I'm a proud subscriber to Steve Dahl's podcast. I became a fan of Steve when he was on WLS-FM in the early 1980's; My family moved to the Chicagoland area in 1981, and I discovered Steve and Garry in 1982 when I spent my summer behind a large lawn mower. When I transferred to Western Illinois University in the Fall of 1984, one of the bonding points I shared with Artist James was our mutual admiration of the Stever.
A few years later, we went to see Steve and Garry at a live show, somehow scoring 2nd row seats. Right in front of us, Steve's younger brother, Rick Dahl, sat and drunkingly heckled Steve throughout the entire show. Steve probably didn't mind, as he was drunk, too. I could have been.
Steve later conquered the majority of his addictive demons, becoming sober in 1995, and in the past year, got a handle on his food addiction, dropping over 65 pounds and is happy to be maintaining a sub 250 weight. He had a huge CBS contract, which paid him until July of this year, even after they took him off the radio 3 years ago. Instead of finding work back in Chicago radio (which has fallen terribly since the late '80's to late '90's Golden Age), he has decided to subscribe his daily podcast - about 2 hours a day of distilled Steve Dahl...no commercials, no breaks, just enjoyable banter.
Steve's brother, Rick, passed away last week at the age of 52. Steve has flown out to LA, where Rick had been living with their father for the past several years. As Steve described it, he and Rick shared many of the same demons, but Rick was unable to conquer his. Steve's widowed father had been Rick's caretaker for many years, and now he and Steve are trying to clean up loose ends and figure out the future. While they were not exactly estranged, they lived different lives, especially since Steve cleaned up his act and became an almost normal husband, father, and now grandfather.
This news provides another sign to me, that perhaps I should reach out to my estranged brother. I spent many years reaching out to him, trying to find him a job, trying to provide some sort of example of a normal, responsible life. He has two children from a now-failed marriage, his ex-wife and kids live in Ohio (I think), and my brother lives in the suburbs in an apartment near the painting company where he works. He has lost his driver's license due to repeated DUI's, and with all his outstanding debts, I have no idea how he survives financially. He has misbehaved to the point where I can no longer get him a job, and I haven't seen him in five years, since we moved my father to Illinois from Indiana.
My brother worked hard to earn my ire. I won't detail his transgressions, but he let me (and my father) down when we really needed him to be an adult. I'd like to forgive him and move on, but I'd also like to punch him in the nose. Of course, I'm sure my heart will melt when I finally do see him...probably at my dad's funeral (whenever that will be).
Forgivness is the hallmark of my faith. I have forgiven a woman who almost killed my son while driving drunk. I'm sure I can forgive my brother, as well.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
It was 20 years ago this year....
In 1984-85, my friend and songwriting partner, James Plakovic (Artist James) wrote a number of songs, hoping to become working composers and lead lives of exciting dissapation whilst collecting huge royalty checks.
Although the dissaption part may be a reality, we're still waiting on the checks.
One of the songs we wrote, "In Your Arms" was one of those mid-1980's power ballads in the realm of The Scorpions, Def Lepard and Motley Crue. We toyed with it for quite a while, performing it with just bass and guitar, trying to capture just the right feeling, if not the right sound.
Prior to his wedding in 1991, James found a way to get us into a studio to record a couple of songs. Our good friend, Kurt Kvandal, could play the drums, and he was in town for the wedding anyway, so he rounded out our little power trio. We recorded "When Will We All See The Light", an homage to Peace and Love and all things Meher Baba, as well as "In Your Arms".
I'm sure that Kurt had heard us perform these songs in one form or another, but had never played them. I don't remember which song we recorded first, but I do remember (trying to act like some kind of record producer/arrangee) telling him that "In Your Arms" was "an homage to Def Lepard". He knew exactly what I wanted, and we proceeded to record this song.
Our first pass was drums, bass, and rhythm guitar, and I don't think we had to do too many takes to get this down. I added at least one lead guitar (if you could call it lead guitar) track, a lead vocal and probably one backing vocal.
James was the Executive Producer and Mix consultant for the final version.
A few weeks ago, this song popped up on my iPod mix (while I was texting James about something else), and I decided on the spot to post this song on Facebook using their video posting capability. For the visual portion, I scanned a bunch of photos from our vast and storied past, and also threw in some "after" photos, if only to prove that we turned out okay. I found some photos of The Who from the period that inspired us most, as well as an older Peter Townsend. He in no way endorses this song.
We had a buddy who wanted to be in our "band", and he is featured in some of the early photos. Don't know what happened to Ralph "Lou" Mahkovec, but we're thinking fond thoughts of him today.
Yes, that is Pat Foley, famed Chicago Blackhawks announcer, who was kind enough to stand next to an overserved young man for a 'photo opportunity' before a game in the early 1990's ("Hey Pat, a photo opportunity" was exactly what I shouted at him).
Big glasses and bad facial hair. Pretty wives who loved us back then (and now, too).
James is now "An Artist", published, displayed, and galleried. He has a daughter whom he adores and an amazing wife.
Kurt won a life and death battle with a construction site nail, and has three lovely grown-up daughters to go with his lovely wife.
I continue to live by my wits, with a wonderful daughter and son, and a wife who seems to put up with me. I look all mature and grown-up on the outside, but we all know better, don't we?
Although the dissaption part may be a reality, we're still waiting on the checks.
One of the songs we wrote, "In Your Arms" was one of those mid-1980's power ballads in the realm of The Scorpions, Def Lepard and Motley Crue. We toyed with it for quite a while, performing it with just bass and guitar, trying to capture just the right feeling, if not the right sound.
Prior to his wedding in 1991, James found a way to get us into a studio to record a couple of songs. Our good friend, Kurt Kvandal, could play the drums, and he was in town for the wedding anyway, so he rounded out our little power trio. We recorded "When Will We All See The Light", an homage to Peace and Love and all things Meher Baba, as well as "In Your Arms".
I'm sure that Kurt had heard us perform these songs in one form or another, but had never played them. I don't remember which song we recorded first, but I do remember (trying to act like some kind of record producer/arrangee) telling him that "In Your Arms" was "an homage to Def Lepard". He knew exactly what I wanted, and we proceeded to record this song.
