So long, been good to know ya

Update:
LAST CALL AT THE NIGHTS
January 19, 2007
Jam session featuring members of the best St. Louis bands from the last three decades.
Tickets: $10.00 flat

Doors:7pm
Show: 8pm

Unlike some people, I ignored the meaningless football this weekend. I figure if I'm going to be denied the Packers-Bears game (which, by definition, cannot be meaningless), why bother. Instead, I stumbled into the end of an era and had a fine time doing it.

Though there's been no official announcement, the rumor mill is certain that this weekend's Bottle Rockets/ Todd Snider and the Nervous Wrecks shows will be the end of the line for Mississippi Nights, "The Music Club in St. Louis." One look at the steamboat-and-disco-lettering logo tells you how long that place has been around, and, at this point, I'm not sure which is more hard to believe-- that it made it this far or that it's going to be gone.

Plenty of people have stories about seeing bands--U2, the Police, Nirvana--in that long, low room before they hit it big, but I'm not of them. I think the end of Uncle Tupelo and the beginning of Wilco is probaby the best I could do. No matter. I was never out to see the newest, coolest band; I just wanted to hear good music with my friends, and, virtually every time, from the days that we were barely legal until last night, we did. Over the years,some people, who shall remain nameless, may have learned lessons about drinking Molson or keeping one's footing in the bathroom during a Whitesnake (serves him right) show, but I just had a good time.

If I had my druthers, or perhaps even if I exactly knew what druthers are, Mississippi Nights would always be there for us, always be exactly what it is. For better or worse, that does not seem to be the way of the world. Nonetheless, I did get one more stamp on my hand, one more Fat Tire, one more good guitar band, and one more memory of moving to the music in the smoky dark. If Mississippi Nights never opens its doors again, it'll be a shame, but at least I'll have that.

Bowl blues

It’s Saturday night and I’ve accomplished far too little this week for my real job – the one that pays for the lights and heat in my fortress of solitude. Yet events of the day compel me to write a blog post.

Some will say I hate America because I flipped past the Gerald Ford funeral coverage. I have nothing against the man, but I don’t like funerals. Plus, when I ventured by, Dick Cheney was at the podium. Talk about the last guy I’d have deliver my eulogy! I figure I’ll just wait for Maureen Dowd’s report.

No, today was the day the undeserving Iowa Hawkeyes faced the defending national champion Texas Longhorns in the Alamo Bowl. A loyal – though not unreasonable – alumnus, I donned black and gold and nestled up next to my Sony Wega for the bloodletting.

Except the Hawks came to play, apparently. Sophomore receiver Andy Brodell had a career game for the black and gold, which somehow led most of the game. When he wasn’t bitching at his teammates, quarterback Drew Tate actually looked like he deserved to start as quarterback for a Big Ten team.

The key moment came when Tate hit tight end Scott Chandler for an apparent touchdown and 21-3 lead. Tate and Chandler, both native Texans, flashed upside down hook ‘em horns hand signals before anyone noticed the penalty flag. Chandler, it turns out, had lined up illegally and was an ineligible receiver.

A subsequent interception and Texas touchdown set the stage for an eventual 26-24 victory by the Longhorns.

The final score does not accurately portray the inevitability of the outcome, but both teams walked off winners. Texas won the game, their 10th of the year. And Iowa put on a show for the 10,000 fans who flocked to San Antonio to watch a 6-6 team lose its fourth straight game.

I was in attendance for their last win, a 24-14 showing over Northern Illinois. Iowa’s other victims (in reverse order) were Purdue, Illinois, Iowa State, Syracuse (in double overtime!) and Montana (!!).

Iowa played like a bowl team today, but no team that finishes 2-6 in its conference deserves a bowl bid. But, apparently, money talks. And bullshit watches the game on TV.

Bring on the Packers-Bears already!

Bottle Rockets| Indianapolis

Because we're going to see them tomorrow night, and because I can't help but love a song that asks a question that's close to my heart: "Is this hell or Indianapolis?"

My Plan

Lonnie can talk all he wants about good cop and bad cop, yin and yang, but I think we all realize that all this contrast boils down to is the fact that he is a guy, and I am not. Sure, I may snicker at some dumb email joke, but would I ever post it? Nope. Would I follow it with a post about anything at all just to get it out of the way? You betcha.

So today I post my winter break to-do list, my intentions for the coming days. Yes, I'll catch up on the laundry, take naps, read a book, box up Christmas and move it back to the garage, but my only real goal is to watch seasons 1-3 of The Wire on DVD. Given my regard for Homicide: Life on the Street and almost anything produced for HBO, I'm not sure how this show stayed off my radar for so long, but season 4 was excellent, the most must-see of TV, and I proselytized as any recent convert would, aware that I didn't know the whole story but convinced that I understood the best parts. This week, however, I'll commandeer my family members' Netflix queues, fire up the widescreen time machine, and see what I've been missing. Next time Lonnie posts something goofy, I'll let you know how it goes.

Fair warning

Normally I'm not the kind to pass along this sort of stuff. In fact, I usually search snopes.com and then reply to all in hopes the offending sender will take me off their mailing list, if not think twice (or once even) before spreading garbage. I don't think my mom ever got the hint, but she no longer has a computer so the result is the same.

