I took some time yesterday to browse Ken Rockwell's site HERE. This guy is a Nikon guru and general photography expert. He's forgotten more about photography than I've ever learned. One thing I am convinced of after browsing his site: I have no idea what the heck I'm doing with my nice Nikon DSLR camera. I'm basically using it as a "point and shoot". Since I haven't been using any of the advanced features, I could've just as well saved myself a pile of cash and bought a cheap pocket size Chinese knock off for $50-$75. Why don't I use any of the advanced features? Well, that would require me to read the instructions, a task that any red-blooded American male despises.
It's a sign of weakness.
It shows you're too dumb to figure it out on your own.
Half the time, the instructions are written in Mandarin anyway.
Besides, that takes time, something we men don't give up easily.
Other items I've never read the Instruction Manuals for:
* 42" Samsung flat panel LCD TV - just like any other TV, right?
* My BOSE home theater system - sounds like a tin can.
* My boat & motor - I2ABDFI: if it ain't broke, don't fix it!
* Any kitchen appliance - toaster handle goes down, toast comes up.
* Any vehicle I've ever owned - I pay mechanics for that.
* Any electrical gadget I've owned - again, I2ABDFI!
* Our kids - is there one?
Seriously now, how many of you pansies actually read the instruction manuals for items you've purchased? Was it really worth the time and effort?
Yeah, I figured it was.
I bet you stop and ask for directions too. What fun is that?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Adventures of Ducka and Dooger: Part 1
ADD v1: The Turtle Wagon
Ducka was my best friend when I was a kid. His mom used to affectionately call him "Ducka-da-luka", which we could tell he hated. Naturally, we used every opportunity we had to call him Ducka in a sappy, mom-ish voice.
Ducka lived about a quarter mile down the river from me and the river was our main focal point for entertainment both summer and winter. Yes, I realize there are four seasons in MN, but our noteworthy adventures always happened in the dead of winter or the scorching summer.
"Who's Dooger", you may ask? Well, that's Yours Truly, nick-named by good old Dad when I was a toe-headed little punk.
And so, the adventure begins.
Ducka's family knew how to take advantage of living on the river. They had a ski boat, behind which I learned how to water ski and kneeboard (stories for another day), a fishing boat, had a rope swing off the big tree on their shoreline, and flooded a nice hockey rink in the winter with flood lights and the whole bit to get the most enjoyment possible out of that chunk of ice each year.
The summer between 6th and 7th grade, we made good use of the fishing boat. If I remember right, it was a 14' Lund with a 15hp Johnson on back. For a couple screwball boys, it screamed! It went fast enough that we could knee-board behind it while we were still young and light enough, and it enabled us to do some not-so-smart things as kids.
Ducka used to pick me up at my house on the bank of the mighty Sludgewater River and we'd be off on our explorations, learning about what's around the next bend and seeing things that taught us life lessons we'd probably prefer to forget, like the couple of grossly overweight 60-somethings we came across skinny-dipping a couple of miles out of town. *twitch*twitch*
As a general rule, we always headed upstream for two reasons:
1) if we ran out of gas, we could always drift home with the current
2) the dam was a half mile downstream from Ducka's place
Ducka had a wire or two crossed when it came to logical thinking, which you'll come to love about him as you get to know him (I'll tell you about his magic-marker and ice cream bucket bomb ideas later). This enduring quality of his is where I came in - trying to keep us both out of trouble and on the straight and narrow.
That's a dangerous proposition.
And it's not likely.
So Ducka picks me up in the Screamer one morning and we're off - fishing poles, night crawlers, a couple cans of Coke, and a day to burn on the river.
"Wanna catch some rockies at the Jordet tree again?", I asked.
"Nah, they're too easy, and we've already caught 'em all at least 3 times. Their lips are full 'o holes."
"Yeah, guess yer right. How 'bout we jump off Cement Bridge?"
"We can try, but I think we only got enuff gas to make it half way there today."
We buzzed up river, both silently thinking of other things to do, when Ducka cranks the old Johnson to a 90 degree turn and yells "Holy crap - you see all those turtles?"
"Where?", I said, wiping Coke off my shirt and climbing up off the floor of the boat.
"On that log by Olson's dock - must be 20 of 'em!"
Sure enough, all the turtles were sprawled out in summertime fashion, soaking up the rays.
"Grab the net!" yelled Ducka, so I did.
"I'm gonna fly right at 'em and throw it in reverse at the last second - you scoop as many as you can!"
"Ok - sounds good." I said, not quite sure how this would play out.
Ducka cranked the old Johnson wide open and we were haulin' butt right at the log. I'm hanging off the bow of the boat in true Titanic fashion, net hoisted high and ready to scoop.