Our first pass was drums, bass, and rhythm guitar, and I don't think we had to do too many takes to get this down. I added at least one lead guitar (if you could call it lead guitar) track, a lead vocal and probably one backing vocal.
James was the Executive Producer and Mix consultant for the final version.
A few weeks ago, this song popped up on my iPod mix (while I was texting James about something else), and I decided on the spot to post this song on Facebook using their video posting capability. For the visual portion, I scanned a bunch of photos from our vast and storied past, and also threw in some "after" photos, if only to prove that we turned out okay. I found some photos of The Who from the period that inspired us most, as well as an older Peter Townsend. He in no way endorses this song.
We had a buddy who wanted to be in our "band", and he is featured in some of the early photos. Don't know what happened to Ralph "Lou" Mahkovec, but we're thinking fond thoughts of him today.
Yes, that is Pat Foley, famed Chicago Blackhawks announcer, who was kind enough to stand next to an overserved young man for a 'photo opportunity' before a game in the early 1990's ("Hey Pat, a photo opportunity" was exactly what I shouted at him).
Big glasses and bad facial hair. Pretty wives who loved us back then (and now, too).
James is now "An Artist", published, displayed, and galleried. He has a daughter whom he adores and an amazing wife.
Kurt won a life and death battle with a construction site nail, and has three lovely grown-up daughters to go with his lovely wife.
I continue to live by my wits, with a wonderful daughter and son, and a wife who seems to put up with me. I look all mature and grown-up on the outside, but we all know better, don't we?
Saturday, October 09, 2010
October Already?
Time flies when you are having fun; but I have also found that it flies when you are no having fun, either.
The green of summer is changing to the golds and browns of Autumn. The farmers are gleefully harvesting what looks to be a bumper crop of corn and soybeans. The other day I watched as a combine was off-loading corn into a semi-truck. A second semi was in the field, awaiting it's load of gold. Last year it was so wet that a lot of corn stayed in the field until after Christmas, a nagging reminder of a poor year in agriculture.
Football season is also here, one of my favorite times. An agonizing Sunday night appearance exposed the Bears for what they really are, a not-so-good team. Our local high school team, after winning their first 5 games, have dropped 2 in a row, and they have to face a couple of really tough teams to finish the season. Can't turn the ball over so much, boys.
Also, the fall brings my father's annual dose of wonderlust. He knows that his lottery victory will be soon, and has been making plans to escape assisted living. It is difficult to even joke about how pathetic this has become. I'm glad my mother isn't here to live it. The changes in his physical and metal health in the ten years that she has been gone have been catastrophic, and there is no chance for improvement.
The green of summer is changing to the golds and browns of Autumn. The farmers are gleefully harvesting what looks to be a bumper crop of corn and soybeans. The other day I watched as a combine was off-loading corn into a semi-truck. A second semi was in the field, awaiting it's load of gold. Last year it was so wet that a lot of corn stayed in the field until after Christmas, a nagging reminder of a poor year in agriculture.
Football season is also here, one of my favorite times. An agonizing Sunday night appearance exposed the Bears for what they really are, a not-so-good team. Our local high school team, after winning their first 5 games, have dropped 2 in a row, and they have to face a couple of really tough teams to finish the season. Can't turn the ball over so much, boys.
Also, the fall brings my father's annual dose of wonderlust. He knows that his lottery victory will be soon, and has been making plans to escape assisted living. It is difficult to even joke about how pathetic this has become. I'm glad my mother isn't here to live it. The changes in his physical and metal health in the ten years that she has been gone have been catastrophic, and there is no chance for improvement.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
July. Sure am hot outside!
Al Gore seems to have a problem with masseuses. Why can't he simply pleasure himself?
The focus of our culture on the pursuit of the almight male orgasm has become the downfall of a lot of celebrities these days.
Tiger Woods, Al Gore, Mel Gibson, Bill Clinton, Charlie Sheen, the list could go on and on.
There is a lot to be said for the quiet desperation of the average man, who shows tremendous character by simply living with the awful truth that they are not able to have sex as often as they would like with their wives. The Average Man (the man from Flyover), does not have the money, charm, fame or like currency to convince other women to give them pleasure. The Average Man risks emotional and financial ruin, to say nothing of community scorn, if he gets caught in even the briefest of trysts.
And rightly so.
For one who takes the vow and sacrament of marriage seriously, I chuckle at the indiscretions of my more famous and wealthy brothers. I find a lot of humor even at those Average Men who dabble and try not to get found out. They think they cannot get caught, but they do. And do you know why? Because they ain't thinkin' with their brains, y'all! They're thinkin' with their Johnsons!
Live by the Johnson, die by the Johnson.
I am amazed at the huge risks that are taken in the name of that passing pleasure, the orgasm.
The focus of our culture on the pursuit of the almight male orgasm has become the downfall of a lot of celebrities these days.
Tiger Woods, Al Gore, Mel Gibson, Bill Clinton, Charlie Sheen, the list could go on and on.
There is a lot to be said for the quiet desperation of the average man, who shows tremendous character by simply living with the awful truth that they are not able to have sex as often as they would like with their wives. The Average Man (the man from Flyover), does not have the money, charm, fame or like currency to convince other women to give them pleasure. The Average Man risks emotional and financial ruin, to say nothing of community scorn, if he gets caught in even the briefest of trysts.
And rightly so.
For one who takes the vow and sacrament of marriage seriously, I chuckle at the indiscretions of my more famous and wealthy brothers. I find a lot of humor even at those Average Men who dabble and try not to get found out. They think they cannot get caught, but they do. And do you know why? Because they ain't thinkin' with their brains, y'all! They're thinkin' with their Johnsons!
Live by the Johnson, die by the Johnson.
I am amazed at the huge risks that are taken in the name of that passing pleasure, the orgasm.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Summer of Flood
Having lived in Northern Illinois for over 25 years (the first few against my will), I have experienced the cyclical nature of our weather patterns. They did not really become very important to me until I became a homeowner, when I became responsible for mowing grass, snow removal, etc.