But with today's announcement that the local Krispy Kreme would make way for an Arby's -- way to go Cedar Rapids! -- I deemed it a public service to suggest there might be other places in your town to satisfy your sugar craving. If you're a Home Depot customer -- or just a concerned citizen -- read on:


I have no direct knowledge of the accuracy of the following information, although I received it from a source I consider reliable.

Subject: FW: Watch out for this scam

A "heads up" for those of you who may be regular Home Depot customers.

Over the last month I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. Simply going out to get supplies has turned out to be quite traumatic. Don't be naive enough to think it couldn't happen to you.

Here's how the scam works:
Two seriously good-looking 20-21 year-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your shopping into the trunk.

They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their
breasts almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. It is impossible not to look.

When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say "No" and instead ask you for a ride to another Home Depot.

You agree and they get in the back seat. On the way, they start having sex with each other. Then one of them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen November 4th, 9th, 10th, twice on the 15th, 17th, 20th, and 24th. Also December 1st, 3rd, twice on the 7th, three times just yesterday and next Thursday.

So be careful

Stuff

Concert tickets. Stamps. iPod. Water bottle. Spamalot program. Insurance cards valid since November. An earring. My camera. Christmas cards. A sheaf of school papers, both from last week and last month. Tissues. Checkbooks. Entertainment Weekly and Gourmet magazines. A box of Raisinettes.

That’s the current catalog of this desk, or at least the top layer, though it could just as easily have described the surface of my dresser or, at times, the passenger seat of my car.

Am I lazy and undisciplined, a continuing shame to my mother even at this late date? Obviously. But! Apparently I am one of the smartest, most creative and well-balanced people you’d ever want to meet. “Saying Yes to Mess,” a research-based ode to the benefits of clutter, has been atop the most emailed articles list at NYTimes.com for a few days now, the world, or at least their readership, being full of smart, creative, well-balanced people eager to justify the piles of crap with which they surround themselves.

Mess, as several new books explain, is merely the sign of an active mind, proof that a person has a full life and a healthy understanding of the disorder inevitably generated just by living. As Einstein said, "If a cluttered desk signs a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?" Take that, Container Store.

Now I do tend to keep the more public rooms reasonably neat, and I've been known to tidy up in the wee hours for the peace of mind it brings, but Flylady never kept me in line for long, and my private spaces will always be defined by piles that are culled and straightened but never eliminated.

"Really neat people," reports Penelope Green,"are not avatars of the good life; they are humorless and inflexible prigs, and have way too much time on their hands."

Damn straight.

Home, not just for the holidays

Although I lived in the same house until I was fourteen, I've since accumulated twelve different addresses, in one stretch moving nine times in eight years. I have strong feelings about particular varieties of packing tape and will always count good movers among my favorite people on the planet. I once packed up a three bedroom house with only the help of my newborn baby girl, and I'd be surprised if I someday leave any legacy that surpasses the value of the collection of moving boxes I once passed on. What am I, some kind of migrant? itinerant? bedouin? Hardly. In some ways, I'm not sure I ever really lived anywhere new at all.

I've never lived in a state that isn't contiguous to Illinois, and I only lived outside the Central time zone because, until this year, Indiana was chronologically perverse. If I ignore, for creative convenience, the quirks of Green Bay, most places that we lived fairly quickly felt like home because, honestly, they were a lot alike, and we weren't anywhere long enough to discern the differences.

Now I live within fifteen miles of my high school, in the town where I went to college, in a place where, last weekend, I was stopped three times during a ten minute trip to Target for the obligatory, "Christmas! It's crazy! Thank goodness you're not ready, either" conversation. If this isn't home, I don't have one, but from a certain point of view, maybe that's still true.

Not long ago, I was called out as a "move-in" during a ritual exchange of maiden names and family trees among some long-time residents of this town. I swear I could see those women edge closer together as they sorted out who was really "from here" and who wasn't, us v. them, their "us" including a woman who doesn't even live here anymore, because, you know, she lived here before, and the past trumps all. Nobody here had ever cared where I was from to my face before, and my silent reaction, as it often does, basically boiled down to a mildly indignant, "What the hell? What's it to you?"

But truly, I do get it. I see what it is to them. This town has grown a lot, and I appreciate how it has changed. After all, I was here before the great "move in", whether those women count my time or not. Frankly, I think it's a lot better now, but its changes also mean that those women have moved without packing a box. Their keys to the city, last names and high school graduation dates, don't work as often as they once did, and if I were them, I'd probably be practicing my secret handshake of belonging, too.

Moving so often, I got used to having no history. I'm accustomed to knowing more about a place than it knows about me, of never belonging to any club. If I had a past to hide from or had ever bothered to reinvent myself, maybe that habit would have a purpose, but, I'm the same me I've always been. Except that now--maybe-- I can swallow my disdain of those smug women and admit that they have something that I don't.

