Monthly Archives: August 2007

Minnesota’s newest natural resource

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True North? Because in Minnesota it’s not just the mosquitos that get under your skin. Because all the loons don’t stay at the lake — many run for office or write editorials. Because it’s the land of 10,000 lakes and even more taxes, where “conservative” legislators are as elusive as walleye, and put up about as much fight. Because “Minnesota Nice” really isn’t so if you don’t get along with Nanny.

And because ice fishing isn’t as much fun as you might think.

True North. Coming September 1. You betcha.

Bring the pain(t)

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“If you haven’t hunted man, you haven’t hunted.”
— Jesse Ventura

I breathed in deeply, imagining I could catch the invigorating smell of napalm in the morning. All I got was dank musk of the forest floor, the scent of plastic and the stench of someone else’s sweat from the borrowed helmet. And besides, it was late afternoon. My very own sweat was running into my eyes while swatches of sunlight and shadow cut across my vision as I scanned slowly through the leaves and branches that masked my position. Moving only my head, the light glared off of the pits and scratches in my visor and made the shadows seem even deeper as my eyes probed, alert for any sign of danger or opportunity, for any movement of branch or leaf not consistent with the slight breeze tickling through the oppressive valley. I cradled the gun in my arms and flexed my firing hand to keep it from cramping. I knew someone was out there. Someone who wanted to hurt me.

“But not if I see you first,” I thought.

Earlier in the day I had set out on a recon mission, moving along the trail in unfamiliar territory as my footfalls competed with my heart beat to see which could pound louder in my ears. The trail was clear. The trail was easy. “The trail is death,” I thought to myself. “The trail is the way the fat, stupid animals go and the strong, clever animals wait out of sight beside it and take the easy pickings.”

Picking your way through the branches and brambles, with the cockleburs clotting on your clothing, is hard. Life is hard. Learn to move through the forest and you might live. It’s a game really, like a snipe hunt. Except it’s not snipe, it’s snipers, and they really are out there. Is that sweat trickling along my spine or is it the prickly sensation of an unseen gun barrel drawing down on my back?

The first time I was shot wasn’t so bad, really. Everything was fine until the moment of sudden impact. “What? Me? Now? So soon?” flashed across my mind, but there was no denying the thick, viscous liquid that came dripping down my visor. I had reached up with my hand, brought it away wet and slick, the goo the consistency of a bird dropping. And it was yellow. Dammit, it must have been Ben who got me, and I was dead — at least until that round of Paintball was finished, anyway. Then I could seek my revenge. That opportunity had come about an hour later when I had Ben pinned down behind a curved metal barrier. I was to his left at an extreme angle that barely allowed me to see him, but enough so I could pump round after round past the edge of the barricade, so close to him that a deep breath on his part would have ended it, yet he held his breath and his unlikely position, unable to return fire. I fired three more quick shots to keep him still and then rose slightly to move to my right to get a finishing angle. Then came the all too familiar whack on my skull as the ball exploded on my scalp, a jet of orange paint shooting through my hair, dispensed by a shooter from across the field. Another important lesson learned: use your head, or someone else will…for target practice!


The Orange Badge of Courage. The paintball struck just above the curve of the hairline.

This time, however, I can make no mistakes. I am the left flank of the line, the end. I am Joshua Chamberlain and the 20th Maine at Little Round Top. If I fall, if they get by me, the bad guys roll into our rear, capture the flag and it’s over. My eyes continue to scan the area in front of me. About 30 yards away is a wooden barricade, set between some trees, surrounded by brush. I have already swept it several times. This time a black paint hopper and barrel are sticking up above the edge of the barrier. That wasn’t there before! I bring up my gun, let out my breath slightly and wait. As the head inevitably comes up over the wall I pour about half a gallon of paint into the area; had I the time and the inclination I could have tattooed my initials into the wood. Instead I focus on keeping the unknown head down so he can’t get an aimed shot off at me. More paintballs are coming at me from my right now, but the angle isn’t good and the brush around me too thick to permit a serious threat. I fire some suppressing rounds in that general direction while keeping my eye on the original target, hoping he will take the opportunity to show himself. He does; I add another coat to the primer already laid down. I’m aware of activity to my right, but from my side of the lines, then some shooting moving away from me and then the cry — “The game is over!”