From 1995 to 2006, our summers were typically hot, really hot (for Northern Illinois, anyway). I could always count on a nice looking lawn until Father's Day, at which point my lawn would burn up and I'd have to run the mower maybe twice a month to keep everything level. In 2005, I had the lawn at our latest house aerated in early June, at which the ground dried up, and the holes stayed in the yard the rest of the summer.
The next year, I mowed all summer. In 2007, we began a cycle of monsoon rains during the last week in August, making the river rise and creating mild concerns about suddenly having riverfront property. Last year, we had plenty of rain (which pleased the farmers) but cooler temperatures (which annoyed the farmers). And now it looks like another summer of rain.
This morning, we enjoyed a huge thunderstorm during 8 o'clock Mass. Father Tim's homily was punctuated by claps of thunder, including one that happened at the end, sort of a divine exclamation mark on a nice sermon. Rain pounded the roof of the church, and I was not surprised to find several streets flooded on the drive home. Retention areas have filled up, creating dangerous swimming holes for any of the unsupervised. We'll see if Darwin was right.
From 1995 to 2006, our summers were typically hot, really hot (for Northern Illinois, anyway). I could always count on a nice looking lawn until Father's Day, at which point my lawn would burn up and I'd have to run the mower maybe twice a month to keep everything level. In 2005, I had the lawn at our latest house aerated in early June, at which the ground dried up, and the holes stayed in the yard the rest of the summer.
The next year, I mowed all summer. In 2007, we began a cycle of monsoon rains during the last week in August, making the river rise and creating mild concerns about suddenly having riverfront property. Last year, we had plenty of rain (which pleased the farmers) but cooler temperatures (which annoyed the farmers). And now it looks like another summer of rain.
This morning, we enjoyed a huge thunderstorm during 8 o'clock Mass. Father Tim's homily was punctuated by claps of thunder, including one that happened at the end, sort of a divine exclamation mark on a nice sermon. Rain pounded the roof of the church, and I was not surprised to find several streets flooded on the drive home. Retention areas have filled up, creating dangerous swimming holes for any of the unsupervised. We'll see if Darwin was right.
Friday, March 05, 2010
It's March, so I must be having some madness
Allegedly, Spring (the season, not the town in Texas) is about 2 weeks away. I still have to scrape the ice off my windshield in the morning (who am I'm fooling, I don't scrape, I let the car idle for 10 minutes until the windshield is clear. I gave up scraping in 1993 when the Plakovics moved to Austin, and I didn't get to go along).
IF it gets above 35 tomorrow and is sunny, I will remove the holiday lights from my house, and possibly try to straighten up the garage.
Is there anyone in the area who would like to have an antique fireplace mantle? I can't seem to sell in on Craigslist, and my wife wants to burn it. It is more that a shelf, it is about 54 inches wide and 78" tall, and will accomodate a 36" x 36" fireplace opening. Yes, that's a bevelled mirror reflecting what is hanging on the wall in my garge.
Another one of my parents' belongings that I'd like to convert to cash so my father has a slightly better safety net to catch him when he falls next time.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Adios, Parker
On January 18, Robert B. Parker passed away (as I'm sure he had always hoped) while writing at his desk. A sudden heart attack, not a fist fight.
I am a huge fan. It may be the case that I've read every word that he ever published, well over fifty books. He sold millions and millions of books, and while that is not the primary proof that he was a great writer, I will tell you he was a good writer. Remember, this is MY blog.
In the last few years, Parker began writing for the "Young Reader" market, and I given my son those two novels, which he enjoyed. As soon as he is old enough, I'll suggest that he begin the "Spenser" series.
I was very sad to hear of Parker's death. He seemed to have a great life, with lots of success, a nice family, and good health. There's no need for me to provide a biography, just go to Wikipedia. His protagonists spoke to me. They were typically morally grounded, quick-witted, and very capable. They cared about what they did. Spenser remains my smart-alec role model. The conflict between his sense of autonomy and his committment Susan (the love of his life, or more succinctly, his "sweet patootie") was the central, yet subtle, theme to the Spenser series.
In fact, personal autonomy was a central theme to all the main characters in the four series (Spenser, Jesse Stone, Sunny Randall, and the newer Appaloosa westerns). Read Parker's bio, and you'll understand why.
Parker had been quoted that he never planned to write books, to be published posthumously, that would "wrap up" his characters' lives. So dying with Parker are the aforementioned Spenser (no first name ever mentioned), Jesse Stone, the police chief of Paradise, Mass; Sunny Randall, a female private detective from Boston; and all the ancillary recurring characters in Parker's books. Described in detail, yet in never too many words, whether well-dressed or in need of a shave, straight or gay, gorgeous or not.
As much as I mourn Parker's passing, I think I mourn the loss of these souls even more. Existing only on paper. Would Spenser and Susan ever marry? Would Hawk ever find his soul? Would Jesse Stone conquer his alcoholism? Would Sunny Randall ever be able to let go of her ex-husband?
Would any of these characters ever age?
So Parker takes with him the promise of more great stories. I will miss him, and I will miss them. Existing only on paper.
I am a huge fan. It may be the case that I've read every word that he ever published, well over fifty books. He sold millions and millions of books, and while that is not the primary proof that he was a great writer, I will tell you he was a good writer. Remember, this is MY blog.
In the last few years, Parker began writing for the "Young Reader" market, and I given my son those two novels, which he enjoyed. As soon as he is old enough, I'll suggest that he begin the "Spenser" series.
I was very sad to hear of Parker's death. He seemed to have a great life, with lots of success, a nice family, and good health. There's no need for me to provide a biography, just go to Wikipedia. His protagonists spoke to me. They were typically morally grounded, quick-witted, and very capable. They cared about what they did. Spenser remains my smart-alec role model. The conflict between his sense of autonomy and his committment Susan (the love of his life, or more succinctly, his "sweet patootie") was the central, yet subtle, theme to the Spenser series.
In fact, personal autonomy was a central theme to all the main characters in the four series (Spenser, Jesse Stone, Sunny Randall, and the newer Appaloosa westerns). Read Parker's bio, and you'll understand why.