It's good to be from somewhere, to be more than passing through. The outside isn't always the ideal location; the inside does have its perks. I've always been a Midwesterner, a St. Louisian, regardless of my state. But I'm growing content to recognize that I'm not going anywhere, and that I've been accumulating the bits of experience and attitude that tie me to a more specific place. I don't aspire to any clique, and somebody slap me if I start sorting people into groups, but, all things considered, I think I'd finally like to make myself at home.

Of Packers and playoffs

Suddenly it's as if a four-win improvement wouldn't be enough of a shot in the arm for Brett Favre and the otherwise-young Green Bay Packers. No, we have to start talking about the playoffs.

Ain't gonna happen people.

I'd be thrilled if it did, don't get me wrong. But the first order of business is beating the Bears in Chicago. I'll never say "never" with Favre as my quarterback, but I'm betting my Packer flag's three-week display in front of my house ends on New Year's Eve and I'll be dressed in black on New Year's Day.

Not that the Bears were very impressive in their win over Detroit, but I'd guess they'll wait until the bye week -- or at least halftime -- before anyone gets a rest, particularly against the Packers.

The Bears would love nothing more, I'm sure, than knocking the Packers out of the playoffs. But how realistic is that anyway?

Imagine, just for fun, that the Packers beat the Bears. They would be 8-8, which reminds me of people who laughed at my pre-season prediction of 9-7. They could easily have won any or all of their losses to the Saints, Rams and Bills -- and would be playoff bound.

Even with those losses, the Packers remained in the hunt for another week after the Saints beat the Giants, 30-7, Sunday at the Meadowlands. Had the Giants defeated the Saints, the Packers would have been eliminated thanks to their unfavorable position with regard to tie-breakers.

If the playoffs began today, the Eagles and Giants would be the two wild-card teams. But if the Giants and Rams both lose next weekend, and the Packers win, the Packers are in.

As unlikely as a Packer victory is, let's look at the other games that play a factor.

The freefalling Giants are at Washington. It could go either way, I suppose, but the Giants haven't exactly been a house afire lately. I'll root for the Redskins, despite their racist team name, the fact that they represent the nation's capitol, and my fantasy football ties to Eli Manning, Jeremy Shockey and Plaxico Burress.

The Rams play the Vikings in the Metrodome. I've seen the Rams in person, and enough of the Vikings on TV, to say the Rams have no business losing this game. Minnesota seems to have redefined horrible. Against the porous Packer defense, they managed three first downs. Their only points -- and damn near a win -- came from the defense.

This is a long way of saying I won't be rooting for the Vikings on Sunday, even though it would serve the Packers' interests. Such is my disdain for the purple sailors and my grip on the reality that the Vikings are simply a bad football team.

They're worse, in fact, than the Packers. Who needs the playoffs when you have that?

Trump Fired Up

By Maureen Dowd

Donald Trump gives me an interview, though he has his doubts.

“I would like the interview to be in the Sunday paper,” he says.

He can’t be worried about his exposure, so it must be his boundless appetite for bigger/taller/glitzier that makes him yearn for the larger readership of Sunday.

“Me, too,” I reply. “But the only way that’s going to happen is if I give Frank Rich my notes and let him write the column.”

“I like Frank Rich,” he says, his voice brimming with appreciation for a man whose circulation is bigger than mine.

“Me, too,” I say.

Kurt Andersen, who jousted with the Donald as an editor at Spy, celebrates the “Daffy Duck” of deal-making in New York magazine this week as one of the “Reasons to Love New York,” calling him “our 21st century reincarnation of P. T. Barnum and Diamond Jim Brady, John Gotti minus the criminal organization, the only white New Yorker who lives as large as the blingiest, dissiest rapper — de trop personified.”

When I call De Trop Trump at Mar-a-Lago, he’s still ranting about “that big, fat slob Rosie O'Donnell.” When he granted Tara Conner, the naughty beauty queen, a second chance this week, Rosie made a crack on “The View” about an oft-married snake-oil salesman not being the best person to pass moral judgments. He slimed back, and the Great American Food Fight was on.

This past year was rife with mistakes — global mistakes, bigoted tirades, underwear mishaps. Winding up 2006, I asked the celebrity arbiter of who-can-stay and who-must-go about redemption.

In the case of Hollywood’s overexposed and underdressed young ladies of the night, Mr. Trump judiciously notes that in some cases, carousing is good for your career. His rule is, the more talented you are, the less you should mindlessly party. But if mindlessly partying is your talent, go for it.

“Britney,” he says, “doesn’t carry it off as well as Paris.”

How about those other international party girls, the Bush twins?

“When you’re a president who has destroyed the lives of probably a million people, our soldiers and Iraqis who are maimed and killed — you see children going into school in Baghdad with no arms and legs — I don’t think Bush’s kids should be having lots of fun in Argentina,” he says.

Should viewers give Katie Couric another look?

If you can’t get the ratings, he says, you’re cooked: “I like Katie, but she’s hit bottom and she’ll stay there. She made a terrible, tragic mistake for her career. She looks extremely unhappy on the show. I watched her the other night, and she’s not the same Katie.”

Can Gwyneth rebound from her comments comparing Americans unfavorably with Brits?

“Gwyneth Paltrow is a good actress with average looks,” he says. “She likes to ride the high English horse. But when she puts down this country that gave her more than she should have had, it’s disgusting.”

