Whoa.

So.

Not so much with the posting lately, huh?

When this brand new year began, I set myself a couple goals for what I wanted to do with this blog (those goals including: a) write something in this blank white composition box; and, 2) hit that cute little orange "Publish" button from time to time), and as is illustrated by these 12 days of silence, I'm failing miserably in achieving those goals this month. However, in my defense, February has at least 2,880 (and sometimes as many as 4,320!) fewer minutes than all the other months on the calendar. So time was most definitely working against me.

I'm in a bit of a February funk, and every evening when I thought maybe I should sit down and put some words here, I pondered the self-indulgence of this blog project...always talking about "I" and "me" and "my" and more with the "I" again...and my mind always flashed to the catchy title of that fun grammar book, "Woe Is I."

Instead of focusing on the "I" part of that title—"I like chicken wings," or "I think Matt Millen's a big goofy clod," or "I wish coffee grounds would stay buried in the, um, ground"—I spent more time focusing on the "woe." I've had a February filled mostly with woe. And I figured no one really wanted to read about the woe, I didn't feel much like talking about the woe, so my solution was to stay away from the blog so as not to reveal the woe.

Don't get me wrong, I like talking about "I" and "me" as much as the next guy, and more of that is soon to follow, to be sure. And I've been doing a few things that needed doing in order to say "Whoa!" to the woe, and get back to rambling about odd topics and attempting to invent B-grade jokes to include in these paragraphs.

Went and spent some "just hangin' out" time with some of my very favorite people, and saw life from a 5-year-old's perspective. You know what's important to a 5-year-old? Duck Duck Goose, hopping around on one foot, and playing tic-tac-toe. (Or should I say...winning at tic-tac-toe. Because every time we played, she'd start, and I'd always block her first attempt at three X's in a row, and then she'd creatively add an extra row to the grid, or sneak an extra X in there somehow, or erase my O. Little did she know that I would have let her win a couple moves later. But the game never seemed to advance far enough for that.)

Anyway...today, I've just been out to run a few errands and gather some essential supplies—bread, water, duct tape, roll of 6 Mil plastic sheeting, beer, pork rinds, 55-gallon drum of cooking lard, red felt-tip markers, one gross of AA batteries, and the entire Britney Spears discography—and plan to spend the rest of my weekend hibernating and watching it snow.

For now, I'm going to go and organize my bookshelves. (shut up. it's therapeutic.)

"Whoa! to the woe."

Million-dollar mantra that will one day be the cornerstone of a motivational speaking empire rivaling that of Tony Robbins? Or ridiculous use of homonyms that'll never even sell a dozen bumper stickers?

(Don't answer that.)

"Talk happiness.

The world is sad enough

without your woe."

—Orison Swett Marden

Buffaloes Have Wings?

I'm getting pretty well-versed in the language of chicken-wing lingo. And I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I can throw around ordering terms like "wet" and "sloppy" almost like a pro; you can put the hottest flavors of sauces in front of me and I won't flinch or request an emergency beverage; and I've just recently done the research to discover what the mysterious third "W" stands for in the nickname "BW3" when referring to the popular national chain, "Buffalo Wild Wings."

This is a bit too much time spent on the subject of chicken wings, I fear. But yet...they're ohh, so gooood.


I first got the taste for chicken wings maybe a few years ago, but it wasn't until the last year or so that I think I've become addicted. If there's a place with wings within a few miles, I say let's go!

BW3's is gaining greater popularity, and is a cool place to go and hang for a sporting event, with their big-screen TVs and 23-oz. beers. And the cute waitresses aren't exactly a deterrent, either.

The hottest flavor at BW3's is called Blazin'. And they used to have a Blazin' Challenge, where if you could eat a dozen of those wings in six minutes or less, you'd get, like, a t-shirt. Alas, that challenge is no longer available at most locations. So I'm unfortunately sans free bright orange t-shirt.

A buddy and I were at the B-Dub's in Green Bay last fall, and I told him I thought I'd order a few Blazin' wings just for fun. And his response was, "You're not gonna eat thooose." Which, of course, made me more determined to order them. Our waitress, who was clearly being extra flirty to secure a bigger-than-20-percent tip at the end of our stay (which she got...I'm not saying, I'm just saying), saw that I was handling the Blazin's quite well, and told me about their "Atomic" wings, which weren't on the menu, but were even hotter than the Blazin'. I told her I'd keep those in mind for next time.