Parker had been quoted that he never planned to write books, to be published posthumously, that would "wrap up" his characters' lives. So dying with Parker are the aforementioned Spenser (no first name ever mentioned), Jesse Stone, the police chief of Paradise, Mass; Sunny Randall, a female private detective from Boston; and all the ancillary recurring characters in Parker's books. Described in detail, yet in never too many words, whether well-dressed or in need of a shave, straight or gay, gorgeous or not.
As much as I mourn Parker's passing, I think I mourn the loss of these souls even more. Existing only on paper. Would Spenser and Susan ever marry? Would Hawk ever find his soul? Would Jesse Stone conquer his alcoholism? Would Sunny Randall ever be able to let go of her ex-husband?
Would any of these characters ever age?
So Parker takes with him the promise of more great stories. I will miss him, and I will miss them. Existing only on paper.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Stop the madness!
I wish I had more time to post entries here, but the 'personal life' is a little hectic.
I do want to say, very pointedly, that the following people are Asshats of the first order:
Jay Leno -- Shut up, already. You were never 'fired', you are not funny, and I'm proud that I have never watched your nightly "industry changing" program which is being cancelled after 5 months.
Jeff Zucker -- You'll keep Conan O'Brien off the air for 3 1/2 years? For what, wanting to do the job you hired him for?
Gilbert Arenas -- I wouldn't believe you if you told me today was January 14. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. Go shit in your own shoes.
Jayson Williams -- Spent years lying about shooting your chauffer, at one point even claiming he committed suicide with your shotgun. Now you say you were being careless in your aim. Hello, it was a shotgun!!! Enjoy prison, dickhead. Good luck getting a drink inside.
Okay, that's enough vitriol for now.
Happy New Year, everyone!!
I do want to say, very pointedly, that the following people are Asshats of the first order:
Jay Leno -- Shut up, already. You were never 'fired', you are not funny, and I'm proud that I have never watched your nightly "industry changing" program which is being cancelled after 5 months.
Jeff Zucker -- You'll keep Conan O'Brien off the air for 3 1/2 years? For what, wanting to do the job you hired him for?
Gilbert Arenas -- I wouldn't believe you if you told me today was January 14. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. Go shit in your own shoes.
Jayson Williams -- Spent years lying about shooting your chauffer, at one point even claiming he committed suicide with your shotgun. Now you say you were being careless in your aim. Hello, it was a shotgun!!! Enjoy prison, dickhead. Good luck getting a drink inside.
Okay, that's enough vitriol for now.
Happy New Year, everyone!!
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Dan Fogelberg The Last Nail
From YouTube.
This is my favorite Dan Fogelberg song. His intro is representative of his self-deprecating humor.
This is my favorite Dan Fogelberg song. His intro is representative of his self-deprecating humor.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Day late and dollar short
Try as I might to be timely, I just don't get around here to post those wonderfully pithy comments you come here for.
Anyway...
It's is interesting that Kanye West likes to interrupt defenseless females during award shows. I wonder if he would have had the guts to do that to a 28 year old Roger Daltrey? Heck, I'd pay to see him try with the 64 year old Roger Daltrey.
Anyway...
It's is interesting that Kanye West likes to interrupt defenseless females during award shows. I wonder if he would have had the guts to do that to a 28 year old Roger Daltrey? Heck, I'd pay to see him try with the 64 year old Roger Daltrey.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Ted Kennedy
You know, I had a hundred cheap shots lined up for Ted.
But at the end of the day, let he without sin cast the first stone.
But at the end of the day, let he without sin cast the first stone.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Fuzzy Lines Can Get Crossed
There's lots of buzz and commotion about some video taken of ESPN reporter Erin Andrews. The video was taken without her knowledge while she was alone in a hotel room. Evidently, she was not wearing any clothing while the video was shot.
I must be getting old, because although Ms. Andrews is by all accounts an attractive person with admirable features, I will not be looking for this video. The creep who somehow managed to install a peep-hole camera in the room should be taken out to the village square and whipped.
If I want to see Ms. Andrews without her clothes on, then I will go about it in the old fashioned, time-honored method: I will meet her, court her, marry her, and THEN see her naked on her own terms. Of course, seeing that I'm already married to a hottie, there is no need for me to bother with Ms. Andrews.
I must be getting old, because although Ms. Andrews is by all accounts an attractive person with admirable features, I will not be looking for this video. The creep who somehow managed to install a peep-hole camera in the room should be taken out to the village square and whipped.
If I want to see Ms. Andrews without her clothes on, then I will go about it in the old fashioned, time-honored method: I will meet her, court her, marry her, and THEN see her naked on her own terms. Of course, seeing that I'm already married to a hottie, there is no need for me to bother with Ms. Andrews.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Gee, what to write about?
Governor Sanford and his trip to Argentina?
The late, great Michael Jackson?
Football great Steve McNair?
Thanks to Facebook, I don't have time to update the blog. Not that I am so verbose on Facebook, it's just I only have so much time to type out pithy prose.
The big news in the family isn't that we're moving my dad into supportive living, or the interesting means by which I convinced him to go. The big news is that we're headed back to Disneyworld in November.
Can't get enough of that place.
The late, great Michael Jackson?
Football great Steve McNair?
Thanks to Facebook, I don't have time to update the blog. Not that I am so verbose on Facebook, it's just I only have so much time to type out pithy prose.
The big news in the family isn't that we're moving my dad into supportive living, or the interesting means by which I convinced him to go. The big news is that we're headed back to Disneyworld in November.
Can't get enough of that place.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Here come the 'Hawks, the mighty Blackhawks!
Well, here we are.
The resurrected Chicago Blackhawks will begin their first conference final on Sunday against the hated Detroit Red Wings. I'm not going to labor under any notion that the 'Hawks can win this series. The Wings are the defending champion, their bench is deep, and they are simply an awesome team.
That being said, this is PLAYOFF HOCKEY, where anything can happen, and usually does. Take the fact that the 'Hawks are even here as an example.
Playoff hockey is magical. I find it very difficult to watch on television because I need to see the entire ice to know what is going on. So much of what happens in hockey takes place away from the puck...the matchups, the checking, the strategy. I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat or standing during a televised playoff game trying to ward off the inevitable anxiety attack of not knowing what is happening and then suddenly "HE SHOOTS HE SCORES!!!!" It takes a lot out of me.