Michael Richards and Judith Regan made irredeemable mistakes, in his view, as did Al Gore and John Kerry, when they couldn’t win winnable elections, and W., Cheney and Rummy, when they invaded Iraq.

“No matter how long we stay in Iraq, no matter how many soldiers we send, the day we leave, the meanest, most vicious, most brilliant man in the country, a man who makes Saddam Hussein look like a baby, will take over and spit on the American flag,” he says. “Bush will go down as the worst and by far the dumbest president in history.”

Colin Powell, he considers irredeemable as well: “He’s speaking up now, but he’s no longer relevant. I call him a pathetic and sad figure.”

He thinks John McCain has lost the 2008 election by pushing to send more troops to Iraq but that Hillary should be forgiven for her “horrendous” vote to authorize the war. “Don’t forget that decision was based on lies given to her,” he says. “She’s very smart and has a major chance to be our next president.”

He deems it “not a good sign” that Barack Obama got into a sketchy real estate deal with a sleazy Chicago political figure. “But he’s got some wonderful qualities,” Mr. Trump says, and deserves another chance.

And how about Monica Lewinsky, who just graduated from the London School of Economics? “It’s good she graduated,” he says. “She’s been through a lot.”

When it comes to having an opinion on everything, Trump towers.

Rocky, me and mine

"Rocky Balboa" opened today and did not disappoint this viewer. Without giving away any secrets, the film is much different than any of the prior six in the Rocky series, and not just because of the unlikely scenario of a 50-something ex-champ fighting the current champ – ever heard of George Foreman?

In this installment of the sports saga, the 54-year-old Balboa – still all heart and no head – is lured out of retirement for one final fight after a computer simulation claims he would beat the current champ, Mason "the Line" Dixon (Antonio Tarver).

I found it most like the original in that it’s a boxing movie that isn’t really about boxing. With declining degrees of success, II-V tried to offer a larger meaning, but that meaning was lost in the boxing or – especially in the case of Tommy Morrison in Rocky V – bad acting.

While Adrian has died of “woman cancer,” we’re reintroduced to Marie, the teenage-whore-in-the-making from the corner, and Spider Ricco, Rocky’s first victim, even before Apollo Creed. Both characters – and Rocky’s continued mourning for Adrian – tell us a lot about Rocky’s character and how he has remained true to himself after all these years.


This movie won’t win any Academy Awards – or Razzies, for that matter, though Mike Tyson’s cameo is worthy. But longtime followers of the Sylvester Stallone creation will find much more satisfying closure than would have been the case had it never been made.

"It nags me that I took the easy way instead of the high road," Stallone told Newsweek. "But everyone makes mistakes.”

One scene that spoke to me was when Rocky comments to Paulie that if you stay in one place long enough, you become that place. I could relate, having seen all six episodes – all on opening day, I believe – within a 30-mile radius of where I was born, raised, educated and have lived all but two years of my life.

Like Rocky and Philadelphia, me and Cedar Rapids have become one. That’s neither good, nor bad – just the way it is. There’s a certain comfort to it that naturally causes the aging hero in us all to wonder what might have been and what’s left to accomplish.

“I look around at people my age,” Stallone continues, “and I can see it in their eyes—a kind of bittersweet reflection: 'I didn't live the life that I wanted, and now I've got all this stuff I want to say, but nobody wants to hear it.'”

Then there’s the whole father-son struggle as I watch the film with my 13-year-old son. While I grew up with Rocky, he’s grown up with Brett Favre and Lance Armstrong – so he gets the whole role model/tragic hero attraction. Much like “Field of Dreams,” I’m sure we didn’t experience the film the same way, but it was good for my soul to be in the same theater with him.

“I was feeling that, and if you don't get it out, it can become a beast that tears you apart."

While I would have attended the opener regardless, credit my wife with insisting it be a family affair. She must have figured the film would give my kids a glimpse into what makes their dad tick. I don’t think our 10-year-old daughter got it – after all, she got lost returning from the bathroom during the training scene because she “didn’t know what the movie was called!” Recently freed of braces, popcorn was her only attraction.

I left work early so we could catch the 5:05 p.m. matinee. It was cool and rainy as I piloted the SUV (sue me!) to the theater complex, my frustration with traffic congestion abated by the knowledge I had pre-paid for tickets online. Couldn’t do that 16 years ago.

We loaded up on popcorn, nachos and soda – dinner for the night – and hurried to find a good seat. That was no problem, it turns out. There might have been 50 people in the theater that seated 300. “Stadium seating,” another recent theater enhancement, assured uninhibited view of the big screen.

I had inside knowledge (thanks to the Internets) and remained seated through the credits. You should too. That much, at least, my daughter understood.

In many ways, it was just like old times – just me and Rocky, no matter who I was with or how crowded the theater. This time, I wasn’t alone. And it felt good.

Christmas with Tavin

More holiday hilarity from Tavin and his Meemaw.