The turtles must've been asleep, or else they really are that slow.
They didn't start bailing off the log til we got about 8' from them.
"Here we go!", announced the captain in back.
I stuck the net down in the water and we promptly skimmed right over all the turtles, rammed the log, and nailed the shoreline. I launched over the bow but hung on to the gunnel somehow, leaving one leg on land, one on the log, and my upper body laying half in the water.
"Guess I didn't hit reverse in time" Ducka said in a completely unapologetic tone.
"Yeah, no kidding", I responded as I pulled myself back in the boat. "Back up so I can find the net."
Ducka hit reverse, I grabbed the net, and we talked through the finer points of the physics in play with our strategy. After assuring me he'd hit reverse and hit it hard next time, we took off looking for another log.
This time I was ready for his 90 degree turn, I jockeyed in position with the net, and he yelled "Here we go! Now - scoop 'em!"
The boat was clipping forward at a good pace, then lurched as Ducka slammed it in reverse and twisted the throttle.
Turtles flew everywhere.
I scooped the net.
It came up heavy.
"Five turtles!", I exclaimed. "Sweet!"
I turned around and dumped the turtles in the bottom of the boat.
"Let's get some more." said Ducka, and we were off again.
We repeated the scene 15-20 times over the next few hours, terrorizing every turtle we could find within 5 miles of our houses. When all was said and done, we had turtles crawling all over the boat.
"Now what do we do?"
Ducka, being the ingenious one among the two of us proclaimed he had an idea. We headed back to his place, and thankfully his mom, EE (she was always giving me the Evil-Eye), wasn't there. He told me to scoop up a net-full of turtles and bring 'em up in the yard while he ran to the garage. I did, and a minute later, Ducka comes running down the hill with a can in his hand.
Spray paint.
Blaze orange spray paint.
I dumped the net in the middle of the yard and I'd line up the turtles while he painted them. You'd be amazed how well Krylon adheres to a dry turtle shell! We proceeded to paint 50-60 turtles blaze orange, let them dry, then load them back up in the boat. Not wanting a pile of evidence to be swimming the banks along our neighborhood, we headed up river again and dropped 5-6 turtles at each of the logs we visited earlier in the day. When the boat was empty, we turned and headed home, chuckling to ourselves about our artistic contributions lining the banks of the Sludgewater. The rest of the summer, every time we'd go fishing or kneeboarding, we'd see these bright orange turtles smattered along the shore.
Then word got around.
People were starting to see these odd turtles along the river and couldn't figure out what was wrong with them. One day I was in the Rex Cafe and overheard a couple old duffers in the booth next to me.
"Ya, I was trollin' spinners past Brekke's last night and saw da dangdest thing. I lookt o'er an dare's a cuppla bright orange turtles on da log. What da hell kinda turtles are doze?"
"Dunno, mus be sum new breed takin o'er."
The hair on my neck stood up. "Uh-oh", I thought. I better keep my mouth shut and make sure Ducka does the same. Not an easy task, but we did and nobody ever knew it was us. Amazing, too, cuz EE and Ducka's dad never even asked about all the blaze orange overspray spots in the backyard. I'm sure that they can attest, sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Closest thing I could find to describe the first log experience:
Ducka was my best friend when I was a kid. His mom used to affectionately call him "Ducka-da-luka", which we could tell he hated. Naturally, we used every opportunity we had to call him Ducka in a sappy, mom-ish voice.
Ducka lived about a quarter mile down the river from me and the river was our main focal point for entertainment both summer and winter. Yes, I realize there are four seasons in MN, but our noteworthy adventures always happened in the dead of winter or the scorching summer.
"Who's Dooger", you may ask? Well, that's Yours Truly, nick-named by good old Dad when I was a toe-headed little punk.
And so, the adventure begins.
Ducka's family knew how to take advantage of living on the river. They had a ski boat, behind which I learned how to water ski and kneeboard (stories for another day), a fishing boat, had a rope swing off the big tree on their shoreline, and flooded a nice hockey rink in the winter with flood lights and the whole bit to get the most enjoyment possible out of that chunk of ice each year.