The Blackhawks are still owned by the Wirtz family, and since Bill passed away a few years ago, his son, Rocky, has done a great job of running the team. He hired John McDonough (formerly Cub president) as team president, he has reached out to former greats such as Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita and Tony Esposito to become ambassadors for the team, and more importantly, all games, home and away, are televised. Thanks to former 'Hawk player and broadcaster Dale Tallon's drafting and trading acumen, the team is young, fast, and not aware that they are underdogs.
This will be fun.
The resurrected Chicago Blackhawks will begin their first conference final on Sunday against the hated Detroit Red Wings. I'm not going to labor under any notion that the 'Hawks can win this series. The Wings are the defending champion, their bench is deep, and they are simply an awesome team.
That being said, this is PLAYOFF HOCKEY, where anything can happen, and usually does. Take the fact that the 'Hawks are even here as an example.
Playoff hockey is magical. I find it very difficult to watch on television because I need to see the entire ice to know what is going on. So much of what happens in hockey takes place away from the puck...the matchups, the checking, the strategy. I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat or standing during a televised playoff game trying to ward off the inevitable anxiety attack of not knowing what is happening and then suddenly "HE SHOOTS HE SCORES!!!!" It takes a lot out of me.
The Blackhawks are still owned by the Wirtz family, and since Bill passed away a few years ago, his son, Rocky, has done a great job of running the team. He hired John McDonough (formerly Cub president) as team president, he has reached out to former greats such as Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita and Tony Esposito to become ambassadors for the team, and more importantly, all games, home and away, are televised. Thanks to former 'Hawk player and broadcaster Dale Tallon's drafting and trading acumen, the team is young, fast, and not aware that they are underdogs.
This will be fun.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
H1N1
I'm not calling it swine flu. It's H1N1.
I was watching NBC News tonight and learned that Egypt is ordering the slaughter of all hogs, even though the flu is not caused by or transmitted by the presence of hogs, or the eating of hogs.
Lebanon has banned the 'greeting kiss', a popular custom.
And France has banned extra-marital affairs.
I was watching NBC News tonight and learned that Egypt is ordering the slaughter of all hogs, even though the flu is not caused by or transmitted by the presence of hogs, or the eating of hogs.
Lebanon has banned the 'greeting kiss', a popular custom.
And France has banned extra-marital affairs.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Been a long time...
Sorry, I've been working to re-elect our mayor, so I've been sort of busy doing other things. The incumbent won re-election 75% to 25%. Our main strategy was to simply ignore the other guy. I think it worked.
Anyhow, after all this time away, the only thing I can think of to write is that I don't think the 'Madonna falling off a horse' story is a big deal.
A better story would have involved the horse falling off Madonna. Shades of the Catherine the Great legend.
Anyhow, after all this time away, the only thing I can think of to write is that I don't think the 'Madonna falling off a horse' story is a big deal.
A better story would have involved the horse falling off Madonna. Shades of the Catherine the Great legend.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Liar Liar Pants on Fire!
U.S. Sen. Roland Burris has acknowledged he sought to raise campaign funds for then-Gov. Rod Blagojevich at the request of the governor’s brother at the same time he was making a pitch to be appointed to the Senate seat previously held by President Barack Obama.
Latest developments at chicagotribune.com: http://link.chicagotribune.com/r/VKC7L0/X61RL/TUV6VV/KTK0/KEFPFC/28/t
Latest developments at chicagotribune.com: http://link.chicagotribune.com/r/VKC7L0/X61RL/TUV6VV/KTK0/KEFPFC/28/t
Monday, February 09, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
New York, New York, it's a hellava town
A month ago, I went on a little adventure.
It has taken a month to reflect on this adventure (well, let's face it, I've been busy trying to oust Governor Blowdryavich from office, and now that I've accomplished that, I can actually post something a little more self-involved).
I flew to Austin on Jan 2 to help our friends, the Plakovic's, move to New York City. Please visit http://plakyinnyc.blogspot.com/ for all the whys and wherefores (which is a redundant turn of phrase, as wherefore means why). Someone refered to this trip as a Mancation, but, then again, they've never taken a cross country trip with James and me.
I arrived in Austin on Friday afternoon, and the Plakovic's treated me to dinner at Chuy's. This is the same Chuy's that the Plakovic's first dined when they picked up stakes some 15 years ago to seek their fame and fortune. We enjoyed dinner very much. James and I then went on a last "Austin" excursion, very brief, which included a visit to a GuitarCenter and a bar.
Here's some advice when shopping for guitars or other musical instruments in Austin. First of all, you must be a professional musician to even pick up an instrument in Austin. If not, then you must at least have a few well-rehearsed licks ready so there is no doubt that you know your way around the instrument you are touching. Anyway we ended up putting a Fender Precision Bass in the car. The car was a Prius, so yes, the bass was paid for.
We then went to some popular restaurant bar, and discovered that, at the ages of 46 and 45, we are getting too damn old. Or cheap. Not sure which.
We were up and at 'em by 6am the next day, and after loading up the truck with a few last items, were lit out for Memphis, the first stop on the magical history tour. Yes, Texas is a large state, but who da thunk Arkansas would be so wide? We hit a minor traffic back-up outside of Memphis, and my handy-dandy GPS unit insisted we take an odd detour just to stay on I-40. It was dark when we reached our hotel, and we're disappointed to find that the nearest chain restaurant (sure we would have loved to eat something indiginous, but one musn't take gastro-chances on the road) was not within walking distance. So we got back in the truck and drove to Ruby Tuesdays. This absolutely guaranteed that there would be no "What happens in Memphis, stays in Memphis" stories.
After dinner, we (I) turned on an NFL playoff game, and we both fell asleep before it was over. Did I mention our mean age is 45.5?
The next day, we were up and at'em around 6am, off to our next stop, Roanoke, VA. It is a good thing that we didn't sample any local cuisine, because James was having a terrible time processing the 'quick service' food we had last night. Thankfully, the monster was defeated by the time we got back into the moving van.
Yes, Arkansas is a wide state. Tennessee, however, is a wide-ass state. I don't mean wide-asses live there, it is a long drive from Memphis to where we turned north to head into Virginia. We stopped for gas, we stopped to pee, gas, pee, gas, pee, for goodness sakes, you'd think I would have wised up and stopped drinking Diet Coke, but damnit, I live life on my own twisted terms.
