Road Rockets

I’ll be the first to tell you that I haven’t been blogging much lately.  I directly attribute that to the fact that it’s summer, I’ve been busy, and well, I’m just lazy sometimes.  Nevertheless, I wish I had more time, energy, and motivation to write, it just doesn’t always work out that way. In my defense, it’s golf season, and there is a very small window in northern Minnesota during which the weather is decent enough to golf, so I like to take advantage during the four months I have.

Which brings me to today’s story, which is nearing in on two weeks old already, but whatever.  Deal with it.

Last week, five of us – myself, Eric, B-Weezy, Cristin, and Justin – took a little road trip for an out of town golf weekend in Park Rapids, MN.  There are a few great courses in the area, and Justin let us crash at his lake cabin, thus saving us money on a hotel and saving me from having to share a bed with another man; an activity I like to avoid if at all possible.

We left town Sunday evening with plans to golf two courses Monday and a third on Tuesday, after which we would head back home.  Sunday afternoon before we left, Eric decided to hit the ground running and played in a tournament in town.  Since the tournament was hosted by a bar, I wouldn’t be doing it justice to say that drinks were flowing throughout the day.  With that in mind, it’s reasonable to understand that Eric was working on a solid buzz. For those of us who know Eric, we know that he’s not a quitter.  He wanted to let the good times roll, and for good reason.  Who wants to sober up at 8:00 pm? So, that, plus the fact that we were going on a mini-vacation, plus the fact that Eric usually dictates the activity in these kinds of situations, all lead up to one idea: we need to get some road beers for the drive.

As soon as we could mention the idea of having a few drinks to-go, Cristin was shooting down the idea in its entirety.  Fun hater.  Everyone but her was on board with the idea, including Justin, who introduced us to the brilliant term for drinks in the car:  “road rockets.”  Long story short, we tortured Cristin all weekend with the threat of bringing road rockets into the car, which frustrated her endlessly because she probably felt like she was outnumbered four to one.

We made due without any in-car drinks for most of the weekend, although we may or may not have had to stop at a bar or two for a quick drink and a couple shots while we drove.  And we may or may not have started drinking at 4:00 pm on Monday and kept it rolling until we went to bed that night.  And Eric may or may not have grabbed the wheel while I was driving us home to force me into a liquor store parking lot.  And B-Weezy may or may not have run into said liquor store to purchase a bottle of Bacardi Limon and a 2-liter of Pepsi.  And Cristin may or may not have flipped out, stopped talking for two hours, stole the Limon when we stopped for gas, and thrown it away in the womens’ bathroom.

All things considered, though, the trip was a success.  We played three breathtaking courses in beautiful weather with pretty decent friends.  You can’t ask for much more.  We laughed, Cristin cried, and Justin threw his wedge farther than I’ve ever seen anyone throw a club in my entire life, so bonus nachos.

In other news you probably don’t care about, I have officially lost the battle with my wireless router.  I give up trying to figure it out. After a couple months of it being very spotty, I finally went and bought a new one last week.  The old one worked well for the five or six years I had it, but when I got my new laptop, it just wasn’t jiving with Vista.  So I bought the new one, and from the VERY MINUTE I walked into the door with it, the old router – almost as if it could sense the threat – started working better than it ever has.  The new one is still in the box with the receipt on top, but I know the minute I bring it back, the old one will go to hell again.  If this story ends up on Unsolved Mysteries, I’ll make sure to let you guys know so you can DVR it.  I can’t explain it.  It’s the same effect I used to have on my Playstation when it didn’t work.  After hitting reset a dozen times, I’d finally snap and yell, “Fuck it, I’ll play NFL Blitz on my N64 instead,” and BAM, the Playstation would fire right up.

Maybe I have that affect on electronics, who knows?  Why haven’t I tried this on an ATM yet? I’ll get back to you on that one.

One love,

10

This Is Not ‘Nam, This Is Bowling, There Are Rules

I consider myself a fairly mild-mannered person.  It takes a lot to get me truly angry, and even when I am upset, it doesn’t last long.  I’m generally pretty relaxed and I like to think of myself as a very easy-going guy.  However, there are things, usually little things, that sometimes tend to make me want to smash someone’s face into a car windshield.

Sometimes, things just don’t make sense to me.  In an effort to keep from gnawing off my own arms at the elbows, I have to get some of this stuff off my chest.  And since I have an open forum to vent about stuff, I’d be a fool not to use it. Off we go.

Dear Makers and Distributors of Single-Ply Toilet Paper,

Who in the hell are you kidding?  This stuff is about as useless as a third nipple.  I don’t understand the concept behind it, really.  It’s a disgrace to the human body if you ask me.  Not only am I going to be disgruntled when I come across it, I am going to use twice as much out of spite, even if I don’t need it.  (I’m looking at you Crowne Plaza in Bloomington.  Yes, I purposely flushed half a roll of toilet paper every time I went number one while I was there.  Take that.  Maybe next time you’ll think twice before charging that much for a room and spending mere pennies on such an important item).  In summation, I think we can all agree that single-ply toilet paper is nothing but an inconvenience.  If it’s an attempt to save money, then it is a failed attempt, as people are probably just going to use twice as much to combat the absurdity of one thin layer of transparent paper between your hand and germ city.

