"He's One Bad Mother . . ." "Shut Yo' Mouth!" "I'm Just Talkin' 'bout The Ghost of Dick Clark."

It's almost May, the overnight temperatures are in the low 30's and we're getting rain mixed with snow.  The long, arduous winter has become a chilly, miserable spring.  What better time to reminisce on a Cabin Fever Crusher from February?

I had made the decision to retire my most inappropriate impression of a post-stroke Dick Clark after this party.  This was not an impression I was proud of, and would rarely perform sober, and was a reaction to the painful awkwardness we were all subjected to every New Year's Eve since his stroke in 2004.  I can understand bringing him back the following year to show he is doing well, but allow him to retire to convalesce privately. Kirk Douglas is still doing his thing, but you don't see him shuffling out every Oscars.

At any rate, I did the impression in front of our standard group of friends to start 2014, mostly at the encouraging of my wife.  The bad mojo caught her first as she spent her first weekend of the New Year in the hospital with an abscess tooth that caused her cheek and lips to swell to a shocking degree.  The fear was the swelling could have gotten into her throat and blocked her airway.  I didn't heed the warning.

We arrived at the Crusher at the more reasonable dinner hour, bringing a bag of random beers and partial bottles of alcohol.  I took this opportunity to bring my bottle of coffee flavored Patron I was "gifted" at a distributor event in Dallas.  We also brought a bottle of Bailey's to make baby Guinnesses - a shot I learned while there.  We didn't bring a crock pot of food, but several others did, so we sampled a variety of foods with a variety of drinks.

Once everyone was fully in party mode, we broke out the game Cards Against Humanity. If there is one game you need to get, it's this one.  It's essentially "Apples to Apples" for adults, as evidenced by this exchange:

Partygoer:  How do you play? 

Me:  It's like "Apples to Apples" for adults. 

Partygoer:  What do you mean? 

Me:  Well, look at this card.  It says "jizz" on it.  No, wait.  It says "jazz."

Me:  (squinting) No, I was right the first time.  It's "jizz."

By far, the best play of the night was when the prompt card read "I've decided to give up *blank* for Lent" and an unlikely source played a card reading "farting and walking away." I went through the motions of reading the other cards, but I had already chosen my winner. The more bawdy cards freed up people to discuss sexual topics, including the difference between The Shocker and The Spocker.

Once the sex talk devolved into awkward silences, someone mercifully suggested we go sledding.  Fortunately, there were only a few of us foolhardy enough to go, leaving plenty of next of kin and organ donors.  The sledding group piled into one car and headed to a nearby golf course.  Once I saw a couple people head down on a toboggan, I decided it was safe enough for me.

I went solo on the red plank of death seen in the photo above and felt I reached speeds that wouldn't have been safe in a school zone.  I put my feet out to slow my progress, but hit the first bump that sent a lightening bolt of pain from my coccyx to the top of my head.  I started to yell "Ow!  That really hurt!" when I hit the second bump at "that." Drunken stories of my exploits later that night had me spitting blood with rivulets running down my face.  Unfortunately, tales of my badassery were greatly exaggerated, but the ghost of Dick Clark had struck again.

I pretty much called it quits after my one run.  The other sledders were getting ready to leave, so I decided to have one last try on the slope opposite the big hill. This was less steep and with virgin snow.  As I started my decent, the one young woman in our group shouted, "keep your tongue in your mouth!"  A disappointing statement to hear from a lady, no matter what the context.  I just wish I had the wherewithal to retort, "that's NOT what she said."

Back home, we nursed our respective injuries with food and alcohol.  "Cards Against Humanity" had been changed to "Scattergories."  The game had changed, but not the tone. It was amazing how many people had thought of 'nipples' and 'nuts' when the letter 'N' was drawn.  When both my clothes and liver had dried a bit, we decided to head home. I made a quick pit stop before leaving and forgot to zip up, which was quickly pointed out to me.  It reminded me of a song:

Everybody have fun tonight;

Captain's wang hung out tonight.

365 in 365 for 2014: Images 006 through 012

A fairly quiet week this week, if you call surviving the Polar Vortex and traveling to Rochester, MN quiet.  The Vortex was something to behold.  I read one post on Twitter that the temperatures in Minnesota were colder than some places on Mars.  Mars!  I'm no astronaut, but I think that's even farther than the moon.

Other reports said this was the coldest air mass to settle onto Minnesota since 1996.  I moved here in 1995, and that year I was initiated to Minnesota winters with record snowfall.  Why I didn't leave after the second winter with record wind chills is beyond me.  By 1998, G-Bug was born, so I've been pretty much anchored here until she goes to college.  Where and when we decide to move will be dependent on where she decides to matriculate and how much we have to spend to help her go there.

Below are the first full week of pictures for 2014

No. 006:  01-06-2014

On the Sunday before the Polar Vortex hit, I was shoveling
the front walk.  Afterwards, when trying to clean a smudge
from my glasses with my shirt, they snapped in my hand.
I think the cold made them brittle.

