant, cock-headed gaze...as though they were spoken in Zimbabwean. She's cute because she's small. She's is not cute because of her style. Her hair is a fluffy mix of black and gray and it gets long fast...turning her into a little black Tribble in only a few months. She weighs about 5 pounds but you'd think she was closer to ten with all her hair. Grooming her becomes a necessity when she starts getting things caught in her coat...like cockle-burs or her own toe nails.

The bigger one, Lazzy, we rescued from a farm near Buxton, North Dakota when we were in college. Actually, she was rescued by our collective HOUSE (which included around 8 guys and their respective lady-friends), but in the end I was the one who ended up with her. When we got her they told us she was a "boxer-terrier" mix. Unfortunately, I see less Boxer in her and more Coyote. She's has really stringy, coarse hair over a fluffy undercoat. She's varying colors of gray, black and white which lends itself to everyone thinking she's ancient (she's actually 11). And when her hair gets to be as long as it is right now, she looks downright frightening...like the bastard child of a charcoal gray ottoman and one of those demon dogs from Ghostbusters. Add to this the fact that she's extremely neurotic and edgy and one has a pretty good watchdog. She may kind of smell funky and have breath that could stop a locomotive, but when she's laying in front of the front door, there isn't a burglar in the tri-state area that is going to bother with our living room.

Now, the problem is, when Lazzy's hair gets long certain things get caught in her hair as well. Much like her smaller counterpart. However, the things that get caught in HER hair cause quite a problem for both her and the people she lives with. More specifically, when she takes a crap, it gets caught in her butt-hair and I have to clean it off with paper towels, shampoo and the hose. It's not fun.

This happened on Monday. I was just leaving the gym, on my way home with just enough time to get a shower and go back to work when my wife called with the news that I was going to have to clean my dog's ass. I was not happy about this for two reasons. First, I don't enjoy washing my dog's ass. It makes me really gaggy. And I never feel like I can wash the guilt off my hands after such a gross violation of my dog's personal space. Also, let's be blunt... Shanna's story was a crock. I got a text message that said "Call me right away". I, of course, thought something serious had happened to someone so I did what I was told and called her. Imagine my surprise, however, when the news had nothing to do with any one's health or any dire situation but was instead, in not so many words:

"You're going to have to wash poop off the dog's butt".

I think my response was "Nooooooooooo!!!!" After all, this wouldn't be my first go-round with canine ass washing, having done this very thing LAST summer. The only saving grace that time was the fact that my sister's boyfriend was there to hold her tail while I sprayed, scrubbed and gagged.

But my wife went on:

"I didn't notice it until I was just leaving, so I wasn't able to clean her up and now I have to go back to work".

How convenient. You didn't notice the hunk of shit on the front doorstep and the clump hanging from your own dog's rear end until you had just enough time to tell your husband to wash it off? How perfect for you.

So there I was, in the front yard of my home, with baby shampoo and a hose, holding my dog's tail in the air while spraying the poop off, gagging repeatedly and cursing my wife's bullshit story and the farmer who allowed the dog to be born in the first place...allthewhile seeing car after car go by the yard, undoubtedly questioning my motives, my technique or both. It was terrible.

So both dogs are at the groomers now. And I'm playing quite fast and loose with the definition of the word "groomer" here. It would be more appropriate to just call her the "shaver" because for my dogs, there is not any sort of AKC-recommended styling. It's more of the "just cut all the hair off" type instruction.

And frankly, she could shave a Yankees insignia into the hair on my big dog's back and I'd be less pissed at her than I was at my wife for making ME give Laz another colonoscopy. I probably won't forgive her for a while.

UPDATE:

My dogs returned from the shaver a few minutes ago. The small one looks like a little rodent. The big one looks like a freakin' chupacabra.

Check us out on Facebook

2010-06-17T17:11:00.000-05:00

I've created a Facebook Fan Page for this blog and you can get to it by clicking RIGHT HERE. You can also get there by clicking on that fancy-schmancy button on the left sidebar. Facebook gave it to me as a gift after I spent time setting up the page. It's just like when you and your wife spend a good chunk of change on a house in town and the bank gives you a blanket with horses on it.

So head on over there, click the "Like" button and become a part of something huge!!! That was hard to type. Actually, I really doubt the page will gather much attention outside my immediate family and friends. But for those folks on Facebook, the page will alert you to new posts if and when they occur. Outside of that, I'm not sure it will do anything for you at all...other than letting you in on the ground floor of The Rural Bus Route MOVEMENT!!!