Dear Asurion,

For those who don’t know you, you are the “global leader in technology protection services,” and you happen to be the company who covers me in case my cell phone gets damaged.  So when I dropped it in St. Paul, I knew I’d be getting in touch with you guys in the near future. When I found out I could file my claim completely online, I was pumped.  Not only would I not have to spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone, which I hate, but I can take care of everything in my birthday suit, which just makes things that much better.  So when the time came, I logged on and spent around ten minutes filling out my claim.  It was fast, easy, and painless … until I clicked ‘SUBMIT.’  Then, up popped a screen that said that in order to further verify my identity, I would have to call the number provided.  Okay, fair enough I suppose.  I mean, I wanted to avoid the phone ordeal all together, but it is what it is.  So, I called the number and was anything but surprised when I had to maneuver my way through the automated messages just to figure out who the hell I needed to talk to.  After being on hold for five solid minutes, I was told that finalizing my claim was simple, and all I would have to do is log back onto the site and download a form to fill out.  Wait, so, let’s recap.  I filed a claim online, was told to call to verify my identity, called, and then was then directed back to the website at which I began this Bermuda triangle of common sense.  So I went back to the EXACT SAME WEBSITE I filed my claim on, downloaded a form that required me to write down all the EXACT SAME INFORMATION I already entered online, and faxed it to them, along with a photocopy of my driver’s license. Well, I’ve used the phone and the internet already, so why not toss in a third medium of communication with the fax machine?  Hey, maybe after that I can mail you a letter or Western Union you my deductable payment.  Absurd.  Only three words come to mind: lock it up.

Dear TLC,

We need to talk.  When you decided to run a show called “Jon and Kate Plus 8″ about a couple and their eight kids, you probably didn’t realize the ramifications it would have down the road.  For a while, it was easy enough for me to ignore it because, well, I don’t watch TLC.  But now, I can’t open a magazine or visit MSN.com without seeing news about their recent divorce or separation or whatever the hell it is, and it’s making me sick.  Firstly, what makes these people so special that they deserve their own show to begin with?  They have eight children, big whoop.  Lots of families have eight kids and/or have had sextuplets.  That doesn’t make these people special, especially since their sextuplets weren’t conceived naturally.  Maybe I’m missing something, but between these two and the Octomom, it seems like America has an affinity for people with more kids than they can handle.  Am I the sensible one here or am I missing something? Would it have broken peoples’ hearts if Jon and Kate had made an announcement saying they were going to quit the show to work on their marriage for their childrens’s sakes?  It seems to me they made their priorities clear.  They wanted to enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame.  Hope they’re happy.  Lord knows I’ll be happy in a three months when no one remembers who these idiots are.

Huh, is this really all that’s been bothering me lately?  Doesn’t seem like a lot, but then again, it’s summer, and only a true grouch would be able to be overly negative during summer.  Even if it hasn’t been higher than 75 degrees in what seems like two weeks, I’m going to refrain from complaining.  I’ll stick to complaining about the things that truly matter.  (Please note the sarcasm on that one).

One love,

10

Highs And Lows

I’ve had a lot going on in the past week, so I’ve got a lot to cover.  I’ve got a few high notes, and a couple things I’d like to gripe about, so I’m not going to bore you with any fluff today.  I’m getting right into it.

– Last Monday, I was in a golf tournament with Jess’ dad and his two friends.  Their fourth team member bailed and I was a last minute addition.  Aside from having a great time, we managed to card a 10-under 62 to win the tournament and I have a shiny new trophy in my living room to show for it.  The highlight of the day for me was driving the green on a 315 yard par 4 and sinking the 12 foot putt for an eagle.  That kinda stuff doesn’t happen everyday for a guy, and if Hammen is going to tell us about his eagles and aces, damn it, I am too.  All-in-all I played pretty well throughout the day minus four or five holes during which I couldn’t distinguish the difference between my ass and a hole in the ground, so I was pleased with that as well.

– Wednesday I made my fourth trip to Minneapolis in 6 weeks for the John Legend concert, for which Jess bought us front row tickets for my birthday.  The seats were fantastic, and by that I mean if John Legend had sneezed, we would have felt the mist.  I consider that to be a positive thing.  The show was incredible, as I expected it would be, and I now have a firm understanding of why Jess has seen him in concert three times.  I’ll go again if he comes back to the area fo’ sho’.

– When I got back to town on Thursday, I spent the rest of the week working.  Between my vacation a few weeks ago, the week I spent in Minneapolis for training (which is barely considered work at all), and the two days I had off for the concert, I  haven’t exactly been working my ass off lately, so it was tough getting back into the swing of things.  I like my job, don’t get me wrong, but I’d be a liar to say that I prefer it over sitting around all day, playing golf, and taking frequent cat naps.

– Yesterday, I celebrated my birthday, (and for those of you without a calendar, it was my golden birthday, so I expect gifts from all of you).  There’s something about turning 26, and I haven’t put my finger on it yet, but think it’s that I am suddenly very aware that I am closing in on being 30 years old.  I’m not ready to be 30 years old.  Hell, some would argue that I’m not ready to be 20 years old according to the way I act and think sometimes.  Nevertheless, I’m growing up.  I spent most of the day with my family, pretty low key stuff, and I rounded out the night hanging out with Jess and her fam, which was a blast.  This is the polar opposite of the way I spent my birthday a few years ago.  There was a lot more family and a lot less throwing up in my food at the restaurant after the bar, so that was nice.