While things had heated up by me, Kevin had grabbed the flag and gone forward, sweeping up the right flank and planting it in the enemy base while my two shooters focused on me. One of these was the Mall Diva. A third sniper, Tiger Lilly, meanwhile, had been waiting on the edge of the action, also focusing on me. “Ooh, Dad, if you had only come forward three more feet I would have had you,” she said. “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “and if fish had feet they’d be mice.”

Maybe next time, kid.

People who don’t live in green houses shouldn’t throw stones

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From EckerNet:

Look over the descriptions of the following two houses and see if you can tell which belongs to an environmentalist:

HOUSE # 1:
A 20-room mansion (not including 8 bathrooms) heated by natural gas. Add on a pool (and a pool house) and a separate guest house all heated by gas. In ONE MONTH ALONE this mansion consumes more energy than the average American household in an ENTIRE YEAR. The average bill for electricity and natural gas runs over $2,400.00 per month. In natural gas alone (which last time we checked was a fossil fuel), this property consumes more than 20 times the national average for an American home. This house is not in a northern or Midwestern “snow belt,” either. It’s in the South.

HOUSE # 2:
Designed by an architecture professor at a leading national university, this house incorporates every “green” feature current home construction can provide. The house contains only 4,000 square feet (4 bedrooms) and is nestled on arid high prairie in the American southwest. A central closet in the house holds geothermal heat pumps drawing ground water through pipes sunk 300 feet into the ground. The water (usually 67 degrees F.) heats the house in winter and cools it in summer. The system uses no fossil fuels such as oil or natural gas, and it consumes 25% of the electricity required for a conventional heating/cooling system. Rainwater from the roof is collected and funneled into a 25,000 gallon underground cistern. Wastewater from showers, sinks and toilets goes into underground purifying tanks and then into the cistern. The collected water then irrigates the land surrounding the house. Flowers and shrubs native to the area blend the property into the surrounding rural landscape.

…

HOUSE # 1 (20 room energy guzzling mansion) is outside of Nashville, Tennessee. It is the abode of that renowned environmentalist (and filmmaker) Al Gore.

HOUSE # 2 (model eco-friendly house) is on a ranch near Crawford, Texas. Also known as “the Texas White House,” it is the private residence of the President of the United States, George W. Bush.

So whose house is gentler on the environment? Indeed, for Mr. Gore, it’s truly “an inconvenient truth.”

This comparison is confirmed by Snopes.

Of course, George Bush can get by with a smaller house since he’s got that roomy second residence in Washington, D.C. — which was what Al really wanted all along.

Just say (ack!) “Yes” to (argh!) crack

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Friday night after the MOB golf event I was re-hydrating with fellow competitors and sports fans at the post-round cookout and fireworks over at Casa Foot. I didn’t figure prominently in the awards portion of the evening, though Learned Foot did create a previously unknown commemoration for me: the Iron Maiden “Number of the Beast” Award because I had finished the last three holes 6,6,6. “The devil made me do it,” I said modestly, in response to the crowd’s applause.

I thought the Valleywood TPC golf course to be a pain in the neck, but there might have been another source, as I discovered later in the evening when Chief started offering “adjustments” to folks. Derek’s a martial arts and fitness buff with some chiropractic background. I noticed him mauling people around but originally figured he was just trying to get them to write for True North (more on that another time). When he asked me if I had any problems with my back I initially said “no.” Then I thought about the pain between my shoulder blades that emanates as a dull ache up into my neck and that has been plaguing me for the last couple of months, due no doubt to too much time hunching over my laptop trying to keep up with projects at work. It would be nice if that could go away ….