The summer between 6th and 7th grade, we made good use of the fishing boat. If I remember right, it was a 14' Lund with a 15hp Johnson on back. For a couple screwball boys, it screamed! It went fast enough that we could knee-board behind it while we were still young and light enough, and it enabled us to do some not-so-smart things as kids.Ducka used to pick me up at my house on the bank of the mighty Sludgewater River and we'd be off on our explorations, learning about what's around the next bend and seeing things that taught us life lessons we'd probably prefer to forget, like the couple of grossly overweight 60-somethings we came across skinny-dipping a couple of miles out of town. *twitch*twitch*
As a general rule, we always headed upstream for two reasons:
1) if we ran out of gas, we could always drift home with the current
2) the dam was a half mile downstream from Ducka's place
Ducka had a wire or two crossed when it came to logical thinking, which you'll come to love about him as you get to know him (I'll tell you about his magic-marker and ice cream bucket bomb ideas later). This enduring quality of his is where I came in - trying to keep us both out of trouble and on the straight and narrow.
That's a dangerous proposition.
And it's not likely.
So Ducka picks me up in the Screamer one morning and we're off - fishing poles, night crawlers, a couple cans of Coke, and a day to burn on the river.
"Wanna catch some rockies at the Jordet tree again?", I asked.
"Nah, they're too easy, and we've already caught 'em all at least 3 times. Their lips are full 'o holes."
"Yeah, guess yer right. How 'bout we jump off Cement Bridge?"
"We can try, but I think we only got enuff gas to make it half way there today."
We buzzed up river, both silently thinking of other things to do, when Ducka cranks the old Johnson to a 90 degree turn and yells "Holy crap - you see all those turtles?"
"Where?", I said, wiping Coke off my shirt and climbing up off the floor of the boat.
"On that log by Olson's dock - must be 20 of 'em!"
Sure enough, all the turtles were sprawled out in summertime fashion, soaking up the rays."Grab the net!" yelled Ducka, so I did.
"I'm gonna fly right at 'em and throw it in reverse at the last second - you scoop as many as you can!"
"Ok - sounds good." I said, not quite sure how this would play out.
Ducka cranked the old Johnson wide open and we were haulin' butt right at the log. I'm hanging off the bow of the boat in true Titanic fashion, net hoisted high and ready to scoop.
The turtles must've been asleep, or else they really are that slow.
They didn't start bailing off the log til we got about 8' from them.
"Here we go!", announced the captain in back.
I stuck the net down in the water and we promptly skimmed right over all the turtles, rammed the log, and nailed the shoreline. I launched over the bow but hung on to the gunnel somehow, leaving one leg on land, one on the log, and my upper body laying half in the water.
"Guess I didn't hit reverse in time" Ducka said in a completely unapologetic tone.
"Yeah, no kidding", I responded as I pulled myself back in the boat. "Back up so I can find the net."
Ducka hit reverse, I grabbed the net, and we talked through the finer points of the physics in play with our strategy. After assuring me he'd hit reverse and hit it hard next time, we took off looking for another log.
This time I was ready for his 90 degree turn, I jockeyed in position with the net, and he yelled "Here we go! Now - scoop 'em!"
The boat was clipping forward at a good pace, then lurched as Ducka slammed it in reverse and twisted the throttle.
Turtles flew everywhere.
I scooped the net.
It came up heavy.
"Five turtles!", I exclaimed. "Sweet!"
I turned around and dumped the turtles in the bottom of the boat.
"Let's get some more." said Ducka, and we were off again.
We repeated the scene 15-20 times over the next few hours, terrorizing every turtle we could find within 5 miles of our houses. When all was said and done, we had turtles crawling all over the boat.
"Now what do we do?"
Ducka, being the ingenious one among the two of us proclaimed he had an idea. We headed back to his place, and thankfully his mom, EE (she was always giving me the Evil-Eye), wasn't there. He told me to scoop up a net-full of turtles and bring 'em up in the yard while he ran to the garage. I did, and a minute later, Ducka comes running down the hill with a can in his hand.
Spray paint.
Blaze orange spray paint.
I dumped the net in the middle of the yard and I'd line up the turtles while he painted them. You'd be amazed how well Krylon adheres to a dry turtle shell! We proceeded to paint 50-60 turtles blaze orange, let them dry, then load them back up in the boat. Not wanting a pile of evidence to be swimming the banks along our neighborhood, we headed up river again and dropped 5-6 turtles at each of the logs we visited earlier in the day. When the boat was empty, we turned and headed home, chuckling to ourselves about our artistic contributions lining the banks of the Sludgewater. The rest of the summer, every time we'd go fishing or kneeboarding, we'd see these bright orange turtles smattered along the shore.
Then word got around.
People were starting to see these odd turtles along the river and couldn't figure out what was wrong with them. One day I was in the Rex Cafe and overheard a couple old duffers in the booth next to me.
"Ya, I was trollin' spinners past Brekke's last night and saw da dangdest thing. I lookt o'er an dare's a cuppla bright orange turtles on da log. What da hell kinda turtles are doze?"
"Dunno, mus be sum new breed takin o'er."