Next time came, and while the lovely Elizabeth (yes, I remember her name) wasn't working that night, I asked our waitress if they still had Atomic wings. And she told me they stopped serving those because of the lawsuits that had been threatened. Don't know if I believe that or not, but who am I to argue, right? I asked her, "If I promise not to sue, can I get some Atomic wings?" She, of course, said no. But she said she could serve me some "sloppy" Blazin's, which is just wing-speak for slathered around in the sauce a little bit more than normal.

Speaking of cute waitresses (scroll back up...it's up there somewhere), I haven't been to Hooter's since I've been on my wing kick, and I think I've only had one or two of their 911s in my life, many many years ago...so someday I'll have to stop in there and compare Blazin's to 911s. Yeah, that's why I'll go in there. For, umm...research.

Down here near the end of this post, though, I'll share a little secret with you all. If it's the best wings you're after...not big-screen TVs, not a distracting waitstaff, but just plain ol' great wings...then Legend Larry's is the place to go. With locations in Manitowoc and Sheboygan, their wings are almost twice the size of BW3's. They don't have as many different flavors as B-Dub's, but if you want hot hot hot sauce, order the D.O.A.s, and get 'em "wet." And have a beverage handy. Or a sno-cone. Or a piece of dry ice.

If you value your lips and your tongue and would like to keep them a while longer, try their medium or hot flavors, and you'll be hooked.

It's kind of a sad commentary that I can write this much about...chicken wings...isn't it?

"Living at risk is

jumping off the cliff

and building your wings

on the way down."

—Ray Bradbury

Sometimes New & Improved...Isn't

I've had about enough of "new and improved."

So many things tout themselves as "new and improved" these days, that the phrase has lost its meaning. Instead, some should be advertising, "slightly different, but not quite as good as it used to be." But marketing like that isn't gonna move a lot of product, now is it?

Case In Point No. 1:
Diet 7-Up has recently given a slight modification to its plastic bottle labels, adding the phrase, "Now more Lemon Lime taste!**" And if you twist the bottle around, eventually you'll find that the "**" in that phrase refers to a, "**New Formula." Pardon me, guys, but did you consult your regular drinkers before you went and messed with a good thing? Maybe some of us don't want more lemon-lime taste. Maybe some of us were perfectly happy with the way the taste was for years and years. If we wanted more lemon-lime taste, we'd drink Sprite!

I can see Sprite's new marketing campaign coming a mile away.
"Now tastes more like 7-Up than ever before!"

Needless to say, I'm not entirely pleased that some suit who probably sits around drinking Tangueray and tonics all day instead of the soft drink that made him filthy rich has decided to fuck with the formula of one of my regularly consumed carbonated beverages.

And it's not the first time. Oh, no. Which leads me to...

Case In Point No. 2:
Several months ago, Diet Mountain Dew started adding the slogan, "Tuned Up Taste," to its packaging. Not to beat a dead horse, but...the taste wasn't broken, so why fix it?? Why take a perfectly delicious citrusy beverage, and tweak it so that when people crack one open and take a drink, they stare at the can and say to themselves, "Hmph. What did they do to that?"

Please leave my soda pops alone!

(Neurotic Grammatical Aside: If Diet Dew is gonna advertise its new taste, shouldn't it be written as "Tuned-Up Taste"...with hyphen inserted as such? I mean, a "small, green ball" can be broken down into a "small ball" and a "green ball," so no hyphen is necessary. But it's not "tuned taste" and "up taste". It's "tuned-up" taste. Compound modifiers, people. Let's use them correctly, shall we? Alas, no hyphens on their packaging. Perhaps the people at Dew would like to hire me in a newly created position as Aluminum Can Proofreader.)

If you think this rant is limited to only carbonated beverages, read on.

Case In Point No. 3:
Several years ago, I wrote a column on mustard. (believe it...it can be done.) A well-known mustard brand that shall remain nameless so as to avoid scandalous defamation lawsuits (French's) advertised on its yellow mustard bottle a "new stay-clean cap!"