“It only looks kind of gay,” Chief assured me, sensing I was wavering. I told him what my pain was and he said he could help. First he had me lie face down on the floor with my arms swept back like jet wings, and palms up. “You know, even this hurts,” I said. Chief stood over me and put his hands on my back. “Man, you should feel the meat on this guy,” he said to some observers. “Okay, now that sounds gay,” I said.

The next thing I knew he’d put his fists together and applied a series of four rolls up my spine; the crackling could be heard even over my sudden, and involuntary, exclamations. I began to feel as if there was too much blood in my brain. Next Chief had me lie on my back with my arms crossed and wrapped around myself so that my elbow lined up with my sternum. He then put most of his weight across my chest, which delivered a sharp, piercing jolt between my shoulder blades and into the floor. I got a picture in my mind of on insect mounted on art board for a Science Fair project.

Finally we stood back-to-back with our elbows linked, then he scrunched down a little so his hips were below mine and he leaned forward, stretching me out in a rack-like fashion. This induced a loud cracking sound like a roof beam giving way and an exclamation from me that sounded something like “Awa-ahahahah-Ha!”

Redeposited on my feet I stood there mentally sending scouts out to the ends of my extremities. “Does that feel better, or does that feel worse?” Chief asked. “What was the question again?” I said. Actually, I certainly didn’t feel any worse, and it seemed as if there was a greater range of motion. I figured the next morning would tell the tale, and I found everything working when I got out of bed. I then went downstairs and while the coffee was brewing I stood by the kitchen peninsula and turned my head down to read the newspaper. In a few moments I realized that I didn’t have that cramping sensation and discomfort in my neck that I’d become used to lately. I went around and sat in various chairs and found myself to be quite comfortable. I mimiced my laptop pose and still felt some strain, but maybe only 10% of what it was before.

I felt so good I even decided to participate in the Paintball Wars on Sunday afternoon, but more on that later.

Cinderella stories

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I’m playing in a certain golf tournament tomorrow with fellow MOB bloggers and some Comment Trolls. The summer-long hype and trash talk leading up to this event has been intense and it might seem fitting for me at this point to regale you with tales of my greatest rounds and most spectacular shots. I don’t want to put myself in the running for the Spotty, however, and I’m afraid that if I did it also might induce King to move the betting line in the wrong direction.

Instead of telling you of the Bunyanesque drives that split the fairway like lightning bolts, or pin-rattling five-irons, or those wedge shots that landed on the green like a butterfly with sore feet I thought I’d regale those of you still reading with some of my less than stellar (but no less memorable) moments and galactic blunders that have caused me to adopt the nickname “O.B. Juan”.

And no, I’m not counting the time my clubs were stolen before I even got to the first tee.

Here’s a story that might explain a lot: my wife and I were playing with another couple that are friends of ours and on one hole my approach shot to the green was long and to the left, going behind a stand of small spruce that bordered a road. The other guy was maybe 40 yards in front of the green and while he figured out his approach shot I made my way behind the trees to see if my shot had stayed in play or gone into the road. After a few minutes I found my ball and stepped out from behind a six-foot evergreen to see if I had a line to the flag. Unfortunately that was right at the time my friend literally “skulled” a wedge, sending his ball on cruise missile trajectory that neatly bisected my eyebrows. Fortunately I was wearing a new, crushable straw hat that absorbed much of the impact, though I was left with 14 dimple-shaped blood drops in a round formation on my forehead. I had my revenge, though: the rest of the day every time my friend lined up a putt I’d say something like, “Why is it suddenly getting so dark?” or “Grandpa, is that you?”