Did you gag? A little?

World Cup Beginner...

2010-06-17T14:22:00.003-05:00

...I've been watching these World Cup matches this year and I've got a couple observations. First, because my Internet provider isn't in ESPN's "network" or something, I've had to watch all of the matches on Univision's website. And despite having taken 4 years of Spanish in high school, I can still only understand the words "Pelota" and "Vuvuzela".

To anyone who is familiar with the World Cup this year, the vuvuzela is a South African horn that damn near every person blows during the matches, thus turning the background into a constant bee-like buzzing that never ceases...ever. In addition, it's been reported that the sound of the vuvuzela can be heard outside of the arenas, at all hours of the day and night, by every freakin' person in Johannesburg. Everyone seems to be pissed off about the vuvuzela. They want it banned from the matches. They try to get it filtered from broadcasts. It's even been preemptively banned from Wimbeldon. People are really torqued over this little party favor. But frankly, I just don't get it. I admit that I was confused as to what the hell that noise was while watching my first match this year. And I'll also admit that it IS a smidgin annoying. But that's all it is...annoying. It's not unbearable. It's not ruining anything. It's not even that distracting. In fact, if one is actually into the match, and trying to pay attention, the vuvuzela isn't really noticeable. Now, perhaps the reason I don't notice the vuvuzela buzz after a couple minutes is because I'm paying extra close attention to what's happening due to the fact that I really don't understand the rules, don't have the foggiest clue who any of the people are, and can't understand the language. But even so, I just don't agree that it's doing any real damage to the spectacle. After all, can it really be any worse than those god-damned cowbells you hear at the Olympics?

The teams have also been complaining about the "pelota" as well...which is the ball. They call it the Jabulani. Apparently, it's different than the ball they normally use and the players, coaches, goalies and media are calling it a disaster. I don't know shit about the ball and I don't care. It's a fuckin' ball.

Now, I'm no "futbol" fan. I don't watch it...ever. As I said above, I don't have any idea what the rules are. And to say that I'm even a casual fan would be a gross misstatement. You would think that this unfamiliarity would make watching the matches, especially those that end in a 0-0 tie, absolutely unbearable. After all, the main gripe you hear from American, non-soccer watchers is that the sport (where people run around for 45 minutes straight without a break and rarely score) is boring. I don't see it that way. First, I know that Americans are notorious for their short attention spans and the fact that there are no breaks in the action, but for halftime, certainly doesn't lend itself to that type of audience. But the fact is, breaks = commercials. So even if the stereotype were true, and I was the typical no-attention US sports fan...the fact is I hate commercials even more than I hate the monotony of 45 minutes of no score. And to that effect, the fact that the teams rarely score does NOT put me to sleep. Instead, it does the exact opposite. It's like every single second I'm on edge. Because every single second could bring an end to the fucking tie and I want to see it. Plus, I just do not want to miss the Univision announcers make that great call:

GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!

There is one thing that I absolutely HATE about the World Cup, however. And I'm not sure if it's like this with every soccer match, or if it's exclusive to this world stage. But the faking of injuries is so unbelievably stupid and overdone that it almost makes me not want to watch the sport ever again. It's a putrid farce.

This morning I was watching Nigeria and Greece play in the second round. At one point near the sideline (is that what they call it?) there was a tiny little scuffle between opposing members and the Nigerian player kind of kicked his foot out at the dude from Greece and got him in the thigh. The kick was hardly Kung-Fu. In fact, it almost looked like he was striking out to prevent having the ball shoved in his face. It was dumb, for sure, and it got him red carded and sent to the showers and the loss of a player greatly impacted the game for the Nigerians who were up by a goal at that point. But what was so frustrating is that immediately upon getting grazed by the Nigerian's foot, the dude from Greece hit the deck and began rolling around like he had just been disemboweled or had his eyes poked out just as these guys do on every play involving contact. It was pathetic. I've been kicked harder by my toddler son. The guy for Nigeria should be slightly embarrassed because his little tantrum cost his team a shot at victory. But the dude from Greece should be REALLY embarrassed for acting like such a freakin' pussy. And that goes for all the douchebag soccer players that roll around on the ground after every single tackle. It's ridiculous. Mike Redmond would take at least 6 foul tips in the balls during a regular Twins game behind the plate. Not once did I see him roll around on the ground like a baby the way soccer players do. GROW A PAIR!

