Archive for September 2009
Wondering
If life was simple maybe we would all live in the moment. It’s been pretty quiet up here this weekend and we have pretty much been living in the moment, even as we reminisce about the past. It’s funny how memory can seem so random. I can’t help but wonder about what the things are that I’ve lived and that we’ve done that I’m not remembering.
For everything we can see in front of our eyes, there is an equal amount that we don’t see that is in the opposite direction of where we are looking. All we have to do is turn around. But we can’t see it all at the very same time. And we’re all like frogs being boiled in water. If you throw the frog in when the water is hot, it would jump right out. But put a frog into room-temperature water and then apply heat, frog accepts the change until it gets cooked alive.
There are a lot of things that I used to think mattered more than they actually do. It leaves me wondering what else might change, in terms of mattering, in a few more years time.
If I had been thrown ahead in time to land at the point where I am right now, would I have jumped right back out, due to the changes I’d found? It’s not that simple.
But, I wonder.
28 Years Ago Today
The last time I showed this photo, someone exclaimed that I looked like I was 16 years old. Well, I was a whopping 22, and today marks 28 years hence that day that Cyndie and I exchanged vows in the public ceremony we call a wedding. It was 7 years after the day we mark as our dating anniversary. I asked her yesterday what she thinks would have happened if we hadn’t attended the same high school. Maybe none of this would have transpired. I said we would have met anyway.
I am a very lucky guy.
For all our differences and the many difficulties, we are pretty well suited for each other. I owe a great debt of gratitude to the counselor who helped us to work through some of the issues we each were dealing with at a time our relationship was under the most strain. I can truly say we are happier together now than ever before.
On this very same day, 21 years ago, we received a most stupendous gift, with the birth of our second child, Julian Walker Hays.
I am a lucky dad.
We are celebrating separately this year. Elysa is flying to Chicago to be with Julian, and Cyndie and I are up at Wildwood. It is a very happy day. Ain’t love grand?
Quirky as Spectacular
I really am not interested in writing a restaurant review, but I did have quite an experience at a restaurant last night and am wondering how to describe it. One of the things that makes it difficult for me is that I am not very intelligent about food, especially the area of fine dining and world renowned chefs. Another reason is that I don’t drink wine and wine is such an integral part of the fine dining experience. I can’t do a restaurant justice if I can’t speak on that aspect of the meal. And it was a big part of our meal last night, even though only 3 of the 7 people in our party chose that as part of their selection. But I can describe what I experienced, at least, I can try. I’m afraid a lot of what I enjoyed last night might just fall under the category of, “you had to have been there.”
We were celebrating a birthday and wedding anniversary for Cyndie’s parents and the destination was “Heidi’s” in Minneapolis. It worked because Cyndie and her brothers wanted to surprise their parents with the choice and, it turned out, it was a place neither of them had been to before. This restaurant has a great reputation, has received rave reviews in print, and is so popular that it is difficult to get reservations, maybe needing to wait months to land a spot during normal dining hours. Chef Stewart Woodman has quite a resume and a history that looks to be quite impressive to those who would know about such things. I just know what I see and taste. It is top notch stuff. How’s that for a restaurant review?
Since our group was so big, and Heidi’s is not so big, nestled in a neighborhoody spot on 50th, just a couple blocks off Lyndale, Cyndie and her brother opted for the Chef’s Table where it says we will have our own private space within the kitchen, and they would be able to seat us all together. It doesn’t come cheap, but this is a special occasion and her folks sure deserve it. This option comes with the requirement that everyone in the party receive the 12-course tasting menu. Cool.
But did I mention, quirky? That is a big part of the charm. My mental image of an expensive 12-course meal by a prestigious chef involves a pretty hoity-toity setting, even within the kitchen, but I didn’t anticipate close confines in the basement by the staff cutting and prepping and packaging and staging to and from the cooler. Fans blowing and paper in the florescent light fixtures overhead to create a hint of intended ambiance, along with the tunes from an iPod to compete with kitchen noise. Sounds crazy, yes? But it works.
One of the fun things about our group was that we were all a bit taken aback by the setup, but nobody got hung up about it and we all just settled in and went with the flow. Our server, Kyle, was a wonderful fit for us and we enjoyed poking fun as he mixed taking exquisite care of us with minor foibles that finally culminated in raucous laughter over some errors in the menu presented as a memento of our evening. He snuck back to print a corrected version that he passed out to us again as we left.