My commentary around the greens has been a problem other times, too. Once I was playing in a 4-man scramble where my team was trailing the leaders by one stroke with two holes to play. We had a 25-foot putt for birdie that we all looked over carefully before our first guy stepped up to try the putt. He eyed the line carefully, and in a dead serious tone said, “I am aiming six inches left of the hole.” There was something about the tension and the way his voice sounded that reminded me of one of those movies where someone has to defuse a bomb. I suddenly heard myself saying, in the same tone of voice as my friend, “I am cutting the blue wire.” The putter froze, and it was deathly silent for about two seconds. Then his forearms started to shake, and then his whole body and then we all started laughing so hard we had tears coming out of our eyes. The worst part was that none of us could stand over the putt without starting to laugh all over again. It was the kind of laughter like you try to suppress when you hear a fart in church, and we were just about as successful. We barely made par that hole and we still couldn’t compose ourselves on the final hole and we ended up losing the tournament by one stroke. I thought the guys were going to kill me.

I guess the all-time worst episode was when I was playing on a course near San Diego with my dad, my brother and my uncle. One hole featured an unusual bunker that was actually a hill on the side facing the fairway, with sand on the back side. Naturally I had to push my tee-shot left and into this bunker, finding myself in the sand with an uphill lie, trying to get over a wall higher than myself with no view to the fairway. I tried to hit out and over the wall, but the ball caught the lip and rolled back down behind where I started. This actually gave me more room and a better angle to try to get a wedge to the fairway, so I tried it again. No luck. In fact, worse luck, as the ball came back and rested in one of my footprints. This time I turned and aimed back toward the tee, punching the ball back to the fairway, quite disgusted with the whole affair. I grabbed the rake and smoothed my numerous footprints, then climbed out of the bunker and tossed the rake out ahead of me in disgust. It landed perfectly on the curvature of the tines and bounced back directly at me, airborne as if launched from springs … and heading right for a delicate part of my anatomy. I twisted away, and the handle of the rake caught the hem of my khaki shorts. The combination of the tines then re-establishing contact with the ground while I turned my body resulted in the right leg of my shorts being torn from hem to belt loop. Keep in mind, all of this time I was out of sight from the rest of my four-some who were up ahead and could only see the occasional bursts of sand as I tried to extricate myself. When I finally came staggering around the side of the hill, the now-exposed inner pocket of my shorts flapping in the California sun they thought I must have been attacked by a wild animal. “Breezy” described the rest of my round, if not my attitude.

Man, I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Post Birthday Post

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Hey, peeps! I may have been silent, but I AM alive, and did indeed have a birthday. Many thanks to the people who noticed and even posted: Uncle Ben and Dan Stover (such as it was).

It’s been a big year. I had my first anniversary at the salon on July 8, and things have been going well. When I tell people what I did on my birthday, they tell me that I’m really an adult now. Want to know what I did? I worked.

I went to work at 9 on that icky-looking Saturday morning with three appointments on my book. Within the first hour, the first two had cancelled. So. It was my birthday, I was stuck at work with nothing to do, and I had left my book at home. Arrgh!

My boss came in at 10 and felt so bad for me, she let me foil her first client. Yay! I had something fun to do! She went to Caribou to get a coffee and was gone for longer than normal. When she came back, I was lamenting to my client about the dissolving of my day and she said “Don’t you have faith that you’ll get some clients?” Mostly I thought she was just teasing me about my name. Soon after that, my third client cancelled. Yup, that made my faith real strong.

A while later the two ladies who own the bakery just down from us came in. One needed her hair colored, and they had brought me a cake!
*Sniff sniff* That’s why my boss was taking forever!! She wasn’t just buying coffee, she was pulling clients out of the bakery- cake and all! And it was a good cake. Then a few minutes later, Will from Caribou came in with a big fat cup of some hot, sugary, syrupy, coffee drink! Guess what I had for lunch?

I felt so loved. And after that, I felt like a small neurotic dog on speed.

That night, we had dinner at Olive Garden and then my family came over, bearing gifts. And my loving mother had also baked me a cake. Not a bad birthday at all.

Bridging the gap between perception and reality

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Chad the Elder at Fraters Libertas beat me to posting about an editorial in the Wall Street Journal the absurdity and hypocrisy of those using the cantilevered ruins of the 35W bridge as a springboard to call for higher gas taxes.