The hair on my neck stood up. "Uh-oh", I thought. I better keep my mouth shut and make sure Ducka does the same. Not an easy task, but we did and nobody ever knew it was us. Amazing, too, cuz EE and Ducka's dad never even asked about all the blaze orange overspray spots in the backyard. I'm sure that they can attest, sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Closest thing I could find to describe the first log experience:
Maybe Uncle Frank was right...
...apparently I am worthless.
I came across a blog valuation tool that simply validated my suspicions (and yours too): This blog is worth Zero Deniro.
Do you have a blog? If so, click the link and leave me a message braggin' about how much your blog is worth.
I came across a blog valuation tool that simply validated my suspicions (and yours too): This blog is worth Zero Deniro.
My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?
Do you have a blog? If so, click the link and leave me a message braggin' about how much your blog is worth.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Who Needs Vegas?
I'd rather stay at this Bellagio than the one out in the middle of the desert.
Minnesotans sure love their fishing, eh?
Minnesotans sure love their fishing, eh?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Weekly Re-entry
Mondays.Suck.
Re-entering the corporate world after enjoying a "real life" for a couple days is hard.
It's like getting up when the alarm goes off.
You don't want to, and it sucks at first, but you know you'll be fine once you get going.
Or like jumping into the lake.
That first plunge makes your heart jump into your throat, but you eventually get used to the water and you're just fine.
Or like going to the proctologist.
Oh, wait...that really sucks.
And, in case you're wondering, there were no apple fritters today.
Re-entering the corporate world after enjoying a "real life" for a couple days is hard.
It's like getting up when the alarm goes off.
You don't want to, and it sucks at first, but you know you'll be fine once you get going.
Or like jumping into the lake.
That first plunge makes your heart jump into your throat, but you eventually get used to the water and you're just fine.
Or like going to the proctologist.
Oh, wait...that really sucks.
And, in case you're wondering, there were no apple fritters today.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
DING: Round 2
Actually, it should be Round 3:Rounds 1 & 2 had some lovely results.
Beautiful weather here in the Minneapolis area today:
3" hail just west of my office...
Radar showing rotation a couple miles north of my office...
All heck breaking loose inside my office...
(oh, wait - that's normal)
And it's not even a Monday!
My office is hiding somewhere in the middle of all that red.
And did I mention, my coworker left his car windows open?
Hehehehehehe!
Mr. Browncup NOW Mr. Blackcan
(For those who tuned in for my Mr. Browncup posts...)
UPDATE: I love caffeine.
Ok, so that's not really much of an update, but it gives context to my illogical tactic in getting off coffee. We all know people who have tried to quit smoking, so they start chewing tobacco, right? Makes sense. Yeah, well I guess that line of reasoning is one I've chosen here as well.
While on vacation a couple weeks ago at "The Lake", big brother Buck got me hooked on the B-vitamin high (B1, B2, B3, B6, B12) delivered directly from Mr. Blackcan, aka, Monster Energy Drinks. Never tried 'em before - only tasted a Red Bull once, and I wanted to hurl. This was a whole different beast altogether (pun intended). The basic green Monster was what I tried first, and really liked it. Then I stumbled on to the orange Monster Khaos - hey, it's got real juice in it - it must be healthy, right? According to the can:
The best part for me: it doesn't rip a hole through me like a few cups of coffee will. I'm sure I'll probably die from the inordinate amounts of sugar in this crap, but at least I'll die with my eyes WIDE OPEN.
WARNING: the Java flavored Monsters are horrible IMO. Even as a coffee lover, I've never been able to gracefully make the transition to iced-coffee drinks, and this was no exception. Yuck.
So, GAME ON, just like a fresh-out-of-ritalin ADHD kid...
UPDATE: I love caffeine.Ok, so that's not really much of an update, but it gives context to my illogical tactic in getting off coffee. We all know people who have tried to quit smoking, so they start chewing tobacco, right? Makes sense. Yeah, well I guess that line of reasoning is one I've chosen here as well.
While on vacation a couple weeks ago at "The Lake", big brother Buck got me hooked on the B-vitamin high (B1, B2, B3, B6, B12) delivered directly from Mr. Blackcan, aka, Monster Energy Drinks. Never tried 'em before - only tasted a Red Bull once, and I wanted to hurl. This was a whole different beast altogether (pun intended). The basic green Monster was what I tried first, and really liked it. Then I stumbled on to the orange Monster Khaos - hey, it's got real juice in it - it must be healthy, right? According to the can:
It's Alive...
Monster Khaos, an insane
Juice-Monster hybrid bubbling
with the great Monster taste
and the big bad buzz you
know and love.