Now that I’ve covered the pleasantries from the past week, onto the things that are currently grinding my gears.

– I’ve resisted the urge to write about Brett Favre for this long, but I can’t take it any longer.  Being from Minnesota, all I have heard about lately is the possibility of him coming to play for the Vikings.  (Reminder for those who forgot, I am NOT a Vikings fan).  For what seems like months, Favre has toyed with the idea of un-retiring and possibly suiting up for the Vikes.  Aside from the fact that I don’t think he’ll be very good, I am sick and tired of him being a douche about it.  He keeps saying, through his agent of course, that he’ll have a decision by such a date, and then on that day, he says – once again, through his agent – that he’s hopelessly torn and indecisive about making a return to pro football.

Listen up, Brett.  Either you want to play football next year, or you don’t. The fact that this decision wasn’t made eight weeks ago tells me that you probably don’t and you’re just having a hard time grasping the fact that you’re going to be 40 years old this fall and you literally have nothing to do for the next 40 years of your life.  Last week was supposed to be it, the last thoughts would be considered and you were going to have a decision by Thursday.  Then on Thursday you said you needed until the 30th.  Put us out of our misery for the love of God.  Just stay retired because frankly, I don’t think I can handle much more of you.  I was always impartial about you during your career.  I didn’t like or dislike you, but I respected your ability.  Now, you are tainting everything people were going to remember you for by dragging your feet in this decision.  You need to let sleeping dogs lie, Brett.  Sure, I can understand it’s going to be hard to walk away from the game you’ve spent your life with, the game you love.  But what’s the alternative?  Playing mediocre-at-best football in a city that once hated everything about you?  And besides that, who the hell are you going to throw to?  Bernard Berrian?  He has openly declared that he wants you to “shit or get off the pot.”  Yeah, he’s already sick of your shit, Brett.  Do you really think you’re going to be satisfied throwing 16 touchdowns and 24 interceptions this season and possibly re-injuring your shoulder?  You’re old, Brett, and your body just doesn’t heal the way it used to.  And since you probably don’t want to battle another addiction to pain medication, you may want to seriously consider just taking a step back.  Do it for all of us, Brett.

– And then we come to the Erin Andrews debacle.  I have been sitting on this post for over a week now, and I haven’t pulled the trigger yet.  I’m torn about the whole thing, really.  Let me preface this rant by pointing out that I have professed my love for Ms. Andrews on this very blog no less than a dozen times over the course of the past year and a half.  Those of you who have been reading for a while know that Erin is my number one celeb crush, so when I heard that there was a video floating around the internet in which she was naked, my first instinct was to hit Google and find it, pronto.  I didn’t know of the circumstances surrounding the video yet, and frankly, even if I had been told about them, the only words I would have deciphered would have been “Erin Andrews” and “naked.”  I searched high and low, but alas, found nothing.  I went on a tirade of texting and Hammen and I discussed it at length.  We talked about how you can’t even open an internet window without being offered a free download of the Paris Hilton video.  I thought about how we’re living in a country in which if you typed “Lindsay Lohan” into the Google Image search, you can undoubtedly see pictures of her boobs and vagina that were taken by various paparazzi while she was probably on her way to rehab for the third time.  A country in which Pam and Tommy Lee can make a sex tape on their honeymoon, have it stolen from their home, and it can be sold in stores.  With all that in mind, I was flabbergasted that footage of a nude Erin Andrews was completely pulled off the internet within hours of it leaking.  So, needless to say, I was bummed.  Until I heard that the video in question was taken via disgusting, perverse means.  Then, I was slightly upset.  Now, I am really hoping that the person responsible for that tape is found and prosecuted.  There is a world of difference between a person consenting to being taped during sex and a person whose hotel room was unknowingly bugged with hidden cameras, and I’m actually glad ESPN’s team of lawyers acted as quickly and efficient as they did to get this tape and all of its remnants pulled off the internet.  I was appalled that the New York Post printed pictures from the video on the front cover of their paper, even though they were censored.  That’s just tasteless.  Like I said, I can only hope that the person(s) responsible for this are punished because this  was a truly sick display of someone’s desperation to make themselves a buck at the expense of someone else’s privacy.

I planned to tackle the Michael Vick situation in this post, but it got a little longer than I expected (that’s what she said) so I think I’ll wait until next time.  Until then, I’ll be awaiting your belated birthday gifts.

One love,

10

The Road To Frustration

Well I’m back from hiatus after another full week of not blogging.  I spent last week in Minneapolis for work and to be quite honest, my days went by so fast I hardly remember it.  I had training from 8:30 to 4:30 or so everyday, and by the time I got back to the hotel, showered, and went out for dinner, it was almost time for bed.  The training was pretty much as useless as I expected it to be, but like I said before, I’m not complaining.  I basically had a week off from work and all I had to do was go through the motions at training, and once I finished up I was able to almost completely dismiss everything I learned.

But it’s not the training week I’m going to write about, but rather the precursor to it.

My week got off to a hell of a rocky start last Sunday when I was driving.  Before we get into details, it’s worth mentioning that the drive is always a personal challenge for me.  It’s 325 miles from Grand Forks to Minneapolis and it gets pretty boring, especially driving alone, so my aim is to be in the car for as little time as possible.  When I left, I did everything I was taught to do as a kid before a road trip.  I checked my suitcase to make sure I wasn’t missing anything, I packed a snack for the road, and I went to the little boys’ room to go potty.  I was gunning for a record time on this trip and I didn’t want anything to hamper my pursuit of the perfect road trip.  My target time from my parking lot to the hotel parking lot was four hours and40 minutes, aggressive, but not unattainable.