We started at 7 p.m. and finished after 10:30. An all night affair of classier food than I’ve probably ever eaten. Tasty tidbits of duck confit and liver and arctic char and truffle pappardelle and the one that impressed me the most, soft poached hen egg with fresh pea salad, toasted rye crouton, truffle vinaigrette. Try finding that on the menu at Applebee’s.
It was, indeed, quirky and spectacular.
Home Imperfect Improvement
This place has been lacking a bit of color lately, so I’m posting this image to properly represent the season. Before you know it, I won’t need to mow the yard and I’ll be putting away hoses, but you couldn’t tell from the warm weather we’ve been enjoying lately. I needed to work late yesterday and wasn’t able to see out any windows until about 7:30 p.m. and boy was I shocked at how dark it was already. Then I stepped out to find it feeling middle-of-the-day balmy. I wished I was at a high school football game, enjoying the ideal evening.
On my way home, I decided to take care of a long-neglected chore and stopped to buy a new shower head. Have you seen the recent news reports that bacteria growing in these fixtures gets blasted into the air when we shower? Ours was already slated for replacement because it is growing visible accumulations of, most likely, nasty stuff, even after having been soaked in vinegar to extend its life once already. The news helped push me to finally take action, but after monkeying around with that one simple chore, I was reminded of why I am so reluctant to face these kinds of projects.
There is always some hassle that arises to cultivate my frustration. Lesson for me to learn here, anyone? I only hesitated a reasonable amount over the difficulty of making a decision of which shower head to pick, out of the 20-some varieties on display at the super-store of home stuff. I was then lucky enough to be able to check out with a real live clerk. Traffic at that hour was slim and the drive home in the beautiful evening actually pleasant. There was even minimal difficulty cutting the new shower head out of its bomb-proof plastic case. Things were sailing along pretty well.
Maybe I became a bit impatient. When I couldn’t find the correct size wrench, I decided that I could improvise a tool to suffice for such a simple project and not let something like that trip me up. I was on a roll and wanted to keep up my momentum. I struggled a bit harder than I thought should be necessary to get the old head off and then wrapped the threads with new teflon tape. After threading the new head onto the pipe, I turned on the water and walaa! That should do it.
But, NOOOOoooooo. There is a little bubble of water coming out of the base of the threads. I use my incorrect tools to try snugging it a little tighter. No change. My perfectionism kicks in and I decide I can’t leave it as is. I will remove it to reapply the tape. But now it is really hard to turn. I scratch it up because I don’t have the correct wrench and then get it off to see there is no obvious problem. I put tape on again, covering more of the threads than I had the first time. I scratch it up some more while turning it and then apply water pressure. Still leaks. I try snugging tighter than I feel it is meant to go. Still leaks. Perfectionist frustration meter is in the red zone.
It’s a shower head. Water drips off of it. What’s the problem with that? I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t matter, but it bugs the heck out of me. Instead of enjoying the clean, new fixture, I will always notice that I installed it with a leak. And I will regret the next chore on the to-do list that I’ve been neglecting, even before I get to it. Unless, maybe, I discover the lesson I have before me…
Talking Home Improvement
Words & Music by Charlie Maguire © Mello-Jamin Music. All rights reserved.
Now gather around this won’t take long
“Talking Home Improvement” is the name of this song
Do it yourself, and many try, as soon as the ink on the deed is dry
They can’t wait!
Catastrophic Carpentry is what I call it
That’s when you learn that wood is sold by the foot
And ends up costing an arm and a leg!
I don’t know much about it myself
But I work on my home like everyone else
I feel like a sheriff in an outlaw town, I’ve got a hammer on each hip when I walk around
Just like in the movies
“All right water heater, this house ain’t big enough for the both of us. Ok, chimney…draw!”
When I’ve got to fix something I’m not scared
I have this great big book on home repair
Cost me sixteen dollars and it weighs ten pounds
But I’m saving money, they told me down at the hardware store
They know me on sight down there
I save hundreds of dollars there every week!