No. 007:  01-07-2014

Rice Park still in its Holiday finery with the Landmark Center
seen in the background.  For those of you who might be worried
those are not frozen victims of the Polar Vortex.

No. 008:  01-08-2014

Overlooking Phalen Boulevard with the Hamm's (later Stroh's)
brewery buildings in the background.  St. Paul enjoyed
a "golden hops age" when the city was a major beer producer.

No. 009:  01-09-2014

A favorite lunch spot, the Smack Shack in the North Loop of Mpls.
I usually get the lobster mac & cheese, but they do offer a
Connecticut style lobster roll.  Growing up in CT, I didn't think
the state had a style of anything.

No. 010:  01-10-2014

A large pedestrian bridge connecting Boom Island Park to Nicollet
Island in Minneapolis.

No. 011:  01-11-2014

G-Bug had scared the competition off the court in the first day
of the Rochester Scrimmage.

No. 012:  01-12-2014

The Intimidator moments before she does her Dikembe
Mutombo "not in my house" finger wag.

Cape Cod Vacation: The Beginning

It's been about four years since the last time my Minnesota family and I traveled to the Cape for vacation, which is just enough time to develop a need to go again.  Personally, I like to go in early July to hopefully attend the Boston Harborfest, but G-Bug's birthday is on the second and her mother likes to celebrate with her.  This year, we also had to time the vacation just right to fit in between the various volleyball camps G-Bug was participating, so late July was the best time to go.  Mom was able to find a suitable cottage for 6 adults, a teenager, and 2 boys under 10 years old in Orleans.  The deposits and airfare were paid well in advance and it was just a matter of waiting for the week to arrive.

Unfortunately, I fell victim to one of the classic blunders.  The most famous of which is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well known is this:  never take a summer vacation when you work in the HVAC industry.  I requested the time off back in May which my boss approved with no issues.  The spring had been very mild for Minnesota and for many parts of the country, so we hadn't seen a lot of urgent issues arise for replacement air conditioning parts.  Murphy's law being what it is, the week leading up to my vacation was replete with urgent, hot, desperate issues with extreme heat in the Southwest and Northeast.  None of these areas are in my territory, but the Midwest finally got hot as well.  I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to "just monitor" my work emails while on vacation, but would have to take an active role in delegating them to someone still in the office.  It looked like I would need this vacation more than ever.

The Wifey, G-Bug and I took separate planes to Boston.  I redeemed Delta miles to get a $5 ticket The Wifey used, while G-Bug and I booked the cheapest flight available with Sun Country Airlines.  We arrived within an hour of each other, The Wifey first, so she was able to grab a beer or two with my brother while they waited.  My brother typically doesn't need to have alcohol to be a schmuck, but once he has some, he can take it up a notch, as evidenced by this text exchange.

Me:  Waiting for our luggage at baggage claim #3.  Hasn't even started spinning yet.

Bro: Damn it my car is being towed!  You're on your own. 

Me:  I hope you're joking. 

Bro: Your blue shirt looks dumb, asshole. 

Bro: Yeah, keep chuckling, bitch. 

Me:  Show your bald head so I can slap it.  Or I'll have G-Bug kick your ass. 

Bro: Where's Waldo? 

Bro: You have no idea. 

Bro: By the way, what's with the sex jazz in here? 

Bro: You dumbasses! 

Bro: Looking the wrong way and shit! 

Bro: Should I fart?

Turns out my brother and The Wifey were hiding behind a pillar across from the baggage carousal.  I sent G-Bug to find them and when she had bird-dogged them, they walked over to where I was standing.  Once in range, I delivered on my promise to slap my brother on his bald head.

The walk from the terminal to where my brother parked his car seemed like a watered down version of the Bataan Death March; unpleasant, but survivable. We've had hot and humid days in Minnesota, but just not to a degree like THIS. Back at my brother's house, we chitchatted with his wife and kids.  His two boys are 9 (nearly) and 5, but were gracious enough to allow me to change the TV from cartoons to the Red Sox game.  It was the first game after the All-Star break and they were playing the hated Yankees, although the rivalry has lost its intensity. We ordered a couple pizzas and drank some beers as we watched the Red Sox squeak out a 4-2 win.  We started with a Samuel Adams summer ale, but then my brother introduced me to an interesting beer I hadn't had before.  It's called Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale and it was very strong with an alcohol content over 8% and matched the cask flavors of the bourbon aging process.  I really enjoyed it and hope I can find it in Minnesota.

The next morning we prepped for our trip to the Cape.  My brother's youngest had a swimming lesson in the morning and his wife had a tennis lesson.  We couldn't pick up the keys to the cottage until after 3p, but we had to be there before 5p, so we had a small window of opportunity.  Previous Cape vacations were spent in Eastham, Wellfleet, and Truro, which are part of the Outer (or Lower) Cape.  Orleans is included in this region, but it's the most southern, so it is considered "up Cape."  

At any rate, it wouldn't take us long to get to Orleans as it would the other places, so we weren't rushed as we packed up our cars.  As we did so, my brother treated us to something that has become a taste of New England for me - a dozen Dunkin Donuts.  