Soccer games are long enough the way it is. And I know it is unorthodox to champion the extension of those matches for any reason whatsoever. But I truly believe they should implement instant replay on all plays where a player goes to the ground and appears injured. If there is no proof of the injury, then they should stand him up and punch him in the face. That would do two things: First, it might get those idiots to knock that shit off. Second, and perhaps more importantly to the sport, the injection of a little brutality would siphon off a bit of the violence-loving American sports scene. WIN- WIN!!

Hardy expected to return tonight...

2010-05-25T16:41:00.000-05:00

...Rotoworld is reporting that JJ Hardy is most-likely going to be penciled into the lineup tonight against the Yankees. This is very good news and the little bit of good luck the Twins may have needed over this homestretch.

Twins v. Yankers 2010 v2.0...

2010-05-25T14:10:00.001-05:00

...and this time...it's at home.

So tonight we get to find out whether or not the game-three miracle in New York resulted in any renewed confidence for the home squad against the team we all love to hate. I'm cautiously optimistic.

I'm fairly emotional when I'm watching sporting events involving my favorite clubs. When I watch the Vikings, I get pretty vocal. When I watch Duke, I've been known to break things. When I watch the Twins, my wife scolds me and threatens divorce. But nothing compares to games like today...when I watch the Twins v. Yankees, I'm unbearable. I hate the squad so much. Everything about them makes my skin crawl. The way Derrick Jeter stands right on top of the fuckin' plate and pushes his ass out on every pitch, regardless of where the pitch crosses the plate. The way Alex Rodriguez chews his gum and holds his bat and wears his socks and jogs like a girl and gets a free pass for cheating and sucking at life. The way Nick Swisher is so...Nick Swisher-ish. The way John Sterling has so many nicknames and sayings for everyone and the fact that a good 99% of them are trite and stupid...An A-bomb for A-Rod? Seriously? The way CC Sebathia can't figure out how to wear a god damned hat or pants that fit. The way Mark Texiera automatically gets the gold glove at first base because he plays for the Yankees instead of Justin Morneau. The fact that many of the fans are entitled whiners who haven't got a clue as to what normal ballclubs, whose history, media exposure, apparel and widespread fanbase aren't nearly what the Yankees of today are privy to. The fact that Mariano Rivera is so damned good and there's nothing bad to say about him...ugh.

The fact that the Twins have been so freakin' bad against them for years is just unbearable. So, what I'm saying is that I'm certainly hoping things, somehow, have changed. However, one thing that hasn't changed is that win or lose, tonight I'm gonna need a stiff drink.

The garden is in!

2010-05-21T10:42:00.001-05:00

...and it's gonna be good.

I spent about 5 hours this past weekend cutting sod and doubling the size of the plot. No, I didn't use that slick little "sod cutter"machine. I did it with a square-edge shovel and my bare hands. But I do not feel any more macho because of this. I feel like an idiot for not renting the aforementioned sod-cutting jobbie. It sucked. Cutting sod from the ground is the worst job ever. If I was a homesteader in this area at the time of the midwestern colonization, I'd have been dead in two days. If my allergy to horses didn't kill me, my unwillingness to build a sod house would.

We planted with Tomatoes, Bell Peppers, Jalapenos, Bush Beans, Peas, Watermelon, Potatoes, Zucchini, Summer Squash, Cilantro, Cucumbers, Cantaloupe and Broccoli. We plan on also having a lettuce garden in the shaded area next to the front of our house. That hasn't been planted yet. In addition, we have strawberries blossoming on the side of the house, chives that come back bigger every year and a metric shit-ton of Rhubarb. Should be a good harvest.

Now, before we planted, we asked our kids if there was anything specific that they would like to have planted in the garden. My son was satisfied that with the tomatoes, strawberries, chives and rhubarb we had met all of his needs. However, my daughter had one additional request. Bacon.

I love where her head is at.

Twins end East Coast swing at 2-5...

2010-05-21T10:21:00.000-05:00

...and that is exactly what I was hoping they wouldn't do.

The road trip was spotted with a few glaring issues. Shitty pitching. Shitty situational hitting. Shitty managing. Not exactly the ingredients for a winning stretch.

Now, I understand how big the win at Yankee stadium was. The game will do wonders (hopefully) to erradicate a significant bugaboo with this team. They've had problems with the stadium, the team, AND the closer and they managed to exorcise all three of those demons with one swing. But that simply doesn't excuse the fact that they played like garbage the rest of the road trip. Two pretty rough outings for Francisco Liriano in a row. Kevin Slowey still couldn't find the strike zone. The offense was better off without people on base. And Ron Gardenhire over-managed to A-Rod resulting in yet another highlight reel for that frickin' douchenozzle. And the kicker...now they're tied with Detroit in the division...which REALLY pisses me off.