I’ve got a power sander, a power saw, a power drill, and a whole lot more
And every time I plug them in
My electric meter starts to grin
Sure saves me time though
I can make twice as many mistakes
I am a home owner, and I do it over
Look out you carpenters!
On the weekends if I’m not too tired
I take a trip down to the lumber yard
Walk through the sheds, and down the aisles
Buy stuff for my domicile
There is a whole bunch of us down there
Bandages on our hands, blisters, all milling around
Trying to find someone who knows what they’re doing!
So if you miss me hanging around
You’ll find me up in my part of town
Sanding a floor, putting up a shelf
Learning to do it all myself–
With a two-by-four, and a four-by-ten
Tuck point, baseboard, weatherstripping
Screwdriver, sheet rock, bit and brace
Nail set, hammer, chisel, hacksaw blade
Zip Strip, miter box, pencil line
And the banker says it will all be mine,
In about 30 years time…Whoopie!
I ought to have the kitchen done by then!
Then I can go out and mow the lawn!
Explain This
I have watched a lot of football over the years, but I have never figured out why teams that get desperate late in a game, all of a sudden are able to execute plays that gobble up 10 and 15 yards at a crack. If they are able to accomplish this late in the game, why don’t they do the same thing earlier? If it is because the defense switches to a ‘prevent’ defense late in the game, why doesn’t the defensive team just use the earlier formation that kept that offense from working in all previous possessions?
If a team can march down the field so well at the end of a game, why don’t they do the same thing while the game is young? Is it possible that some athletes need that added incentive of coming from behind with little time left, in order to lift their game to the highest level? I honestly don’t understand why the game changes all of a sudden and an offense suddenly seems unstoppable. In the end, my gut tells me that it has more to do with what the defense changes that allows the offense to succeed, than what the offense does that makes the difference.
If this subject doesn’t resonate for you because you don’t watch any football, just switch out the terms relating to football and replace them with parents/teenagers, or husband/wife, or employees/management and you pretty much get the same effect.
And finally, do I love the fall because I relate it with the football season, or do I love football because it happens during the best season of the year? Both are pretty spectacular. Lately, we are enjoying some pretty fine late summer weather, but with just enough football happening, it still feels like fall.
Of Dad and Football
It’s the first Monday after a weekend of regular season football games and it has me thinking about my dad. I definitely developed my interest in the sport from my father. This weekend our University of Minnesota Golden Gophers opened their new stadium and I wish he were around to see it. I think he would have approved. When Dad died in 1981, I took responsibility for managing the season ticket account he had for Gopher football. That was the year they moved into the dome in Minneapolis, away from the University campus. I thought Gopher football in the dome was an awful experience. The losing caliber performance of football being offered was only part of the problem. When I finally decided one year not to renew, to just let the tickets go, the University ticket office called us to clarify that it was intentional because, I was surprised to learn, we had been buying these tickets since 1944. My only regret was that I felt my dad wouldn’t have approved.
I have no idea what opinion he would have regarding the golden uniforms they wore for the home opener, but I didn’t care for them. I also wonder what he would have thought about the new guy that the NFL Vikings picked up, Brett Favre, who played most of his carrier for our rival, the Green Bay Packers. Something tells me he would be ok with the guy, but I’m not quite sure about it. You may be able to sense that I truly do miss having him around to watch football games with me. I will always credit him with instilling the passion for enjoying watching all sports, football being chief among them.
It’s not literally accurate, but this song has always felt like it captured the essence of my dad and represents the generations enough that it fits for me…
My Old Man
by Steve Goodman
I miss my old man tonight
And I wish he was here with me
With his corny jokes and his cheap cigars
He could look you in the eye and sell you a car.
That’s not an easy thing to do,
But no one ever knew a more charming creature
On this earth than my old man.
He was a pilot in the big war in the U.S. Army Air Corps
In a C-47 with a heavy load
Full of combat cargo for the Burma road.
And after they dropped the bomb
He came home and married Mom
And not long after that
He was my old man.
And oh the fights we had
When my brother and I got him mad;
He’d get all boiled up and he’d start to shout
And I knew what was coming so I tuned him out.
And now the old man’s gone, and I’d give all I own
To hear what he said when I wasn’t listening
To my old man
I miss my old man tonite
I can almost see his face
He was always trying to watch his weight
And his heart only made it to fifty-eight.