50% juice - 100% Monster!
The best part for me: it doesn't rip a hole through me like a few cups of coffee will. I'm sure I'll probably die from the inordinate amounts of sugar in this crap, but at least I'll die with my eyes WIDE OPEN.
WARNING: the Java flavored Monsters are horrible IMO. Even as a coffee lover, I've never been able to gracefully make the transition to iced-coffee drinks, and this was no exception. Yuck.
So, GAME ON, just like a fresh-out-of-ritalin ADHD kid...
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Move over, Bruce Jenner!
In a bold move of manliness and sheer stupidity, I decided it was time to get my butt back in shape, burn off some Fraziskaners and Schnitzels, and "Get Speedo Ready" as I planned a few months ago.
So it's July in MN (as well as the rest of the world), the time when humidity start running about the same as the temperature every day. The perfect time to punish myself and prove I can do anything I set my mind to, right? After all, the loop is only a 5k loop - no problem. It's only been a year since I ran (and a whopping 3x last year).
I'm doin' it!
Here's about how it turned out:
That's right, y'all - I'm shopping for a pair of those rockin' checkered shorts to go with my black socks. Yeah baby!
Ok, so it was kind of a trainwreck.
The sun was horrendous, and I had to chew the air to find any oxygen.
My knees started screaming 3 steps into it.
It was horrible.
It hurt.
Bad.
My lungs seized up on me.
My spit resembled Elmer's Glue.
I started blacking out in the glaring sun.
My legs went numb(thankfully, so the pain would stop).
I started calling out to dead relatives, and Elvis.
And people think this is fun?
Delirious freaks, they are.
But I finished, and I did it in ~30 minutes. Not too bad considering I had 3 stretches of walking factored in there. I figure if I could've ran the whole thing, I would've finished in 24-25 minutes, meaning a 7.5-8 minute/mile pace. Not a bad start.
So if you find yourself driving through Minneapolis' Metro Suburbia and see a guy who looks like this, just wave and holler "Push through it, Wildman!" and I promise I'll give you a big thumbs-up and hawk an Elmer's Glue loogie your way.
So, I guess I that officially makes me a runner now.
Move over, Bruce Jenner...move over and make room for me on the couch, pass the Doritos, and grab the remote.
So it's July in MN (as well as the rest of the world), the time when humidity start running about the same as the temperature every day. The perfect time to punish myself and prove I can do anything I set my mind to, right? After all, the loop is only a 5k loop - no problem. It's only been a year since I ran (and a whopping 3x last year).
I'm doin' it!
Here's about how it turned out:
That's right, y'all - I'm shopping for a pair of those rockin' checkered shorts to go with my black socks. Yeah baby!
Ok, so it was kind of a trainwreck.
The sun was horrendous, and I had to chew the air to find any oxygen.
My knees started screaming 3 steps into it.
It was horrible.
It hurt.
Bad.
My lungs seized up on me.
My spit resembled Elmer's Glue.
I started blacking out in the glaring sun.
My legs went numb(thankfully, so the pain would stop).
I started calling out to dead relatives, and Elvis.
And people think this is fun?
Delirious freaks, they are.
But I finished, and I did it in ~30 minutes. Not too bad considering I had 3 stretches of walking factored in there. I figure if I could've ran the whole thing, I would've finished in 24-25 minutes, meaning a 7.5-8 minute/mile pace. Not a bad start.
So if you find yourself driving through Minneapolis' Metro Suburbia and see a guy who looks like this, just wave and holler "Push through it, Wildman!" and I promise I'll give you a big thumbs-up and hawk an Elmer's Glue loogie your way.So, I guess I that officially makes me a runner now.
Move over, Bruce Jenner...move over and make room for me on the couch, pass the Doritos, and grab the remote.
Workplace Confessions
I grew up Catholic. That inherently makes me guilty...of everything, and in need of confession. In that same spirit, I need to confess a minor mishap at work yesterday morning, of which, I actually am guilty.I rarely dig into the donut pile that arrives in our office every Monday morning, but I spied an apple fritter buried in the bottom of the pile as I walked into the kitchen area. As I rearranged the pile with a plastic knife (so I wouldn't have to touch all the others), a chocolate covered donut took a header off the plate and landed on the floor. Not a clean floor either, mind you. I promptly grabbed it, set it on the counter next to the platter with every intention of tossing it once I finished fetching my fritter.
Right as I pulled my prize from the grease-and-sugar collection, one of the office ladies steps in and announces "Oh, looks like we have a runner!" referring to the choco-dust-dirtball donut I set on the counter. Before I could say anything, she grabbed it and took a monster bite out of it. I didn't have the heart to tell her. I thought the little white piece of paper-punch stuck to the side would give it away. Apparently not.