Minnesota’s transportation auditors warned as long ago as 1990 that there was a “backlog of bridges that are classified as having structural deficiencies.” In 1999 engineers declared that cracks found in the bridge that collapsed were “a major concern.” Bike paths were deemed a higher priority by Congress, however, including its powerful Minnesota Representatives.

As recently as July 25, Mr. Oberstar sent out a press release boasting that he had “secured more than $12 million in funding” for his state in a recent federal transportation and housing bill. But $10 million of that was dedicated to a commuter rail line, $250,000 for the “Isanti Bike/Walk Trail,” $200,000 to bus services in Duluth, and $150,000 for the Mesabi Academy of Kidspeace in Buhl. None of it went for bridge repair.

Minnesota’s state budget is also hardly short of tax revenue. The state spends $25 billion a year, twice what it did 10 years ago. The Tax Foundation reports that Minnesota has the seventh highest personal income tax rates among all states, the third highest corporate tax rates, and the 10th highest taxes on workers.

The Legislature started the year with a record $2 billion budget surplus, and the economy threw off another $149 million of unexpected revenue. Where did all that money go? Not to roads and bridges. The Taxpayers League of Minnesota says the politicians chose to pour those tax dollars into more spending for health care, art centers, sports stadiums and welfare benefits.

Even transportation dollars aren’t scarce. Minnesota spends $1.6 billion a year on transportation — enough to build a new bridge over the Mississippi River every four months. But nearly $1 billion of that has been diverted from road and bridge repair to the state’s light rail network that has a negligible impact on traffic congestion. Last year part of a sales tax revenue stream that is supposed to be dedicated for road and bridge construction was re-routed to mass transit. The Minnesota Department of Economic Development reports that only 2.8% of the state’s commuters ride buses or rail to get to work, but these projects get up to 25% of the funding.

Americans aren’t selfish or stingy, and they can see for themselves that many of our roads need repair. Minnesota in particular is a state that has long prided itself on its “progressive” politics and a willingness to pay higher taxes for good government. Minnesotans already pay twice as much in taxes per capita than residents in New Hampshire and Texas — states that haven’t had a major bridge collapse.

We don’t lack the money in Minnesota to do what needs to be done, and should have been done. What we lack are the political leaders on both sides with the vision and guts to serve the public and not their pet interest groups. The money problem isn’t that there’s not enough to do the job but that it’s misused and abused to buy votes — whether it’s state money diverted to boondoggles or the money the special interests pour in to fit lovely gold rings into the noses of the politicians.

Hey, Nineteen

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She thinks I’m crazy, but I’m just growing old

The Mall Diva turned 19 on Saturday; it wasn’t as big a deal as her golden birthday last year (18 on the 18th of August) — a series of events that required three blog posts — so we toned it down a little bit, especially since we didn’t want to detract attention from the gala MOB wedding.

In fact, I wasn’t going to even mention it, except that I didn’t want to be accused (again) of being forgetful. Actually, I think the Mall Diva should blog about it — or blog about something anyway — if she wants to hang out with the bloggers at Keegan’s on Thursday night and try (again) to get Marty to sing Happy Birthday to her.

Parade the lawyers

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It’s County Fair season and the time of the year when many small communities throw a party in honor of some historical, agricultural or commercial claim to fame; hence a succession of berry festivals, Pioneer Days and okra feeds. All of these occasions, of course, must be launched with a parade.

Since the events themselves are all about tradition, it’s a good idea not to mess too much with the traditional parade fare. For example, you’ve got to have the loveliest young local women waving from open cars. This tradition goes back, I think, to ancient times when each year’s crop of virgins would be escorted to the volcano or cenote as part of a lobbying effort for another fruitful year. Along the way they would throw out treats, either as a representation of Mother Nature bestowing her generosity or as small bribes to anyone they might induce to step forward and get them out of there before they reached the sacred sacrificial platform. This custom continued even long after the sacrifices were all but eliminated, with local businesses throwing out candy in an effort to curry goodwill by encouraging the children of the community to eat things found on the road.