Chasing the perfect road trip means a lot of things have to go right.  I didn’t think traffic would be bad since I was leaving in the morning, I wouldn’t have to stop and eat, and I was only planning on one stop to get gas and use the bathroom.  Nothing could stop me.  Well, almost nothing.

Turns out, I was taking my victory lap a little too early.  About two hours into my trip I got word that traffic was at a dead stop about 20 miles north of Minneapolis.  At first I didn’t know what had happened, but I heard that I-94 was a parking lot and people were being rerouted slowly but surely because of an accident.

At the time I was first hearing of this stuff, I was still almost two hours away from where the backup was, so I didn’t pay it much mind.  I was getting updates from my buddy Tanner, who was also on the road at the time and was roughly 40 miles ahead of me, and I decided to play it by ear.  I didn’t want to get all worked up about something I figured wouldn’t even be there by the time I got there, so I pressed on.

After another hour, the news was still the same.  Now I was getting irritated.  This traffic mess was on the verge of impeding my quest for road trip perfection.  As I grew closer to the debacle, I called Jess and asked her to hit Google Maps for me and start looking at alternate routes.  Since I was going to stop in Clearwater, that was where I got off the interstate.  For those who aren’t familiar with the area, instead of driving in a straight line on I-94 right to my hotel, I was going to have to make a giant horseshoe-shaped detour just to avoid the impending doom ahead of me.

So I exit, fill up with gas, use the boys’ room, and start my trek.  Once I get onto the first part of the detour I encounter the thing I dreaded seeing, but figured was coming: gridlock.  I spent the next 45 minutes driving 10-20 mph – when I wasn’t at a dead stop – until I finally got back on the interstate.  Turns out I wasn’t the only person driving to Minneapolis that day, because there were only cars as far as the eyes could see in both directions.

It was a good thing I didn’t have any strict time constraints because my target time got destroyed.  Instead of getting there in less than five hours, I was on the road for almost seven.  When I got to the hotel, I was exhausted.  Turns out sitting on my ass for seven hours was akin to running half a marathon.  Who knew?

As it turns out, the reason the entire interstate was closed for a stretch of five or six miles was due to an elderly couple (who I affectionately referred to as “those old fuckers”) who missed their exit near Albertville, MN, and instead of driving one more mile down the road and taking the next exit, they slammed on the brakes in an effort to make an illegal u-turn.  This caused a tanker truck driver to slam on his brakes, jackknife, and subsequently roll over, spilling 8,000 gallons of fuel onto the interstate.  Well done, old fuckers.

Incredibly and thankfully, no one was seriously hurt, but according to the Monday night news, approximately ten thousand drivers were affected by the accident on Sunday. The busiest interstate in Minnesota was closed for nearly nine hours while the spill was cleaned up.  There were dozens of stories of people who missed flights home or weren’t able to pick up their kids from daycare, or the romantic tale of a wife who wasn’t able to visit her husband on their 25th anniversary because the visiting hours at the jail were over by the time she got there.  No, I’m not making that up.

In any case, that was without question the most interesting thing that happened to me last week, and all because a couple of senior citizens missed their exit to the outlet stores in Albertville and just couldn’t wait one more minute to buy knee socks and bingo dabbers at reduced prices.

Moving onto more pleasant thoughts, I go back to work today, and that’s followed by two days off Wednesday and Thursday for me to head back to … wait for it … Minneapolis, for the John Legend concert.  Jess scored us front row tickets for my birthday (which is Sunday; send gifts) so big ups to her for that.  I’ll report back later in the week because I’ve got a couple things stuck in my craw that I imagine I’ll need to vent about before I snap and swing a cat by its tail into a brick wall.

One love,

10

On The Road Again

I consider myself one of the lucky ones when it comes to work.  I am in the minority of people who actually like going to work and like what they do.  My job is one that is constantly changing, which is good since I am pretty sure I have the attention span of a four year old with ADHD.

In any case, my job requires me to go through what seems like endless amounts of training for new things as they come up.  Case in point, I leave Sunday for Minneapolis for a week of training on a work-related computer program that I’ll almost certainly never have to use in the depth that the training will cover.  Hey, no argument here.  If they want to pay me to drive there, pay for my hotel, pay for all my meals, pay me to sit in a classroom and daydream up a plot to get Erin Andrews to marry me, and pay me to drive back, then I am down.  I am totally down.  Mark me down.

Don’t you worry, Erin.  I’m brewing up a plan to get us together.

With the coming week included, I will have spent almost as much time out of town as I have in town over the past two months.  After being gone all next week, I’ll be back to town for a couple days and then I’ll turn right back around and head back to Minneapolis on the 22nd for the John Legend concert, for which I will be front row.  Also in the works is a trip westward with Eric, B-Weezy, and Cristin for a golf weekend extravaganza.  The dates aren’t set for sure on that one, but we’re shooing for the first week of August.