"Mmmm...heavenly!" she claimed.
"Hmmm...devilish!" was how I felt.
So, there you have it. I'm a bad man, who enjoys the occasional apple fritter. Hopefully next time it will be on top of the pile.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Even the Nights are Better
It had been a long, hot, fun, but trying 4th of July weekend.
Sunday night rolls around, I'm ready to hit the sack, but decide to check the forecast on the local news first. I grab the TV remote, fire up the tube, and am immediately accosted by THIS:
My initial reaction was one of horror, disbelief, and a panicked thought of reliving the 70's. History repeats itself, they say. Please, Dear God, oh please, not THAT decade...
It was a barrage of shaggy mullets, raging lambchops, and unbuttoned silk shirts, all of which scream "I'm a Love Machine!" in a just got done tokin' a doobie sort of way. The unplugged Air Supply reminiscing really added a faggy, "I've just been violated!" touch to the scene. After a couple minutes of staring at this horrific display, I realized something: I was still watching.
Even worse, my gag reflex was easing up.
Please don't tell anyone, but I even found myself humming along and taking mini-trips back to warm, dusty backroads with the 8 track blaring in our '77 Olds Tornado. Yes, our Tornado was brown, just like any other respectable 70's vehicle. Was my stomach turning because I used to get carsick in the back seat of that boat or because of the music on the TV?
Regardless, this was an embarrassingly guilty pleasure and sat on the end of the bed to really get the full effect of the infomercial. I was just losing myself in the saxophone of Chicago's "Saturday...in the park...I think it was the 4th of July..." when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye - Mrs. MNWildman walked in. I was busted.
In a flurry of nerves, adrenaline, and shame, I tried to cover for myself. "Can you believe this crap? Isn't this disgusting...and hilarious...?" as I pointed at the screen. The last words were still hanging on my tongue when I looked again, and was mesmerized by the piano behind Benny Mardones "Into the Night".
Without turning my head back to Mrs. MNWildman, I confessed, "...and I really like it."
I felt gay. In fact, I felt so disgusting that I had to go shower before bed...but I couldn't stop humming those tunes while I washed up.
Oh well.
======================
Have half an hour to kill? Take the gag-reflex test and try watching all 3 segments...without ordering the CD collection.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Sunday night rolls around, I'm ready to hit the sack, but decide to check the forecast on the local news first. I grab the TV remote, fire up the tube, and am immediately accosted by THIS:
My initial reaction was one of horror, disbelief, and a panicked thought of reliving the 70's. History repeats itself, they say. Please, Dear God, oh please, not THAT decade...
It was a barrage of shaggy mullets, raging lambchops, and unbuttoned silk shirts, all of which scream "I'm a Love Machine!" in a just got done tokin' a doobie sort of way. The unplugged Air Supply reminiscing really added a faggy, "I've just been violated!" touch to the scene. After a couple minutes of staring at this horrific display, I realized something: I was still watching.
Even worse, my gag reflex was easing up.
Please don't tell anyone, but I even found myself humming along and taking mini-trips back to warm, dusty backroads with the 8 track blaring in our '77 Olds Tornado. Yes, our Tornado was brown, just like any other respectable 70's vehicle. Was my stomach turning because I used to get carsick in the back seat of that boat or because of the music on the TV?
Regardless, this was an embarrassingly guilty pleasure and sat on the end of the bed to really get the full effect of the infomercial. I was just losing myself in the saxophone of Chicago's "Saturday...in the park...I think it was the 4th of July..." when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye - Mrs. MNWildman walked in. I was busted.
In a flurry of nerves, adrenaline, and shame, I tried to cover for myself. "Can you believe this crap? Isn't this disgusting...and hilarious...?" as I pointed at the screen. The last words were still hanging on my tongue when I looked again, and was mesmerized by the piano behind Benny Mardones "Into the Night".
Without turning my head back to Mrs. MNWildman, I confessed, "...and I really like it."
I felt gay. In fact, I felt so disgusting that I had to go shower before bed...but I couldn't stop humming those tunes while I washed up.
Oh well.