Gross, yes, but who wants to mess with tradition? According to Cathy in the Wright, there are some who just don’t get it:

This year, the Cokato Corn Carnival Committee made the executive decision that there would be NO CANDY allowed in the parade.

A heartfelt letter to the editor, from said CCCC, explained that safety concerns were behind the measure. After receiving complaints, apparently about the velocity of sugary booty being hurled at parade-goers, the committee requested last year that all parade entrants who wanted to toss candy, do so by having volunteers walk along the curbs and gently distribute treats to all the little urchins lining the street. But, alas, some renegade scofflaw had the nerve to chuck candy from a moving float and therefore (say it with me) FOR THE CHILDREN, the safety of whom is surely squeezed in the middle of that cleanliness/godliness bond, no candy.

General discontent was widespread, and I was already looking forward to a round of terse Letters to the Editor in the next few weeks denouncing the Communist take-over of this annual event. But now I’m positively exploding with anticipation. A local landscaping company bucked authority and threw the forbidden Tootsie Rolls from their float.

The whispers and murmers rolled down Broadway Avenue. Some people cheered, some clapped, and some wondered when Wright County’s finest were going to descend on the outlaws. But overall, I think most people were ready to give the landscapers a standing ovation. Personally, I’m thinking of ripping out the grass in my front yard just so I can hire them to come replace it.

Apparently the annual carnage of broken childish bodies bleeding on the Norman Rockwell streets of our fair communities (which has, nevertheless, been successfully hushed up) has spurred people on to DO SOMETHING. Actually, it reminds me of the first parade I ever went to. I was about to enter kindergarten and we had moved back to my parents’ small hometown. A couple of my cousins who were my age were riding on one of the floats and they told me in advance that they’d be sure to throw some candy to me. As we got to the parade route, however, my father expressly forbid my little brother and I from running out into the street for candy.

Oh, the agony, as we stood on the curb, quivering, as float after float passed by, flurries of candy being eagerly snatched out of the air and off the ground before it could get to us. Finally, the float with my cousins came by, and a handful of promised bounty was cast in our direction, only to fall short just two and one half strides in front of me. My brother and I completely forgot ourselves and our obedience. We lunged for the windfall; one big step, an outstretched hand, and — “STOP!” My father’s command yanked us back as surely as if we wore barbed-wire choke-chains. I can still see the candy on the asphalt — a butterscotch lozenge (which I didn’t like anyway), a couple of sourballs (green and yellow) and a Bit-O-Honey — and the grubby hands of the kids around us as they snatched up what had been promised to ME. But I’m not bitter or scarred, not me.

Thunder and lightning

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I often think about how much I enjoy living indoors. Usually these thoughts come on Monday mornings when I try to remember why I’m getting out of bed. Coincidentally, the thought also came to me as I lay in bed last night, absorbing one of the most unusual thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced.

The typical Minnesota thunderstorm features sporadic flashes of lightning, followed by the thunder. I automatically find myself counting the seconds between the flash and the bang. Sometimes you get that kind of fireworks-like thrill on the close ones where the boom crashes down on you in the split second immediately after the flash. Is it the electric-charge in the air or the startle reflex that makes those hairs stand up on the back of your neck when that happens?

Last night, however, was a non-stop flash and roll that went on seemingly forever. The vibrations were so fierce and persistent that I could feel them coming up from the floor and into the bed. The lighting was constant, flickering like a flourescent bulb that is going bad. If I’d had my reading glasses on I think I could have read by it, though the effort probably would have made me nauseous. Meanwhile the thunder was a continuous tympani of rolling rumbles that made it impossible to determine which bark went with which bite. Except for the one time, that is, when the sheet of light shocked the east window of our bedroom at the same time the thunder came through the north window like Kong looking for Fay Wray.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know how long the storm ultimately lasted. There’s just something so comforting about being snug and dry when something like that is going on — even under these extreme conditions — that I went to sleep before the show was over. Can anybody tell me how it turned out?