What does all of this mean?  Well, it means that for the first time in years, I’ve had a summer that hasn’t been riddled with work, and I’ve actually been able to enjoy it.  I’m the first to admit that I never used to get out as much as I’d liked because I was always stuck working at the dead-end jobs I kept.  Now that I’ve got a job that gives me a set schedule, a decent wage, and of course, paid vacation, I find myself eager to take advantage of opportunities to actually do something other than finding different ways to beat Super Mario World.

I haven’t had the best track record with wireless internet at the last couple hotels I’ve been to, but I’ll be bringing my laptop in hopes that I can bang out a post or two while I’m in Minneapolis next week.  Until then, I bid you a good weekend, and if you see Erin Andrews, please tell her I’m looking for her.

One love,

10

The Week Of Mike

Welcome back people.  Since it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I took the week off, I should at least justify it for the six or seven people who still actually read this.  I was on a wonderful thing called paid vacation last week, so I decided I should take advantage. I declared it The Week of Mike, and I set out to make sure it was a good one.

Sunday morning, Jess and I headed down to the twin cities for a few days.  The purpose of this trip was strictly to … well, actually, there was no purpose.  We just wanted to get out of town, we both like the Minneapolis – St. Paul area, and neither of us had anything else going on.  So it was a fit.  We stayed in a nice hotel in downtown St. Paul, hung out with a few friends, and just relaxed for four glorious days.  Jess made some amazing friends in her years of living in the twin cities, so it was fun to get together with them and shoot the breeze over some food and drinks in various places.

I always like going to new places when I’m down there, but I have always seemed to stay in Minneapolis in recent visits.  This time around, it was a “discover St. Paul” kind of trip, and I liked it.  We found a great place for sushi, which I only recently discovered that I love, had some drinks at a swanky tequila bar, saw a horrendous attempt at a Michael Jackson tribute in a park (more on that in a minute), and discovered a total dive bar with fantastic burgers.  Good times. If I could find a way to live in the twin cities without all that pesky driving, I’d do it.  I just hate driving down there.  More than likely it stems from my growing up driving in a city of 50,000 people, but everyone is in way too much of a damn hurry and I can’t stand it.

So, the MJ tribute story.  As we’re walking to meet a friend, we see something strange in the park.  Is it?  Could it be?  Why yes, it is indeed a black man dressed in full Michael Jackson garb, with his face painted white, doing dance routines to MJ’s hits.  We stop to investigate, and it’s a guy in his mid-20s dancing around like a fool, lip syncing, and choreographing the two 12 year olds he had with him, who, for some reason, were wearing Halloween masks of monsters.  Sure, the masks were definitely relevant during their rendition of “Thriller,” but how does it apply when they’re doing “The Way You Make Me Feel?”  The best part was that instead of maybe making a mix CD and bringing a stereo, homie brought his computer and hooked it up to some speakers.  And when I say “his computer,” I don’t mean he brought a laptop.  Nope, that would be too easy.  Instead, he brought his full desktop setup, ran extension cords all over hell and back, and kept having to go back and forth between Dj’ing and making a mockery of all of the hits from the King of Pop.  Good for you, sir.

When I got back to town on Wednesday, I had one thing on my mind: golf.  I spent a few days hanging out with the boys, playing multiple rounds of golf in the beautiful weather, and continuing my week of absolutely ZERO stress.  I mean it, the biggest decision I made all week was whether I should get four chili cheese burritos from Taco Bell or five.  I think you know which I chose.

The weekend came together quite hastily, but worked out better than I could have expected.  As of Thursday, I had absolutely no plans whatsoever, but by Friday afternoon I was booked solid.  Saturday morning, I was up with the sunrise and I hit the road with B-Weezy and our buddy Jon for an all-day, out of town, golf extravaganza.  We started out at Oak Knoll in Red Lake Falls.  It’s a cleverly-placed nine hole course that was surprisingly nice.  It was in good shape, well maintained, and a challenging layout.  It’s always nice to branch out and golf in different places, and I’m lucky enough to live in an area with a good amount of small towns who maintain decent courses.

After our 18 at Oak Knoll, we hit the road for Bemidji to play at Castle Highlands.  We met up with our friend Lon for this round, which was good because we were exhausted and he rejuvenated us with new life.  He’s possibly one of the funniest guys I’ve ever met, so we all had a blast on the course.  It made being in the sun for seven hours that day completely worthwhile.

After my day of golf with the boys, I met up with Jess and spent the rest of the weekend at her aunt and uncle’s lake cabin on Cass Lake.  It was just what the doctor ordered.  The weather couldn’t have been better, we spent all afternoon Sunday hanging out on the lake with Jess’ cousins, and it was just an overall relaxing weekend.  I really couldn’t have asked for anything more.   I’ve never met a more hospitable family than the one I spent the weekend with.  It was like staying in a bed & breakfast, only better.

The only negative thing that came out of all of this was the regret that I can’t live my entire life like I did the past nine days.  It’s too bad I’ve gotta wrap myself up with this thing people call “work.”  Oh well, I’ve got another week of vacation coming up in a few months. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

One love,

10

Yes, I Stole This Idea

Thanks for the inspiration, Hammen. I knew I would be stealing this idea as soon as I read it.

You know you’re not my friend if:

– You have a song or a “catchy” tune as your ring tone on your cell phone, and every time you get a call, or a text, or your alarm goes off to remind you to take your crazy pills, you let the song play out because you think everyone around you wants to hear “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga for 30 seconds.  No, we don’t.  You’re not the first person on the planet with a song for a ring tone, and you’re certainly not original.  Answer your phone, your other douche bag friends are probably calling to ask if you wanna go steal Keystone Light from your neighbor’s porch and play beer pong.