We crossed into Virginia, and started thinking about the dinner and beer we were going to enjoy in Roanoke. What we did not foresee was that for every mile we drove north, Roanoke would move about 2 miles farther away. Chasing daylight, we didn't stand a chance. But the time we got to Roanoke, the interstate seemed to be 5 feet wide and my field of distance was about 35 feet. Our hotel was new, and located north of Roanoke proper, which meant that for Sunday dinner, we had to climb back into the van and drive a few miles to the TGI Fridays. James was gracious enough to allow me to pick the restaurant, and I hadn't been to a TGI Friday's in a while. There's no doubt in my mind that we were asleep before 10pm, our bellies full and dreaming for the (relatively) short drive to Jersey City the following day.
The next day was full of promise as we breakfasted on 'deluxe continental' fare. We again were on the road early, and we're excited of the prospect of a 6 state day: Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and (by train) New York. All was right with the world, the GPS, the rest areas on the way. We stopped for gas west of Allentown, looking at less than 3 hours to go. As we approached Allentown, however, we encounted a huge back-up (construction related) that lasted about 45 minutes. Undaunted, we got clear of that jam, only to be stuck in hell 10 minutes later. An unknown 'traffic event' had forced the closing for the interstate, and we were stuck for over an hour trying to exit with what seemed to be an endless line of vehicles.
Yes, this was annoying, inasmuch we were hoping for a short, leisurely last day of driving. So I didn't think much of that huge Diet Coke (with two squirts of vanilla flavoring in it) when we stopped to get gas. But that was around 11:30am, and now it was 2:45 pm. I couldn't get off the freeway fast enough, and then try to find someplace, a gas station, a mini-mart, a fast food restaurant, a ditch with a steep slope, anyplace where I could relieve myself. We finally made it to a Wendy's, where, although there wasn't really a space to accomodate the moving van, I overcame adversity and skidded to a halt, running in a limping manner to the washroom.
A quick note about physiology. I've seen Olympic weightlifters, shot-putters, and hammer throwers. They must have the strongest muscles in the world...with the exception of the muscle that holds my urethra closed. When that muscle is forced to stay closed, clamped shut, for an excessively long period of time, one must enter into negotiations in order for it to open. The pain of these negotiations is intense. It just will not open, and open it must. And when it grudgingly opens, only a small amount of urine is allowed to exit. The fire-house intensity that one expects is in reality only a trickle, a painful trickle. When the bladder finally seems empty, you really can't be sure. All sensation is gone, you just don't know if you are empty or not. Maybe I should have turned on a faucet or something to force the issue.
(The cause of the accident, I later learned, was a rolled-over semi. No one was killed in the accident. James and I will be going to hell together due to our constant plea to the lord that someone should have died as a result of our inconvenience)
Back on the road, I was ready to make up for lost time. This would be a good time to discuss the different driving styles that James and I have. James is a safe driver, a good driver, a law-abiding driver. He follows the speed limit, going perhaps a little over if traffic allows. Our safe arrival to NYC is a result, in large part, to his driving skills. My driving skill follows my love of the free market. If a lane is more open than the one I am in, I use it. Speed limits are 'really good suggestions', but lets face it, if there is open road, I'm driving on it. The moving van had a governor that allowed a maximum speed of 75 mph. I know that for a fact. The truck would NOT go any faster. Our safe arrival in NYC was made despite my driving skills. I am proud to say that James wife, Kathy, and I are alike in this regard.
We bounced into New Jersey. Literally bounced. The roads, under construction, were wavy. Thankfully we had our Frosty cups to spit our dental fillings into so they could be re-installed at a later date. We rushed across the Jersey prairie (bet you don't get too many hits Googling "Jersey prairie") and finally made it to Jersey City, our landing point for the day. We checked into a nice hotel, and then ran onto a train to the heart of Manhattan.
This was my first trip to New York City. Sure, I can get around cities like Chicago, Houston, and San Antonio. They are all nice little towns compared to midtown Manhattan. As we walked towards Time Square, early evening turned into noonday sun with the glow of the lights. I'm not sure I can explain the vitality of that area. To this Nebraska son of a son of a farmer, it was one of the most amazing things I've seen. That's not to say I didn't see the bums, the rats, the whores, etc. I saw them, too. Everyone spoke a different language. I saw the famed 'Naked Cowboy'. I walked past the Ed Sullivan Theater. I saw lot of things, including the line of tourists going into Olive Garden for dinner.
We dined at Angelos on 57th Street. Real Italian food. Really good Italian food. I bought a couple of T Shirts for the kids, and we headed back to the hotel in Jersey, knowing we had just one more day of moving ahead of us.
We left the hotel before 5:30 am,, hoping to beat traffic across Manhattan. Driving down Main Street Hoboken, I was magically transformed into Johnny Nyack. Downtown Hoboken is darn quaint, with lots of neat shops, including Sleepy's, where (of course) you would go to buy a mattress. I became Johnny Nyack, seasoned delivery van driver. My language became infected with F-bombs. I used that word as a noun, verb, adverb, adjective, command, suggestion, implication, you name it and I found a use for it. James and I were giddy, and we hadn't even made it to the effin' Lincoln Tunnel yet.
Coming out of the tunnel, we drove across Manhattan, miraculously getting to the Midtown Tunnel without any harm to us, others, or the contents of the truck. Yes, a few wrong turns occurred. Hey, it was dark. We drove under the East River, arriving in Queens. I hummed 'Those Were the Days' (the All in the Family theme) as we headed north, trying to find the bridge that would get us onto Roosevelt Island. Hey, it was dark! Anyway, by 6:30am, we were there. A Starbucks breakfast, a quick tour of the apartment, a stroll down the the grocery store so I could purchase a house-warming gift (a 4-pack of toilet paper - I'm so effin' thoughtful), and before you know it, it was 9 in the morning and we began the task of unloading the truck and moving the Plakovic's belongings into the apartment.