For the first time since he died
Late last night I cried.
I wondered when I was gonna do that
For my old man.
© Copyright 1977 Big Ears Music Inc., Red Pajamas, Inc & Crackin Music Co. ASCAP.
Previously Streamed Consciousnesses
The following is culled from an item where writers practice stream of conscious writing. I wrote this Apr 21, 2007:
It was late. Very, very late. And not in the sense of past the date it was due, or in the sense of hours in the day. Nor even, as referenced to the portion of the century. Why, not even in comparison to when it was expected, since, in fact, it wasn’t, or isn’t, expected. But, alas, late it is and then there becomes this nagging concern for what the hell “it” is in the first place, or what place, first, really matters. Somehow if the words that try to show up in time to roll out of the finger tips that try to act naturally in a bizarre dance across little buttons called keys have enough ethereal energy to in some way appear cohesive… consciousness streams are a challenge to share as they tend not to be inclined toward a packaging that presents a convention of common communication with aspects that relate to things like making any sense and having any point. Then we get to look at them and deduce whatever it is that suits our fancy and inspires our harmonies of excitement potential. There it is, strewn all about in front of our eyes to be consumed and constructed into thoughts and ideas in a path through light into our optical sense mechanisms and then in no time at all, simply a chemical interaction through microscopic pathways in a mass of grey or gray, however the spelling suits, and then from chemical transactions to invisible, intangible concepts of varying logic and arguable reality. Swing past the constraints of late or not and wait for the muse of the artist to visit and tell you that you can change your mind at any time you want in order to try and get a step closer to understanding what it is you think you like about what you see, but for the most part it has little to do with what you would like to perceive it was when you stood before it and felt what it was you thought you were feeling without actually thinking about it. Duck to avoid the overhead obstruction while letting your unconscious self-talk blather on full speed into a metaphoric brick wall. Paint that in two-color half-tone.
Sweet! It was sweet! Not late. And we just weren’t able to see it at the time. All the while, sweet is what it was; having nothing to do with referencing centuries or hours of days or due dates or anything like that. It must have been the fingers on the alpha buttons misconstruing the similarities implied in sweet and late that led to the craziness that ensued. It is like the fine particles of any and every thing that make it through the fibers and collects underneath the rug that in so many ways seems as though it was put there to capture them and keep them off of the floor, but there is no accounting for next level of reality that lurks beneath the initial obvious intended one without some sense of irony that in some way proves logical in terms of the raw materials needed by comics who mine them.
Energy expended in avoidance, if nothing else. Maybe not. Not avoidance. More like nothing else. Think not, therefore not concluded. Dreck ventured, dreck gained. Stream flowed, plumbing drained.
Odd Scene
This is exactly how I found her.
I think this Barbie may have spent a bit too much time at the beach. Something about this image just screams crime scene to me.
By the way, do all Barbies have that much length between the calf and the foot, or has this one gone through some extracurricular manipulation?
I Don’t Know About Sports
Some things that I don’t know:
I don’t know how humans can get faster and faster in sprint competitions, continually breaking records. Won’t there be a point where it isn’t physically possible to go any faster?
I don’t know how competition in the NFL can get any more intense in terms of speed and impact. We gotta be getting close to the limit on how hard a person can get hit and still continue to play every week.
I don’t know why hockey players so often are allowed to get away with unsportsmanlike behavior, after the official blows a whistle, with no negative consequence.
I don’t know why professional cyclists continue to use banned substances even though being so thoroughly monitored by their sports governing agency.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to identify with Brett Favre as a Minnesota Viking.
I don’t know why my home teams sometimes sign world-class talent (Kevin Garnett/Joe Mauer/Randy Moss, among others) but can’t pull together to play to a level the stars deserve, you know, like the level that wins in the playoffs.
I don’t know if I will be able to stand it if the Minnesota Gopher football team becomes a Big (11) Ten power house and earns a prestigious post-season bowl game.
I don’t know why the passion for following local sports teams has stayed with me all these years, even when I’ve tried to practice some intentional disdain from time to time.
I don’t know why I would start a list like this when there is no end to what I don’t know.
I don’t know why I am quitting here. But I am.
Relative Something 