======================
Have half an hour to kill? Take the gag-reflex test and try watching all 3 segments...without ordering the CD collection.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Word of the Day
Dictionary.com Definition (2008)
tutelage \TOO-tuhl-ij; TYOO-\, noun:
1. The act of guarding or protecting; guardianship; protection.
2. The state of being under a guardian or tutor.
3. Instruction, especially individual instruction accompanied by close attention and guidance.
MNWildman Dictionary Definition, Northcountry Edition (2008)
tutelage \TOO-tuhl-ij; TYOO-\, noun:
1. The acoustic after-effects of consuming certain foods and beverages.
2. The relocation of trapped air and masses of gaseous product.
tutelage \TOO-tuhl-ij; TYOO-\, noun:
1. The act of guarding or protecting; guardianship; protection.
2. The state of being under a guardian or tutor.
3. Instruction, especially individual instruction accompanied by close attention and guidance.
But he was not yet free of his father's legal tutelage and had still to decide on a career.
-- Roland Huntford, Nansen: The Explorer as Hero
MNWildman Dictionary Definition, Northcountry Edition (2008)
tutelage \TOO-tuhl-ij; TYOO-\, noun:
1. The acoustic after-effects of consuming certain foods and beverages.
2. The relocation of trapped air and masses of gaseous product.
There was much tutelage at the lakehouse last week due to MNWildman and Uncle Bark's partaking of multiple Franziskaners, Jager Schnitzels, and Apple Dumpling Apfelknodels.
-- MNWildman Jr., age 8
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Water, Sunshine, and Schweinehaxe
Popular MN Summer Vacation Recipe:
INGREDIENTS:
- 8 days away from work
- One large lakehome, preferably with separate quarters for kids
- Sandy lakeshore and clean water
- One floating swim platform/dock, anchored
- Fishing rods, multiple of the Snoopy/Barbie/Taz varieties
- 5 weary adults
- 7 cranked up kids under age 14
- 3 neurotic dogs, barking
- A few/bunch of cases of beer
- Multiple bottles of wine
- Your choice of "Mystery-schlager"
- Enough food to feed a small town for a month
- Mass amounts of sunshine
- One fishing/ski boat, including tube
- One rental pontoon
DIRECTIONS:
1) Preheat air to around 85 degrees, lakewater to 70 degrees
2) Drink a beer
3) Unload piles of gear from vehicles to lakehouse/kids quarters
4) Open another beer, consume quickly before it evaporates
5) Direct/oversee kids as they launch off dock to play on swim platform
6) Referee dock pushing matches and get pushed/pulled into lake fully dressed
7) Let dogs out to crap in the yard, harass the neighbor's dogs, and swim half way across the lake
8) Have another beer while clothes drip-dry
9) Get dogs out of neighbor's flower garden, kennel them up to dry
10) Take kids tubing behind boat, attempting aerial acrobatics while semi-attached to tube
11) Soothe crying children who vow to never ride a tube again, especially with nasty Uncle Wildman
12) Return to dock...if you can find the right one
13) Fire up grill for supper
* Note: mandatory 2 beer minimum consumption while grilling, MN vacation law
14) Pull rugrats out of lake again and cram food down their gullets
15) Overeat and sample "Mystery-schlager" for dessert
16) Find your most recent/open a new beer
17) Arrange fishing contest on dock, designate bait/fish-boy to help the girly-types keep up
18) Untangle rats-nest on Barbie rod
19) Pick up your beer that fell off the dock and into lake, open another
20) Once kids are exhausted and start whining and picking fights, lose your temper and send them to bed
21) Resample "Mystery-schlager", various wines, and a few more beers while sitting on pontoon tied up to dock
* Note: 70's rock station on pontoon radio is critical item during this step
22) Retell all the same stories as last time you did this, make fun of each other, generally make an ass of yourself
23) Stumble your way to bed, lay down and wonder how the hell you got sand in various parts of your body
24) Sleep 4hrs on crappy cabin mattress
25) Get up and pound a few cups of coffee (or Monster energy drinks)
26) Repeat daily until reality gets its greasy, nasty claws back into you and drags you back to work
That pretty much sums up last week's events while we were gone on vacation.
So you're still scratching your head, saying "Hey Wildman, what the heck is this Schweinehaxe thing in the title?" Ah, let me explain...
Friday night we took the whole crew + the folks to a small town authentic German restaurant that Mrs. Wildman & I think is the shnizzle (um, make that schnitzel). We ordered a pile of -bratens and schnitzels (among other things hard to pronounce), and then there was one plate of the famed Brauhaus Schweinehaxe. Looked like it was fresh from the caveman's fire. Seriously, it looked like a hind leg off a small dinosaur, chopped off and roasted over an open flame. The thing was HUGE. It dang near hung off the ends of the plate, as well as the sides. Ken about crapped when she put the plate in front of him. Good thing he ordered the "regular" and not the "Jumbo" for $2 more. After gnawing on it for half an hour, he called it quits and threw the thing in a To-Go box, which he intentionally left in the fridge the next day when he split town. No way he was taking that albatross home with him.