Now it's back to Target field for some inter-league home cookin' with the Brewers coming to town. Incidentally, the Twins possess the second best inter-league record since the two leagues started playing each other (to the Yankers). Let's hope that the trend continues. I'm not sure I can hack another shitstorm like this past roadtrip. Bru-tal.

Awards:

MADS: Mauer is stellar right now, for sure. His stats are very Mauer-esque. However, for all the accolades one could drop on Joe, Justin Morneau has been better. He leads the league in hitting and OBP. His OPS is astronomical and he's already got a third of the dingers he hit all of last season. He's goin' places, this Morneau guy.

CSMA: This is a tough one to sort out after that road trip. Everyone seemed to bring their A-game to the "sucking ass" party. But over the last several games, one person has REALLY taken sucking to a whole other level and that person is Michael Cuddyer. His average has dropped by about 80 points. He's swinging at stuff he couldn't hit with a 1x6 and he's currently on pace to ground into more double plays that any other person in the history of the universe. Cuddy doesn't make many appearances in this section. But this was a no-brainer. Hopefully this is a wake-up call.

Happy Delmon Young Day!!!!...NOT!

2010-05-12T15:44:00.003-05:00

When I realized that today was Delmon Young day (apparently, an offshoot of Andrew Kneeland's Nick Punto Day), I wasn't all the pleased. After all, I've been pretty hard on Delmon for a couple years and he and I haven't been "my buddy and me" since I carefully lauded the Twins for picking him up in the Garza move. Until this year he was overweight, plodding in left, erratic, impatient at the plate, snotty and generally just a privileged, douchey little 20-something. And although he has been MUCH-improved this season (harder-working, an exponentially higher walk rate and 30 pounds faster), every time I try to convince myself that he's actually realizing some of the outrageous potential he has, I've got that little voice in the back of my head saying "hey, dumbass...it's Delmon Young." And then the person behind the voice smashes me in the forehead with a 2x4. And by "smashes me in the forehead" I mean "watches Delmon first-pitch swing after 3 straight walks to kill a rally". One could make a pretty good argument that Luis Rivas deserves his own day before Delmon does. But when you add to that the fact that May 12th is MY day, the situation REALLY goes to shit.

That's right, back in 1978, after 36 hours of labor and a C-section, my mother (who's womb had been touched by the hand of the almighty...DUH) gave birth to a little baby boy. That boy was me. And for the past 32 years, May 12th has belonged to me. Now, I know there are other people out there that also celebrate their birthdays on May 12th. But let's be honest here people...are their births more important than mine?

Ok, fine. That last point is arguable. But what isn't arguable is that putting Delmon Young day on MY birthday just doesn't jive with the universe. Andrew should have consulted with the other members of the Twins blogosphere before making this decision. After all, a person is judged by the quality of the company he keeps. And I just can't enjoy the day of my birth knowing that people will now associate me with bat throwing, Dimitry and epic rally killing.

I'm ruined.

Remember when I blogged about the Twins yesterday?...(look below)...

2010-05-12T12:08:00.002-05:00

...where I gave the latest mid-season CSMA award to Jason Kubel? And also when I wrote:

Kubel has always struggled against lefties and this year is CERTAINLY no different. However, after last year's success, great things were expected and they just haven't happened. And with Jim Thome waiting on the bench, the hook might be quick. His line so far this season? 2 HR, Avg .209, OBP .333, SLG .308, OPS .641. That's pretty bad. It's REALLY bad from a power position. I'm at least remotely confident that Kubel can come out of the slump. If nothing else, Gardy could help him out a bit by sitting him against lefties in favor of Thome or Young (who aren't necessarily stellar against them either, but better so far).

Well, it appears that the Twins management and front office totally DO read this blog. (Hey guys...what's up?) Because this afternoon's lineup is as follows:

If you look carefully you will notice a couple things. First, no Kubel. Second, more Thome. Who's pitching you ask? Why it's LEFT-HANDER John Danks.

Yay for Gardenhire!!!! He's so smar...

Wait a second. This just in...we just found out today that Matt Tolbert was recalled from Rochester to fill in for the injured JJ Hardy. Ahhh...SO CLOSE!

At least Rochester is happy.