Flunking our future

Thanks to our friend Ed, and with apologies to our friend Allison for bumping her touching Christmas post, here's a first rate, depressing and hilarious column by the New York Times' Maureen Dowd on how lazy and ignorant our Congress is. Don't think for a minute our troubles are over. Election Day gains may merely have been rearranging the furniture on this sinking ship.

The only sects that may be more savage than Shiites and Sunnis are the Democratic feminist lawmakers representing Northern and Southern California.

After Nancy Pelosi and Jane Harman had their final catfight about who would lead the House Intelligence Committee, aptly enough at the Four Seasons’ hair salon in Georgetown, the new speaker passed over the knowledgeable and camera-eager Ms. Harman and mystifyingly gave the consequential job to Sylvestre Reyes of Texas.

Mr. Reyes promptly tripped over the most critical theme in the field of intelligence. Jeff Stein, interviewing the incoming chairman for Congressional Quarterly, asked him whether Al Qaeda was Sunni or Shiite.

“Predominantly — probably Shiite,” the lawmaker guessed.

As Mr. Stein corrected him in the article: “Al Qaeda is profoundly Sunni. If a Shiite showed up at an Al Qaeda clubhouse, they’d slice off his head and use it for a soccer ball.”

Mr. Stein followed up with a Hezbollah question: “What are they?” Again, Mr. Reyes was stumped.

“Hezbollah,” he stammered. “Uh, Hezbollah. Why do you ask me these questions at 5 o’clock? Can I answer in Spanish?” (O.K. ¿Qué es Hezbollah?)

Sounding as naked of essentials as Britney Spears, the new intelligence oversight chief pleaded that it was hard to keep all the categories straight. Thank heavens Mr. Stein never got to Syrian Alawites.

Many Americans, including those in charge of Middle East policy, are befuddled and fed up with the intransigent tribal and religious fevers of the region. As Bill O'Reilly sagely remarked, “I don’t want to ever hear Shia and Sunni again.” But it is beyond the job description of top officials to wish the problems away, especially when the entire region is decomposing before our bleary eyes.

If Mr. Reyes had been reading the newspaper, he might have noticed Mr. Stein’s piece on The Times’s Op-Ed page two months earlier, in which, like a wonkish Ali G, he caught many intelligence and law enforcement officials, as well as members of Congress, who did not know the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite.

“Too many officials in charge of the war on terrorism just don’t care to learn much, if anything, about the enemy we’re fighting,” he concluded. “And that’s enough to keep anybody up at night.”

The lack of intellectual urgency about our Middle East wars is chilling. The Iraq Study Group reported that our efforts in Iraq are handicapped by the fact that our embassy of 1,000 has only 33 Arabic speakers, just six who are fluent.

W., of course, failed a foreign affairs pop quiz and still became a close ally of the Pakistani dictator he referred to as “General ... General.”

Once they have the job, the incentive of politicians to study is somewhat dulled. Charles Z. Wick, who headed the U.S. Information Agency during the Reagan years, sent a memo to his staff saying that he and the president needed to know if France was a member of NATO. Mr. Reagan had already been the president for years, The Times’s Steve Weisman reported, when he expressed surprise at learning that the Soviets had most of their nuclear weapons on land-based missiles, while America had relatively few.

One possibility is that Mr. Stein’s questions were just too darn hard. He should have pitched a few warm-ups, like: How many sides are there in the Sunni Triangle? Or, which religious figure, Muhammad or Jesus, has not been the subject of a Mel Gibson film?

Perhaps the questions could be phrased Jeopardy-style, as in: “The name shared by two kings in Jordan and Saudi Arabia.” (What is Abdullah?)

A multiple choice might be easier on harried policy makers. For instance, which of the following quotes can be attributed to Dick Cheney?
a) “So long as the Arabs fight tribe against tribe, so long will they be a little people, a silly people: greedy, barbarous and cruel.”
b) “Don Rumsfeld is the finest secretary of defense this nation has ever had.”
c) “Certain things are not known to those who eat with forks.”

Or this: Is the Shiite crescent a) a puffy dinner roll, b) a new Ramadan moon, or c) an arc of crisis?

Once our leaders get a grasp of the basics, we can hit them with a truly hard question: Three and a half years after the invasion of Iraq, with nearly 3,000 American troops dead and the Iraqis not remotely interested in order or democracy, what on earth do we do now?

Standing at the Window

On Christmas Eve, back when my brother and I were very small, my grandpa would lift us up to the back door as we shoved the curtain out of the way and pressed our noses against the cool window glass. "There's Rudolph"! he'd say, pointing into the dark. "See the red light?"

The scene more snugly fits the picture postcard frame if I don’t mention that our red dot, glowing through the tree branches and power lines, was a warning light at the oil refinery across the way, but it’s a memory I hang on to. Given the scant number of years between my earliest holiday memories and my grandpa's last healthy Christmas, it may have only happened once or twice: each year I run my finger over my recollection, making it more distinct each time.


It’s funny, though, that the scrap I have is Rudolph, because, for us, Santa only arrived through the tags on my Grandma’s presents, the generous gifts that we opened with all the others on Christmas Eve. When my Grandpa pointed out Santa’s sleigh, so low in the sky we should have been able to smell reindeer, our presents were already under the tree, with nothing to follow on Christmas Day but a visit to our other grandparents’ house for a package of socks.