Hooray! said I. No more molten lava mustard ooze from the old-style, cone-shaped, twist-up caps (that's three compound modifiers in a row!! stop me before I modify again!) where after squeezing some onto your brat or burger and placing it back on the counter in the open position, whatever residual mustard that was left in the tip would creep out of the top and down the spout.

This new cap has a concave shape and looks better suited to teeing up a golf ball than it does to dispensing a condiment. And it might be a "no-more-ooze" cap, but it's far from "stay-clean."

Inside of that concavity are four flexible plastic flaps that direct a stream of mustard toward its intended target. However, after the first use, it forms that dry mustard "skin" thing that awaits you on its next use. So you're forced to break through that barrier with an extra-firm squeeze, which can throw off your mustard aim by several inches. So instead of Mustard On Rye Bread Awaiting Summer Sausage, you've got Mustard Art On Microwave Oven Door, or Mustard Stain On Shirt Previously Being Worn To Work.

I firmly believe that the people at French's are in cahoots with the people at Bounty paper towels. Because any day now I expect to see Bounty's new slogan:
"Now able to tackle more mustard spills than ever before!"

Look. All I'm saying is that if all you marketing and R&D geniuses out there want to spend your workdays "improving" something, concentrate on the things that need improvement. If you're stuck for ideas, I've got a few to get the ball rolling:

• The current White House administration. While a new one won't effectively take office until 2009, that gives you plenty of months to work on improving the one we have now. Please work quickly...for all our sakes.

• My salary. This one should be easy. Simply take any old spare zero you have laying around somewhere, and insert it immediately to the left of the decimal point. And take the rest of the day off for doing such a good job with that one.

• My golf swing. (FORE!!)

• The Detroit Lions. (uhh...this one may take some overtime.)

• My internet connection. The only reason I still have dial-up is to afford myself the opportunity to use the verb "slog" on a regular basis.

"Marketing is the science of

convincing us that what you get

is what you want."

—John Carter

An Early Night (Well...Maybe Not)

I shoot in a dart league on Tuesday nights, and while I enjoy it most nights because it breaks up the week pretty well, I often find myself arguing during the day on Tuesday with...myself. About whether or not I really want to go. About how long I plan to stay out. About what type of beverages I may or may not drink while I'm there.

Here's a little peek into my thought process on an all-too-common Tuesday during dart season.

— • — • —

7:20 am — Drag yourself out of bed after slapping the snooze button one too many times. "Ugh, I don't wanna go to work today. Ohhh shit, I have darts tonight, too! I'm starting to get tired of league. Maybe I won't go. Who can I get to shoot for me?"

9:09 am — "OK, fine. So I'll go and shoot, have a couple sodas, leave right after the last game, and I can be home by 9:00. Maybe I'll get a movie or something and watch that."

10:37 am — "Man, this morning is going slow. Isn't it lunch time yet? After work today, I should really run over to...oh, wait. Nope. Can't do that. Gotta go shoot darts."

12:44 pm — "Hah! Morning's over. Allll this work to do, though. Damn, I could really use a beer. OK, so if I have a couple beers during league, that's fine. Relax a little, shoot some good darts and get out of there at a decent hour."

1:39 pm — "Gregg, you're running out of weeks this year, and you don't have a sixer yet, you know. Tommy just got one last week, are you gonna let him stay ahead of you all season? Gotta get one. Shoot 'em good tonight."

3:27 pm — "I wonder how far ahead of the rest of the league I am in tons. I haven't seen a stat sheet in weeks. Last week was kind of a below-average night, better make up for it tonight. Hit that middle."

5:59 pm — "Nope, can't stay later tonight at work, I've gotta get to league. We're shooting the second-best team, and I need to get there early to warm up a little. My team needs me, and I need to get some good stats, and a bunch of wins."

6:45 pm (driving to the bar) — "Hit your sixer tonight, Gregg. Shoot 'em straight, shoot 'em hard. Hit your sixer, hit your sixer, hit your sixer, hit your sixer."