I realize DD can be found all over the US, but we don't have any in Minnesota.  I didn't think there were any in the Midwest until I saw one in Chicago.  I washed two donuts down with an iced coffee and the stress of the work week started to dissolve.  I couldn't wait to get on the road, mostly because I wanted to get the car's A/C going.  We were on our way in short order.

Why Make Bitters When You Can Be Bitter?

Here are a link and an excerpt to a blog post for a co-worker's efforts to start his own business and I'm glad to give him props to my small circle of readers.  If you are one who likes to put a little culture into your drinking, I highly recommend you investigate the trend of bitters; and if you are in or near Minnesota, you should buy some Dashfire.

Since orange is one of the original and most popular types of bitters, it’s called for in a number of classic whiskey cocktails. So Egbert thought to base his bitters on a quality bourbon, Old Weller Antique, instead of a neutral grain spirit.

His bitters are also distinct because they receive some barrel age. He lugged his 5-gallon barrel from Black Swan Cooperage into the bar, beeswax chipping around the rim, still fresh from draining batch number one, and emitting a powerful citrus-bourbon musk. The oak is both toasted and charred, producing Dashfire’s distinct woodsy-vanilla aftertaste.

I've always been more of a craft beer connoisseur, but I decided to branch out to harder stuff with Dashfire bitters.  I really enjoyed the flavor, but I think the bitters should be renamed "Doubtfire," as after three drinks, I woke up the next morning in a dress.  I'm sure a more experienced drinker will have better (or the same) results.

I must admit this post is a little bittersweet (ha!) for me.  I'm happy for my friend to be pursuing his dreams and all indications are he's succeeding.  However, a part of me can't help being envious as I continue to moisten my chair at a soul-sucking job in a cube farm until my desiccated remains are brushed into an urn and sent to my daughter.  Maybe I should make my own bitters and name it "Bile."  Doesn't get much more bitter than that, amiright?

By the way, who here thinks I look like a cross between Anthony Edwards and Bill O'Reilly?

365 in 365: Images 042 to 048

Here is the next batch of pictures to round out the week ending today.  I should be all caught up now.  Some highlights of the upcoming week is my 50th picture of the project.  I'll try to do something special for all of you have stuck it out with me for the last 48 pictures so far.
No. 042:  02-11-13

Crappy cell phone picture.  It's a model of the Wright Brothers airplane
with a banner with my company name flowing behind.
Orville was born in Dayton & both brothers died there.

No. 043:  02-12-13

The dining room at the Masonic Center in Dayton

No. 044:  02-13-13

Does a new day start after midnight or after a few hours sleep?
Some "dead soldiers" left in the wee hours of 02/13.

No. 045:  02-14-13

Valentine's Day
In Minnesota, we get it on just to stay warm!

Happy Father's Day Memory

In a previous post I discussed a little about New Year’s Eve and traditions.  One other tradition involving the holidays is the Christmas newsletter.  Don’t worry; I’m not going to post one here.  Unless you want me to.  No?  You’re sure?  Just check . . . No?  Okay.

This year we went with the New Year’s newsletter.  We made up an excuse for not sending the letter before Christmas; something about another letter being a lot of “white noise,” but the truth is we (mostly me) were lazy.  In the newsletter, I mentioned my Dad and brother, Mike, coming to Minnesota for Father’s Day.

 

They flew into Minneapolis on the Thursday before Father’s Day.  I arrived early at Terminal 2, hoping to wait outside in the car as the former Lindberg Terminal is pretty lax when it comes to idling cars.  You will be waved off after a while, but if you time it right, you can wait for a good 15-20 minutes.  Unfortunately, the terminal was being renovated and the loading/unloading zone was blocked off, so I had to park.  Fortunately, the flight was late, so I got my money’s worth in parking.

After several laps around the Ticketing and Baggage Claim areas, making sure I didn’t miss them, I saw Dad and Mike exiting the Gate area.  It’s been about three years since I’ve seen my Dad, and I worried I wouldn’t recognize him.  My Dad lives in Connecticut and my brother in Boston, so schedules and finances have prevented us from having frequent get-togethers.  We do stay in touch with phone calls and emails every few weeks, but those become insufficient over long periods.

 

I needn’t have worried though, as my brother is about my height, which is taller than average, and I had a clear view of him; and my Dad looks like me, but with less hair and about the same amount of weight stuffed into a five inch shorter frame.  We exchanged familial handshakes and pleasantries (the flight was good), and Dad told of some drama when checking in at Logan.  In the flurry of activity to take the train to Boston to meet my brother, he had forgotten to bring his identification and didn’t realize until he was at the counter.

“You should have taken advantage of your age and started to shake and tell them you were confused,” I joked.

“He did!  His hands were trembling and he looked bewildered,” my brother revealed.

I felt bad then and decided not to pursue it further.  Dad had to go through extra security until TSA confirmed he wasn’t a threat.  Later, we learned his ID was left in his checkbook on a table at home and he had it FedEx to him for Saturday delivery.  We walked to the car and drove home.