Were we deprived? Hardly. Fewer hours to wait, more time to run down batteries and squabble over our loot. We considered our minimal rituals a holiday bonus. We didn’t know Santa well, but we didn’t care, and as for the baby Jesus, well, we didn’t miss him at all.

Were we unchurched heathens? Perish the thought. Our family went to services three times a week, but we never celebrated Christmas as a religious holiday. Let’s just say it was a very literal church, one that didn’t do anything for which it couldn’t cite chapter and verse. So, yes, we celebrated a Christmas, but a Christmas without Santa, and a Christmas without Jesus. What’s left? Rudolph?

Family. Generosity. Food. Bright lights and warmth on a cold dark night. All the things that have been celebrated for thousands of years regardless of the trappings.

I’m sure those church people would have been horrified to have anything in common with the Druids who brought the first winter evergreens inside, but I’m fond of my stripped down holiday. Oh, we do Santa now, and we even sing songs about Jesus when we feel like it, but if I can ever get back to that feeling, back to my grandpa in a cozy kitchen with a silly story, then I think I'll have something to celebrate.

A Christmas Miracle

In what can only be described as a Christmas miracle, my neighbor dismantled his homemade scaffolding today. (More accurately, he finished the job today.) It's not the type of thing that will draw the attention of Maureen Dowd, or the local news even, but it's cause celebre in my neighborhood.

The whole matter would make an interesting sociology study.


It began 2 1/2 years ago when, in the process of remodeling my kitchen, I left the old, apartment-size dishwasher outside of my garage. I soon received a letter from the city notifying me that I was a threat to the public's health, even though I had gone to the trouble of removing the door so no small child would suffer an early death.

Said dishwasher would have been properly disposed had I not missed the city's trash amnesty deadline by a day or two, but that now seems beside the point. I quickly replied to the mayor and city council, back when we operated under the antiquaited commission form of government, that if they were concerned about the public's health and safety, they might visit my neighbor.

Captain Kirk, so named because of the "Starship Invasion" van he piloted when we first arrived, is an ideal neighbor in most ways. He's quiet and keeps to himself, but is friendly enough when encountered in the light of day. He even lent me his ice chipper when he and I were mutually cited for not clearing our sidewalks. My wife is quite fond of him.

But home maintenance is not Kirk's forte. Among my many objections to the city, I cited his poorly tuckpointed chimney, which was apparently the only thing local government could weigh in on. Shortly after I received a direct response from the mayor, progress began -- and I was immediately concerned.

Instead of hiring the work to be done, or renting a temporary scaffolding, Kirk constructed the finest 2x4 scaffolding system that's ever been. It was a mechanical marvel, the eighth wonder of the world == yet, apparently, not the sort of thing that requires a building permit. After all, it's a temporary structure.

So I thought, two summers ago.

I got another nuisance warning from the city recently, this time for the trash pile that had evolved in the area I used to try to garden. Once again, I responded quickly to the city's demands, but not without asking why they were not so interested in the neighborhood's biggest nuisance.

The enforcement officer I spoke with, who I know from a prior life, promised a phone call, but little hope, in the matter. I had resigned myself to the fact that a scaffolding would be the backdrop whenever I watched a movie or football on my 50-inch HDTV.

Kirk told the city guy that there would be progress by Thanksgiving, or at least that's what he told me. I didn't hold my breath and Thanksgiving came and went with no signs of progress.

Credit global warming with a warmer-than-normal December and Kirk has been a busy man. Not only did he tuckpoint the chimney -- which was kind of the point of the whole thing -- but he dismantled the scaffolding within the past two days.

While sundown happens about 4 p.m. these days, Kirk must be a vampire. We were watching the Division III football championship before heading out to dinner with friends at about 6 p.m. when we heard noises coming from Kirk's house. There he was, in the dark of winter night, tearing down the dreaded scaffolding.

I shed a tear, and contemplated my next public nuisance.

Eating crow in Iowa

In one of my infamous company-wide e-mails, I championed for Steve Alford to replace Tom Davis as coach of the Iowa basketball team. Tonight I lived to regret it.

Only in Wisconsin: Hermaphrodite deer

From the Fond du Lac Reporter comes this gem.

What has seven legs, male and female reproductive organs and nub antlers? It sounds like a bad joke, but it's what Rick Lisko found in his driveway late last month.

Lisko hit the seven-legged nub buck while driving his truck through the woods along his mile-long driveway near Mud Lake, east of Waucousta in the Fond du Lac County town of Osceola on Nov. 22.

"It was definitely a freak of nature," Lisko said. "I guess it's a real rarity."


Lisko had slowed down as a buck and two does ran across the driveway.

"All of a sudden we felt the truck stop," he said.

The small buck had run underneath his truck, Lisko said. When he got out to look at the deer he noticed three- to four-inch appendages growing from the rear legs and later found a smaller appendage growing from one of the front legs.

"It's a pretty weird deer. It kind of gives you the creeps when you look at it," said Lisko, who described the extra legs as looking like "crab pinchers."

The appendages were moving when he first saw them, Lisko said.