Here's a presentable picture of a Schweinehaxe. The one he got was twice the size and half as appealing to look at. Whaddya expect, after all, it is a "Large pork shank". Notice how that rhymes with skank? Mmmm...sounds tasty, doesn't it?
The most beautiful thing about this place, however, is their affinity for Spaten Bier and the beautiful, smooth Franziskaner Dunkel bier that has upped the anti for all other beers in my mind.
Gotta love the Germans.
Perhaps Franziskaner could team up with Monster and create a new line of Monsterkaner or Franzismonster Energy Biers?
That would be sweet.
INGREDIENTS:
- 8 days away from work
- One large lakehome, preferably with separate quarters for kids
- Sandy lakeshore and clean water
- One floating swim platform/dock, anchored
- Fishing rods, multiple of the Snoopy/Barbie/Taz varieties
- 5 weary adults
- 7 cranked up kids under age 14
- 3 neurotic dogs, barking
- A few/bunch of cases of beer
- Multiple bottles of wine
- Your choice of "Mystery-schlager"
- Enough food to feed a small town for a month
- Mass amounts of sunshine
- One fishing/ski boat, including tube
- One rental pontoon
DIRECTIONS:
1) Preheat air to around 85 degrees, lakewater to 70 degrees
2) Drink a beer
3) Unload piles of gear from vehicles to lakehouse/kids quarters
4) Open another beer, consume quickly before it evaporates
5) Direct/oversee kids as they launch off dock to play on swim platform
6) Referee dock pushing matches and get pushed/pulled into lake fully dressed
7) Let dogs out to crap in the yard, harass the neighbor's dogs, and swim half way across the lake
8) Have another beer while clothes drip-dry
9) Get dogs out of neighbor's flower garden, kennel them up to dry
10) Take kids tubing behind boat, attempting aerial acrobatics while semi-attached to tube
11) Soothe crying children who vow to never ride a tube again, especially with nasty Uncle Wildman
12) Return to dock...if you can find the right one
13) Fire up grill for supper
* Note: mandatory 2 beer minimum consumption while grilling, MN vacation law
14) Pull rugrats out of lake again and cram food down their gullets
15) Overeat and sample "Mystery-schlager" for dessert
16) Find your most recent/open a new beer
17) Arrange fishing contest on dock, designate bait/fish-boy to help the girly-types keep up
18) Untangle rats-nest on Barbie rod
19) Pick up your beer that fell off the dock and into lake, open another
20) Once kids are exhausted and start whining and picking fights, lose your temper and send them to bed
21) Resample "Mystery-schlager", various wines, and a few more beers while sitting on pontoon tied up to dock
* Note: 70's rock station on pontoon radio is critical item during this step
22) Retell all the same stories as last time you did this, make fun of each other, generally make an ass of yourself
23) Stumble your way to bed, lay down and wonder how the hell you got sand in various parts of your body
24) Sleep 4hrs on crappy cabin mattress
25) Get up and pound a few cups of coffee (or Monster energy drinks)
26) Repeat daily until reality gets its greasy, nasty claws back into you and drags you back to work
That pretty much sums up last week's events while we were gone on vacation.
So you're still scratching your head, saying "Hey Wildman, what the heck is this Schweinehaxe thing in the title?" Ah, let me explain...
Friday night we took the whole crew + the folks to a small town authentic German restaurant that Mrs. Wildman & I think is the shnizzle (um, make that schnitzel). We ordered a pile of -bratens and schnitzels (among other things hard to pronounce), and then there was one plate of the famed Brauhaus Schweinehaxe. Looked like it was fresh from the caveman's fire. Seriously, it looked like a hind leg off a small dinosaur, chopped off and roasted over an open flame. The thing was HUGE. It dang near hung off the ends of the plate, as well as the sides. Ken about crapped when she put the plate in front of him. Good thing he ordered the "regular" and not the "Jumbo" for $2 more. After gnawing on it for half an hour, he called it quits and threw the thing in a To-Go box, which he intentionally left in the fridge the next day when he split town. No way he was taking that albatross home with him.
Here's a presentable picture of a Schweinehaxe. The one he got was twice the size and half as appealing to look at. Whaddya expect, after all, it is a "Large pork shank". Notice how that rhymes with skank? Mmmm...sounds tasty, doesn't it?The most beautiful thing about this place, however, is their affinity for Spaten Bier and the beautiful, smooth Franziskaner Dunkel bier that has upped the anti for all other beers in my mind. Gotta love the Germans.
Perhaps Franziskaner could team up with Monster and create a new line of Monsterkaner or Franzismonster Energy Biers?
That would be sweet.
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