Being experts in ergonomics, James and I quickly divided up the tasks. I would take the items from the truck and cart them to an open hallway area, where James would take them to the elevator and up to the apartment. I think we worked smoothly, glad that it was not raining or snowing or excessively windy. By noon, all that was left to move were the boxes of IKEA furniture. We could see the light at the end of the nicely tiled tunnel. Kathy, Emma and the dog arrived around that time, and spirits were high.
Boxed IKEA furniture is some of the heaviest stuff known to man. That's all I'll say.
By 1:30, we were done. We enjoyed some pizza for lunch around the corner, I especially enjoyed 2 liters of water. We did not take any breaks while unloading, and both James and I were beginning to feel our age (Mean age 45.5, did I mention that?) With the truck empty, we began the 6 mile journey to return it, to the far west side of Manhattan. A little gas, a little more Johnny Nyack, a few more wrong turns (no, it wasn't dark) and ta-effin'-daa, we had the truck to the Penske return lot.
The Penske lot was not located in the most posh of areas. We walked confidently and forthrightly 8 blocks east to a more 'comfortable' neighborhood. We boarded the subway and before you could say "The Effin' King of Prussia", we were back on Roosevelt island.
Although my original flight was cancelled, Kathy (Miss Traveler) made sure I got out of LaGuardia that night. I know we had dinner, but I think I was too exhausted to to notice. Before I knew it, my car had arrived to take me to the airport, and away I went. I was home, in my own bed, by midnight Central Time. Whew!
For James and Kathy (and Emma and Murphy) this is the start of not only a year-long adventure, but also sort of a new life as well. They have no idea where they will be in a year. I find that to be very exciting. I'm even more excited that it is them, not me. Adventure is thrilling, but it is also scary (especially when your Mean age in 45.5) In any event, I was thrilled to be a part of the first stage of the adventure. In a year, I may be back on the road, helping James move the rest of their belongings to a new city.
It has taken a month to reflect on this adventure (well, let's face it, I've been busy trying to oust Governor Blowdryavich from office, and now that I've accomplished that, I can actually post something a little more self-involved).
I flew to Austin on Jan 2 to help our friends, the Plakovic's, move to New York City. Please visit http://plakyinnyc.blogspot.com/ for all the whys and wherefores (which is a redundant turn of phrase, as wherefore means why). Someone refered to this trip as a Mancation, but, then again, they've never taken a cross country trip with James and me.
I arrived in Austin on Friday afternoon, and the Plakovic's treated me to dinner at Chuy's. This is the same Chuy's that the Plakovic's first dined when they picked up stakes some 15 years ago to seek their fame and fortune. We enjoyed dinner very much. James and I then went on a last "Austin" excursion, very brief, which included a visit to a GuitarCenter and a bar.
Here's some advice when shopping for guitars or other musical instruments in Austin. First of all, you must be a professional musician to even pick up an instrument in Austin. If not, then you must at least have a few well-rehearsed licks ready so there is no doubt that you know your way around the instrument you are touching. Anyway we ended up putting a Fender Precision Bass in the car. The car was a Prius, so yes, the bass was paid for.
We then went to some popular restaurant bar, and discovered that, at the ages of 46 and 45, we are getting too damn old. Or cheap. Not sure which.
We were up and at 'em by 6am the next day, and after loading up the truck with a few last items, were lit out for Memphis, the first stop on the magical history tour. Yes, Texas is a large state, but who da thunk Arkansas would be so wide? We hit a minor traffic back-up outside of Memphis, and my handy-dandy GPS unit insisted we take an odd detour just to stay on I-40. It was dark when we reached our hotel, and we're disappointed to find that the nearest chain restaurant (sure we would have loved to eat something indiginous, but one musn't take gastro-chances on the road) was not within walking distance. So we got back in the truck and drove to Ruby Tuesdays. This absolutely guaranteed that there would be no "What happens in Memphis, stays in Memphis" stories.
After dinner, we (I) turned on an NFL playoff game, and we both fell asleep before it was over. Did I mention our mean age is 45.5?
The next day, we were up and at'em around 6am, off to our next stop, Roanoke, VA. It is a good thing that we didn't sample any local cuisine, because James was having a terrible time processing the 'quick service' food we had last night. Thankfully, the monster was defeated by the time we got back into the moving van.
Yes, Arkansas is a wide state. Tennessee, however, is a wide-ass state. I don't mean wide-asses live there, it is a long drive from Memphis to where we turned north to head into Virginia. We stopped for gas, we stopped to pee, gas, pee, gas, pee, for goodness sakes, you'd think I would have wised up and stopped drinking Diet Coke, but damnit, I live life on my own twisted terms.
We crossed into Virginia, and started thinking about the dinner and beer we were going to enjoy in Roanoke. What we did not foresee was that for every mile we drove north, Roanoke would move about 2 miles farther away. Chasing daylight, we didn't stand a chance. But the time we got to Roanoke, the interstate seemed to be 5 feet wide and my field of distance was about 35 feet. Our hotel was new, and located north of Roanoke proper, which meant that for Sunday dinner, we had to climb back into the van and drive a few miles to the TGI Fridays. James was gracious enough to allow me to pick the restaurant, and I hadn't been to a TGI Friday's in a while. There's no doubt in my mind that we were asleep before 10pm, our bellies full and dreaming for the (relatively) short drive to Jersey City the following day.
The next day was full of promise as we breakfasted on 'deluxe continental' fare. We again were on the road early, and we're excited of the prospect of a 6 state day: Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and (by train) New York. All was right with the world, the GPS, the rest areas on the way. We stopped for gas west of Allentown, looking at less than 3 hours to go. As we approached Allentown, however, we encounted a huge back-up (construction related) that lasted about 45 minutes. Undaunted, we got clear of that jam, only to be stuck in hell 10 minutes later. An unknown 'traffic event' had forced the closing for the interstate, and we were stuck for over an hour trying to exit with what seemed to be an endless line of vehicles.
Yes, this was annoying, inasmuch we were hoping for a short, leisurely last day of driving. So I didn't think much of that huge Diet Coke (with two squirts of vanilla flavoring in it) when we stopped to get gas. But that was around 11:30am, and now it was 2:45 pm. I couldn't get off the freeway fast enough, and then try to find someplace, a gas station, a mini-mart, a fast food restaurant, a ditch with a steep slope, anyplace where I could relieve myself. We finally made it to a Wendy's, where, although there wasn't really a space to accomodate the moving van, I overcame adversity and skidded to a halt, running in a limping manner to the washroom.