"They were actually functional," he said.

Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources Warden Doug Bilgo came to Lisko's property to tag the deer.

"I have never seen anything like that in all the years that I've been working as a game warden and being a hunter myself," Bilgo said. "It wasn't anything grotesque or ugly or anything. It was just unusual that it would have those little appendages growing out like that."

Bilgo took pictures and sent the information to DNR wildlife managers. He thinks the anomaly is a birth defect.

John Hoffman has worked at Eden Meat Market — which processed over 1,000 deer this year — for over 40 years. He skinned the deer for Lisko.

"I see a lot of deer and I've never seen anything like that," he said. "It just was a rarity. It was something different that you never see."

Lisko, who bow hunts, said he had seen the deer before, but never realized it had extra appendages.

"We just thought it had swollen metatarsal glands," he said.

Lisko wonders what it would have looked like in a few years.

"I imagine the bigger it got, the longer these legs would get," he said, adding that it likely would have also grown antlers.

The unusual deer may bring financial rewards to Lisko. He said Bass Pro Shops has expressed interest in doing a full mount of the deer and putting it in one of its stores.

Hoffman and Bilgo said they were unaware the deer had male and female reproductive organs, as Lisko claims, because the deer had been gutted before either of them saw it. They both said the deer appeared to be completely healthy.

"And by the way, I did eat it," Lisko said. "It was tasty."

An Open Letter

Dear Mike,

Can I call you Mike? I wouldn't think you'd mind, considering the number of intimate details you've passed along over the years. Now I realize that I don't know the real you, and frankly, I think that's for the best. The interest in using muscle-building "supplements" that you can't pick up at the GNC was the first red flag, but who knows, maybe Bonds was right and it's all just flaxseed oil. Later, of course, came the "adult friend finder" account, but who am I to judge you and your adult friends. But now, Mike, with all this money business, I've had enough, and I'm again asking you to stop.

Between the loan from your father-in-law and your wife's worries about the budget and the late night messages from ssmmyy asking if you've sent the money yet, Mike, it just seems like it all might come crashing down. I just don't know if you can keep all these balls in the air. I mean, considering that you've yet to realize that your hotmail messages are still being forwarded to the cell phone number you gave up TWO YEARS AGO, attention to detail is not your strong suit.

I've tried, Mike, I've really tried. I've tried to block the messages, tried to reply-- to you, your wife, your friends. When they've called, I've talked to Dell computer, the Air Force base, your kids' school, and if I knew how the hell to get in touch with you, I'd have been glad to pass that along so you can finally extricate your life from mine. But it's up to you, Mike. It's up to you. Face facts. This is no longer your number. It may have been before, but it's not now, and it won't be again. So please, Mike: LET IT GO.

Go, Go Gadget

Unlike my friend who says they're the worst invention ever, I don't really have a hang up (get it?) about cell phones. There’s no doubt our phones have been used far more times to ask for an emergency ration of trash tacos than they have to find a last-minute ride for Madison while I sit in traffic, but sometimes junk food on demand is what makes life worth living. If some Sunday the entire congregation is again treated to the Sopranos theme ringtone from my accidentally unmuted handset, we'll just mark that down as a way technology enriches our lives.


I'm a reasonably well-mannered grown-up. I know when to turn a phone off or put it away, and if I don't want to be found, that's why God created Caller ID and voicemail. It's not a tool of the devil; it’s just a phone. And for the longest time, just a phone is all I wanted. Does it work as a phone (and not a camera, MP3 player, PDA, game boy, automated dog walker, or GPS)? When I talk, will you indeed hear me now? Fabulous. Vice versa? Even better. And just as importantly, is it free?

Perhaps a little perversely, considering where half the household paychecks come from, those have long been my only standards. Whether he took it as a personal challenge or just a way to express his generous and patient nature, Scott has been bringing home a string of new phones for me to glance at and reject as too heavy, too ugly, too awkward, too manly, too expensive, or too unnecessary. I wasn't trying to be rude; I just couldn't imagine that I cared--until he found the expensive and unnecessary phone that I really wanted for no good reason. So, um, far be it from me to deny him the pleasure of giving something to the person he loves. Everybody needs a new toy sometimes, right? Besides, if this means I can still get my email the next time the power goes out for days on end, I'm sure we'll all be a little less cranky.

Rocky and me

As I anticipate the theatrical release of "Rocky Balboa" -- the sixth in the Rocky series spanning 30 years -- I hope our fictional boxing hero finds a new generation of worshipers. I suspect, however, that the film is targeted at the very audience it's always been: me and those of my now middle-age ilk.

From Apollo Creed to Clubber Lang, to Ivan Drago, to Tommy "Machine" Gunn and, now, to Mason "The Line" Dixon, Rocky has always been fighting for us. According to early reviews, he still is.


From the Dec. 18 issue of Newsweek:
"A lot of people said, 'Just sit down, don't embarrass yourself'," Stallone says. "There is this incredible resistance to anyone who seems to want a second shot: 'You had your moment, now f--- off'." But there's a sweet twist to this story: the movie, written and directed by Stallone, is not only not embarrassing, it's a provocative exploration of heroism and aging, and provides a poignant exit for a character that has become a baby-boomer icon of American manhood.