– You say things like “laters” or “hells yeah,” or you tell me to “chillax.”   The only acceptable reason to say things like these is if you are a 13 year old girl.  Stop it, you sound like a tool and I want to punch you. Also, if you say the word “like” every four seconds, we’re going to have a tough time getting along.  If you can’t like, bring yourself to like, spit out like, a total sentence at once, then like, you totally like, don’t deserve to be breathing the same like, oxygen as the rest of like, society.  Like.

– You don’t have any concept of what it means to have an inside voice.  If you’re indoors, please stop yelling.  I’m right here.  It’s not like we’re 40 yards away using chainsaws and lawnmowers while listening to our iPods.  I can hear you just fine when you speak at a reasonable level.

– You wear sunglasses when (a) it is not sunny, or (b) you are indoors.  Look bro, I know you paid a bunch of money for those sweet Oakleys with the shiny green lenses on them, but when you go into the store to buy Fruit Roll-Ups and a can of Peach Skoal pouches, do you really need to leave them on the entire time you’re in there?  It takes all of 0.5 seconds to flip them up onto your noggin while you’re inside.  Show some respect to the people you interact with and look them in the eyes.  Maybe I’m old-fashioned about that, but I think it’s rude to leave them on.  Also, people are definitely making fun of you, so just do yourself a favor and leave them in the car maybe.

– You play World of Warcraft.  I think this one speaks for itself.  About two years ago, amidst the massive hype it was getting, I downloaded some free trial of it at the absolute insistence of a friend.  I played it for maaaaaayyyyybe ten minutes, and I immediately uninstalled it from my computer and slapped myself across the face for wasting those minutes.

– You find it amusing or funny that Michael Jackson died.  Say what you will about the man, but he produced the single best selling album in the history of the world.  Thriller has sold approximately 109 million albums worldwide, which is more than any other two albums … ever … combined.  It’s also almost as many as any THREE albums combined.  If that’s not impressive, I don’t know what is. The man was a legend.

– You find it acceptable to let your hair grow into a moppy, tangled mess.  If you haven’t gotten a haircut since the Bush administration, consider yourself included in this one.  It’s not the 70s anymore, and you’re not Kurt Cobain, so how about trimming up that typhoon of douche-baggery on your melon?

– You throw up at the bar and blame it on someone else.  (See yesterday’s post for complete details).

– You can’t watch a movie without spoiling all the funny lines by saying them just before they’re said in the movie.  Sure, maybe you’ve seen Old School a hundred times, but that doesn’t mean you have to recite all of Will Ferrell’s lines moments before he utters them.  Also, if I’m watching a movie with you that you’ve already seen, don’t ever tell me to “watch this” or “check this part out.”  Even if the best part is coming up, don’t say it.  I’m already watching the movie, I’ll see it.  It’s not like I’m sporadically covering my eyes and plugging my ears during all the best parts, so shut the hell up and let me watch the movie.

Hmm, I think that covers the basics, for now anyway.  I’m probably going to take the rest of the weekend off.  I’ve got a couple 10 hour days of work ahead of me, and then Sunday marks day one of ten straight days I have off from work.  I’ll be heading down to Minneapolis for a few of those days, and hopefully golfing heavily for most of the week.  Not saying I won’t have time to blog next week, but if a few days slip by, cut me some slack.  I deserve this vacation.

One love,

10

Ralph and Chuck

For Father’s Day on Sunday, my Pops and I decided to get together for two things we definitely share interest in; a few beers and a few games of pool.  Neither of us really get into the whole Hallmark holiday aspect of days like Father’s Day, so we just wanted to hang out and shoot the shit together and celebrate our father-son relationship by talking about sports, women, and just life in general.

So we’re at Crosstown shooting some pool and having a few beers, just having a good time in general.  On a side note, I really like hanging with my Pops because he’s basically a 54 year old version of a teenager in many ways.  He’s hilarious and care-free.  We get along great. At the table next to ours is a girl and her boyfriend who are talking loudly about getting DUIs, anger management classes, and buttsex.  You stay classy, San Diego.  My dad finds a great deal of humor in all of this though, and at one point leans over to me and says, “I bet that girl would beat the shit out of you in the bedroom.”  Fair enough, Pops.

About an hour into us being there, I see a couple guys walk in who I graduated with and know very well from high school.  We’ll call them Ralph and Chuck.  I need to preface this story by telling you that they are both genuinely nice guys and they both mean well, but they aren’t exactly my two best friends.  I also should mention that Ralph is well-known as a compulsive liar, only I don’t think he knows that we all know he lies about everything.  And when I say he lies about everything, I mean, he lies about EVERYTHING.  Most people lie to gain some kind of benefit from the lie, but Ralph will lie just for the hell of it.  Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way, onto the story.

So Ralph and Chuck see me when they come in, and ask if they can join us.  Of course, the more the merry.  They tell us that today is Ralph’s birthday.  Oh, happy birthday, Ralph.  So because it’s his birthday, Ralph decides to take a couple shots.  After a couple games of pool, I offer to buy him a drink for his birthday and he gets … yep, a shot.  Hey, I’m not here to judge anyone.  If you wanna crush shots of Jag and Goldschlager like a frat boy during spring break, go nuts bro.