A quick note about physiology. I've seen Olympic weightlifters, shot-putters, and hammer throwers. They must have the strongest muscles in the world...with the exception of the muscle that holds my urethra closed. When that muscle is forced to stay closed, clamped shut, for an excessively long period of time, one must enter into negotiations in order for it to open. The pain of these negotiations is intense. It just will not open, and open it must. And when it grudgingly opens, only a small amount of urine is allowed to exit. The fire-house intensity that one expects is in reality only a trickle, a painful trickle. When the bladder finally seems empty, you really can't be sure. All sensation is gone, you just don't know if you are empty or not. Maybe I should have turned on a faucet or something to force the issue.
(The cause of the accident, I later learned, was a rolled-over semi. No one was killed in the accident. James and I will be going to hell together due to our constant plea to the lord that someone should have died as a result of our inconvenience)
Back on the road, I was ready to make up for lost time. This would be a good time to discuss the different driving styles that James and I have. James is a safe driver, a good driver, a law-abiding driver. He follows the speed limit, going perhaps a little over if traffic allows. Our safe arrival to NYC is a result, in large part, to his driving skills. My driving skill follows my love of the free market. If a lane is more open than the one I am in, I use it. Speed limits are 'really good suggestions', but lets face it, if there is open road, I'm driving on it. The moving van had a governor that allowed a maximum speed of 75 mph. I know that for a fact. The truck would NOT go any faster. Our safe arrival in NYC was made despite my driving skills. I am proud to say that James wife, Kathy, and I are alike in this regard.
We bounced into New Jersey. Literally bounced. The roads, under construction, were wavy. Thankfully we had our Frosty cups to spit our dental fillings into so they could be re-installed at a later date. We rushed across the Jersey prairie (bet you don't get too many hits Googling "Jersey prairie") and finally made it to Jersey City, our landing point for the day. We checked into a nice hotel, and then ran onto a train to the heart of Manhattan.
This was my first trip to New York City. Sure, I can get around cities like Chicago, Houston, and San Antonio. They are all nice little towns compared to midtown Manhattan. As we walked towards Time Square, early evening turned into noonday sun with the glow of the lights. I'm not sure I can explain the vitality of that area. To this Nebraska son of a son of a farmer, it was one of the most amazing things I've seen. That's not to say I didn't see the bums, the rats, the whores, etc. I saw them, too. Everyone spoke a different language. I saw the famed 'Naked Cowboy'. I walked past the Ed Sullivan Theater. I saw lot of things, including the line of tourists going into Olive Garden for dinner.
We dined at Angelos on 57th Street. Real Italian food. Really good Italian food. I bought a couple of T Shirts for the kids, and we headed back to the hotel in Jersey, knowing we had just one more day of moving ahead of us.
We left the hotel before 5:30 am,, hoping to beat traffic across Manhattan. Driving down Main Street Hoboken, I was magically transformed into Johnny Nyack. Downtown Hoboken is darn quaint, with lots of neat shops, including Sleepy's, where (of course) you would go to buy a mattress. I became Johnny Nyack, seasoned delivery van driver. My language became infected with F-bombs. I used that word as a noun, verb, adverb, adjective, command, suggestion, implication, you name it and I found a use for it. James and I were giddy, and we hadn't even made it to the effin' Lincoln Tunnel yet.
Coming out of the tunnel, we drove across Manhattan, miraculously getting to the Midtown Tunnel without any harm to us, others, or the contents of the truck. Yes, a few wrong turns occurred. Hey, it was dark. We drove under the East River, arriving in Queens. I hummed 'Those Were the Days' (the All in the Family theme) as we headed north, trying to find the bridge that would get us onto Roosevelt Island. Hey, it was dark! Anyway, by 6:30am, we were there. A Starbucks breakfast, a quick tour of the apartment, a stroll down the the grocery store so I could purchase a house-warming gift (a 4-pack of toilet paper - I'm so effin' thoughtful), and before you know it, it was 9 in the morning and we began the task of unloading the truck and moving the Plakovic's belongings into the apartment.
Being experts in ergonomics, James and I quickly divided up the tasks. I would take the items from the truck and cart them to an open hallway area, where James would take them to the elevator and up to the apartment. I think we worked smoothly, glad that it was not raining or snowing or excessively windy. By noon, all that was left to move were the boxes of IKEA furniture. We could see the light at the end of the nicely tiled tunnel. Kathy, Emma and the dog arrived around that time, and spirits were high.
Boxed IKEA furniture is some of the heaviest stuff known to man. That's all I'll say.
By 1:30, we were done. We enjoyed some pizza for lunch around the corner, I especially enjoyed 2 liters of water. We did not take any breaks while unloading, and both James and I were beginning to feel our age (Mean age 45.5, did I mention that?) With the truck empty, we began the 6 mile journey to return it, to the far west side of Manhattan. A little gas, a little more Johnny Nyack, a few more wrong turns (no, it wasn't dark) and ta-effin'-daa, we had the truck to the Penske return lot.
The Penske lot was not located in the most posh of areas. We walked confidently and forthrightly 8 blocks east to a more 'comfortable' neighborhood. We boarded the subway and before you could say "The Effin' King of Prussia", we were back on Roosevelt island.
Although my original flight was cancelled, Kathy (Miss Traveler) made sure I got out of LaGuardia that night. I know we had dinner, but I think I was too exhausted to to notice. Before I knew it, my car had arrived to take me to the airport, and away I went. I was home, in my own bed, by midnight Central Time. Whew!
For James and Kathy (and Emma and Murphy) this is the start of not only a year-long adventure, but also sort of a new life as well. They have no idea where they will be in a year. I find that to be very exciting. I'm even more excited that it is them, not me. Adventure is thrilling, but it is also scary (especially when your Mean age in 45.5) In any event, I was thrilled to be a part of the first stage of the adventure. In a year, I may be back on the road, helping James move the rest of their belongings to a new city.
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