"Rocky" burst onto the cultural landscape in 1976, the summer between my elementary and junior high school years. I saw the film in the theater at least a dozen times that summer, and probably half as many times since on television. Curiously, I don't yet own the DVD.

I remember one Saturday afternoon when the guy with whom I walked to and from school -- me as Starsky and him Hutch -- were planning to hit the late matinee. Before I could go, I had to mow our acre-and-a-half lawn with a push mower. Typically a three-hour job, it was completed in half the time as I ran behind that mower, the Bill Conti theme ringing in my head. I also ran through the nursery that separated my house from the Stage 4. The theater is long since gone, the nursery more recently so, but the house still stands, though vacant.


Three years later came "Rocky II," a sequel before sequels were so common, and I traded tennis shoes for a moped as my mode of transportation to the opener. Me and my moped gang sat in the third row of the packed theater when nature called and I made a mad dash to the restroom. My friends made a scene for the sold-out audience, greeting my 10-second return by humming the Rocky theme, out loud!

"Rocky III" followed me through high school, and probably should have stopped there. While Mickey's death, Mr. T, Hulk Hogan, and, yes, even "Eye of the Tiger," signaled the end, it was an entertaining film for this high school junior. My posse had since traded mopeds for automobiles -- mine a yellow Ford Pinto -- and we celebrated my 17th birthday at the theater where I would later work as assistant manager. At the time I was shining brass and confiscating beer at the nearby single-screen theater, back when such things used to exist.

So extreme was my fanaticism that I got my first and only perm so my hair would look like Rocky's. That girl on the avenue that night was impressed, even if no one else was. I even tried to adopt the name "Sly," but learned that you can't give yourself a nickname. (Someone should have taught that lesson, among countless others, to The Decider.)

I also portrayed Rocky at a high school pep rally. My buddy -- portraying Hulk Hogan -- took great pleasure in making me look foolish. Fortunately, a water main break had canceled school for the day and, while the assembly went on as planned, attendance was not what it might have been.


Flash forward to 1985 and "Rocky IV," released during my vaguely familiar college years. The film won five Razzies (including Sylvester Stallone for worst actor and worst director and Bridgitte Neilson - now of Flava Flav fame -- for worst supporting actress) and contributed nothing to the movie industry. Chances are I saw the opener with my Italian roommate from the Chicago suburbs, but it pales in memory to Iowa football games of the era.

Come 1990 and "Rocky V," I'm married and back in Iowa after a post-college California sojourn. I probably dragged Lisa to this loser -- seven Razzie nominations, no wins! -- but Tommy Morrison's performance is truly unmemorable.

Sixteen years later we get "Rocky Balboa" and "It ain't over 'til it's over." While I mainly hope it doesn't suck, I'll be there opening night. The line will probably be shorter than I remember from my youth, but so what? Once the lights go down and theme music plays, it'll be Rocky and me, together again, just like old times.

"It nags me that I took the easy way instead of the high road," Stallone says. "But everyone makes mistakes. I look around at people my age, and I can see it in their eyes—a kind of bittersweet reflection: 'I didn't live the life that I wanted, and now I've got all this stuff I want to say, but nobody wants to hear it.' I was feeling that, and if you don't get it out, it can become a beast that tears you apart."

After all these years, Rocky still speaks to my heart.

ready for some football?

There's a football game (of sorts) on in the next room this Monday night, but given that I know what false starts, fumbles, and missed opportunities look like, I've long since wandered away. That's just the kind of fan I am.

It's not as if I grew up in Texas, or even in a place with a good team. Here, we first had a lousy team and then no team at all. Even my high school team was terrible, and had been for years. It's surprising that I care at all. Bad teams don't tend to inspire interest in a sport-- unless there's something else there. For me, that something else was my mother, and she watched the Cowboys.


I'm not sure where her interest came from, but she certainly made it known. We spent every Fall Sunday with Landry and Staubach, Dorsett and Johnson. To this day I think of replacement QB Danny White, who's now 54, as "that young kid" so strong was my mother's influence and the memory of that time. I was a quiet kid, but I spend the fourth grade arguing with the boys about the NFL. What could I have possibly been talking about? I've no idea, but I'm sure my mom was right.

So for me, football isn't tailgaiting, it's TV. It's the muffled background noise of the crowd and the whistles and the inevitable nap through the second quarter of the three o'clock game. It's chili in the living room with blankets on the floor to make sure we don't ruin the carpet. It's growing up having an opinion about sports when not all girls did, a habit that opened the door to many friendships and much fun.

And it's more than that, too; it's actually the game. While it doesn't match hockey for taking out vicarious aggressions, there's still something satisfying to me about the tackle or the sack, something beautiful in the thrill of a well-executed play. Having done my time in Green Bay, I've earned my claim to the Packers, and I watch Favre with an interest that's strong enough to make me believe that driving to Green Bay by way of Cedar Rapids and back again the next day wouldn't actually be insane if it would mean getting to see him play. I didn't actually get to do that, thank goodness, but I wanted to. I guess that's the kind of fan I am.