Shortly after the shots go down, Ralph throws in a chew big enough to make Hammen’s dad proud.  Now, I’m not the smartest man alive, but this all looks like a combination of things that beg for an upset stomach in the near future.  Whatever, he’s a big boy, he can handle his business.

So within maybe an hour of Ralph and Chuck being there, my dad and I are chatting, and I look over and I see Ralph hunched over with his hands on his knees a few feet away from our table.  My first inclination is that he’s spitting out his baseball-sized chew, so I don’t pay it any mind.  Then Ralph disappears for a solid ten minutes.  No clue where he went, but I presumed he was going to the bathroom.  When he returns, he’s pale, he’s been sweating, and he looks really faint.  I ask him if he’s ok and he assures me he is.  Then, he suddenly turns toward the area he was once hunched over at and says, “Oh f*ck, someone threw up on the floor!”

Someone?  Someone?!?!?  It was obviously you, Ralph, you freakin tool.  Sure enough, I look over at the exact place he was standing ten minutes ago and there is a puddle of puke on the floor … three feet away from the garbage can.  I look at the puke, I look at him, look back to the vomit, him, vomit, him, vomit, him.  Then, he looks at me, pale as ever, and says, “You know who it was?”  Before I can say anything, he comes back with this bombshell: “It was that f*cking girl over there!” And as he says it, he points to the girl who has been sitting with her boyfriend at their table for the last two hours and hasn’t moved.

Again, I’m not the smartest man alive, but I think I would have noticed if the girl in the low-cut shirt had walked over to us, thrown up all over the floor and walked away.  I confer with my dad, and he agrees.  I’ve seen this scenario play out before, and I know Ralph is being classic Ralph and lying his ass off.  So I decide to do what I know needs to be done, let it die.  If I just ignore the situation, Ralph will shut up and I’ll stop contemplating punching him in the face for lying again.  So, I try to let it die, but Ralph won’t.  He keeps talking about the girl who “came over and puked by our table.”  He even goes so far as to tell one of the servers, a good friend of mine and someone also well-schooled in Ralph’s lies and shenanigans, that it was the girl who puked on the floor.  We share a look that says it all.  He knows it was Ralph who, well, ralphed on the floor, and nothing more needs to be said.

I share this story for one simple reason.  Sometimes when we’re drunk, we think we’re capable of getting away with a lot more than we can.  But don’t ever fool yourself into believing that you can blow chunks a mere 36 inches away from three people and not have them know it was you.  Also, don’t be a lying douchebag.  Ok, so I had two reasons to share the story.

One love,

10

Baby Got Back

So last week, I was struggling a little bit with some mild pain in my lower back.  Nothing major, in fact, I’m hesitant to even call it pain.  It was more like discomfort, and it was more annoying than anything.  Not sure what I did, but I think I may have just slept funny.

Anyway, I went to my chiropractor last Thursday morning hoping to rid myself of any discomfort, which I did, for about four hours.  As the day went on Thursday, my back started to hurt a little more.  Then I woke up on Friday … and couldn’t move.  It took me almost an hour to get out of bed and put clothes on.  I imagine that was how Debbie felt after she “did” Dallas, only my pain wasn’t in my crotch.  After I struggled to get dressed, I decided to go to Urgent Care because this was a pain that Tylenol wasn’t going to handle.

I walk into Urgent Care and there are easily 20 people in there waiting.  I wait at the registration window for a good ten minutes, and no one manages to make their way over to me.  I consider faking a heart attack just to get some attention.  I turn around and make eye contact with someone who is already waiting to be seen, and he says “I’ve been waiting for over an hour already.”

Okay, that sucks.  I convince myself that I don’t have this kind of time.  I decided, in a hasty manner, that I could tough it out and come back after work that night.  So, I took enough Advil to choke a donkey, and saddled up for work.  Bad idea.  No, the word “bad” doesn’t cover it.  Piss poor idea.  Work was excruciating, possibly the longest eight hours of my life.  Immediately after my shift, I went to the emergency room.

I should preface this story by saying that I haven’t been to the hospital in years, and I’ve never been to the emergency room for anything before that day.  Let’s run down some stats from my visit.

Number of people in the ER other than me: Three

Number, on a scale of 1-10, I rated my pain when asked by the receptionist: Eight

Number of minutes before I was able to be seen by a nurse: 20-30

Number of people I had to describe my pain in detail to: Four

Number of minutes between talking to the nurse and being seen by the doctor: 55-60 (I checked my phone)

Number of minutes the doctor spent looking at me: Five

Number of minutes before the nurse came back in to give me my prescriptions: 40-45

So, as you can see, I spent a lot of time just sitting around.  When I finally got checked in, the nurse gave me one of those sexy gowns with no back and instructed me to take off my shirt and pants and put on the gown.  She told me, though, that I could keep my underwear on.  I started giggling, and then proceeded to ask: “So, if I’m not ‘wearing underwear’ can I leave my pants on?”  (And yes, I did air-quotes around the term “wearing underwear”).

She laughed hysterically and assured me I could keep my pants on.  I took comfort in this because I didn’t want the entire east wing of the ER seeing my cash and prizes.  I was in enough pain already.

So after what seemed like days of waiting, the prognosis came.  I had severe straining of the muscles that surround the lower portion of my spine.  This caused them to swell and press against my spine, causing my extreme pain.  The doctor told me he was surprised I was even able to walk.  He said he’s seen people pass out from the kind of pain I was likely in.  Thanks, doc, I know I’m a tough cookie.

He wrote me a few prescriptions for some wonderful drugs and told me to take it easy for a week or so. Easy enough. I was elated that there was no damage to my spine and I wasn’t going to need anything more than pills and rest.  It’s strange, I always take my health for granted, but as I sat there half naked in a hospital gown for an hour, my thoughts naturally gravitated towards the worst case scenario.  A lot of “what-ifs” ran through my mind, and the word “surgery” resonated loudly.

I took the day off from work Saturday, and spent the entire weekend at home.  I watched golf, took a few naps, and iced my back for basically three days straight.  The most action I saw most days was moving from the couch to my bed.  The timing of this ordeal was kind of poor because this was the weekend JK came to visit.  Not only was I still hurting a little throughout the weekend, which prevented me from wanting to do anything, but I was strongly advised not to drink while I was on these meds.  Sorry, JK, I guess I’ll have to make up for it the next time we hit the lake for a weekend.

In case anyone actually cares, my pain is a lot better as of today and it’s progressing slowly but surely.  The only real downside is that the pills I am taking for pain and inflammation make me kinda drowsy, so all I want to do is sleep all day.  Yesterday, I woke up at 7:30 in the morning, but fell asleep at 9:30 and slept until almost 1:00.  If I’m active – at work or out doing things – it’s not so bad, but if I’m just sitting around, I tend to get really sleepy.

On a positive note, if I continue to feel better everyday like I have been, I might head over to the golf course and hit a few balls this weekend to see how it feels. Hopefully I don’t send myself back to square one with that.

I should send out a great big thank you to my buddy Jess whose nurse instincts kicked in this weekend when she found out I was hurting.  She took care of me in high-class fashion and I am extremely grateful for it.

So, I know I haven’t been active in the blogosphere lately, and I really do feel a little bad for it.  I’ll try to step up my game a little bit.

One love,

10

Slappin’ The Bass

So after taking a four day weekend and heading down to Minneapolis for some much-deserved time off, I’ve got some things to catch up on.

- First things first.  I usually make it a point not to complain about the weather.  Not only is it annoying when people do, but what’s the point in complaining about something you have no effect on?  However, certain exceptions need to be made when we’re more than a week into June and the temperature still hasn’t been in the 80s yet.  Not only has it not been warm, it’s been downright miserable.  It’s currently 49 degrees outside, it has been raining for what seems like a week straight, and I don’t even remember the last time I didn’t have to wear jeans and a sweatshirt.  In June.  I swear, if Mother Nature was a real person, I would find her and bitch slap the crap out of her.

- Tiger Woods was back to his old tricks on Sunday, playing one of the best rounds I’ve seen in recent memory.  After he struggled Friday, he turned in a 68 on Saturday, but was still four strokes back coming into the final round.  Then, all he did was hit every fairway and make eight birdies en route to a tournament-winning 65.  Hitting fairways the way he did is something Tiger hasn’t been used to as of late – he missed only six all weekend.  We’re used to seeing Tiger hit 50-60% of his fairways and still hit most of his greens in regulation.  He always found a way to find the green and sink his putts regardless of the fact that he was playing from the rough about as much as he was in the fairway. Apparently he realized that the game is a lot easier to manage from the fairway.  I’ll tell you one thing, if I were anyone on the PGA Tour other than Tiger Woods, I would be having a mini panic attack at the thought of this, especially when we’re a couple weeks away from the US Open.  Watching him birdie 17 and 18 on Sunday was like watching the Tiger we’re used to seeing.  Scary thought.

- I saw a couple movies this weekend, one I should have seen a while ago, and one that I have been looking forward to seeing since I first saw the trailer.  Hammen, you’ll be happy to know I finally saw I Love You, Man.  Aaaannnnd I loved it.  I had high expectations coming in, which were exceeded.  The cast was phenomenal.  I’m pretty sure you could make a movie in which Paul Rudd, Jason Segel, and Rashida Jones just sit around and take turns reading out of a dictionary, and I’d watch it.  As far as my post previous to this in which I said I would like to hang out with Paul Rudd’s character in Role Models, I’m sticking with that.  Sorry, James.  Rudd’s character is kind of a dork for about the first half of I Love You, Man and I think I’d be more a fan of the sarcastic asshole he plays in Role Models.  Although it would be fun to be slappin’ the bass, mon!  Totes magoats.

- I also went and saw The Hangover at the insistence of JK and a couple other friends.  This movie is funny beyond description.  I was laughing for two straight hours, no joke.  I’m not going to beat a dead horse here, so let me just say one thing: If you’re a human with an active heartbeat, I challenge you to see this movie and not laugh your ass off.  Oh, and fair warning, after seeing this movie, you’re going to want to go to Vegas.

- I’ve got a couple more weeks of work that could potentially be a little hectic, but I’m strangely comfortable with that because after that, I’m on vacation for a week.  The week that just happens to be the week leading up to the Fourth of July.  So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

- So, since the weather doesn’t seem to want me to golf ever again, it appears I’ll have a little more free time with my mornings and early afternoons.  Maybe I can parlay that free time into an occasional worthwhile post.  Meh, I’ll probably spend the time sitting on the couch watching reruns of “Golden Girls” while eating Ritz crackers.

One love,

10