7:06 pm — Orders a beer even before taking jacket off. "Mmm, that's good. I've been looking forward to that since lunch! Just a couple beers, though. And don't hang around all night after league, either. Make this an early night, remember?"

8:42 pm — "Wow, three hat tricks tonight, and nine tons! Glad I came out to shoot. Didn't get my sixer, but I'm sure that'll come one of these weeks. For now, I really better get goi..." (out loud) "Hey, you guys wanna shoot a few games for money?"

10:41 pm — Several games of darts later, with a few extra dollars in the pocket, you start an 18-minute, spirited discussion about the final score of Super Bowl XXI (no one can remember). This is immediately followed by a 22-minute debate on why Barry Sanders was a better running back than Emmitt Smith or Walter Payton. Or Jim Brown, for that matter.

11:23 pm — "Man, I could really go for some chicken wings." (out loud) "Who wants wings??"

12:46 am — One dozen hot wings and a Pabst Blue Ribbon later (hey, PBRs are only a buck on Tuesday, how can you go wrong??), you realize how late it's gotten.

12:54 am — "Ugh. Next week I'm definitely not staying out this late. In fact, maybe I won't go. Who can I get to shoot for me?"

— • — • —

I'm pretty persuasive toward myself to change my mind, aren't I? Yeah, like it takes a lot of arm-twisting to get me to stay out and shoot cash games or go eat hot wings.

"Late to bed and late to wake

will keep you long on money

and short on mistakes."

—Aaron McGruder

Extreme Home Makeover

I recently read an article where some big uber-rich guy is going to build and sell the world's most expensive home. In Bozeman, Montana, of all places.

Tim Blixseth, who made his fortune in timber and real estate, is in the process of building a 53,000-square-foot home that he plans to put on the market for $155 million. This price tag tops last year's most expensive home, Updown Court in Windlesham, England, which has an asking price of $139 million. And Rosie O'Donnell's best pal, Donald Trump, has a property in Palm Beach that he's trying to get rid of for a measly $125 mil.

The Montana mansion, which will have 10 bedrooms, will be located at the Yellowstone Club, a members-only ski and golf resort, and will sit on 160 acres. It'll feature a private gondola-like chairlift that will carry residents to the club's private slopes. Other features include an indoor/outdoor swimming pool and a home movie theater.

Must be rough. Too bad I don't ski, or I'd be putting in my bid.

Instead, I found a property around my area that might not have the polish and shine of a brand new mansion, but it just screams "home" to me. Perhaps some would consider it a lost cause. I, however, think that a fresh coat of bright yellow paint would work wonders. And maybe some caulk.

The term "open-concept" seems to be a bit of an understatement for this place. And if the wind blows too hard one night, you better be ready to run for cover. And I don't mean inside the house.

I will admit that the garage looks to be too far gone to salvage.

But I bet the owners would thrown in this fancy antique pick-em-up truck if the bid was to their liking.

"Home Sweet Home."
Different things to different people, eh?

"Always live in the ugliest house

on the street. Then you don't

have to look at it."

—David Hockney

I Wish

In early 1998, Pearl Jam released an album called, "Yield," and it was a must-purchase for me. Not because I'm the biggest Pearl Jam fan on the planet; I like 'em OK enough, but they probably wouldn't even crack my top 30 favorite groups. I bought their debut album, "Ten," back in 1991, but who didn't? They were all the rage back then, and that's a really good album.

"Yield" has one of those songs that you hear once on the radio and immediately point your car in the direction of a music store. And that song is "Wishlist." It's got Eddie Vedder's familiar voice, nearly monotone throughout, and sometimes close to a mumble.

But the lyrics are really "think-outside-the-box" ideas, and they make you want to sit down and write your own abstract wishlist. Perhaps I'll do that in a future blog entry, but for now I was led to this entry tonight because I had the song going through my headphones at work today about a dozen times in a row. (and another three or four as I sit here writing this.)

If you don't own the song, or don't know the song, it's worth the 99 cents. And if you download it and don't agree, let me know. I'll send you a refund.

Here's Eddie's wishlist (at least in 1998 it was. maybe it's changed.):

I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off
I wish I was a sacrifice, but somehow still lived on
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
Your Christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top
I wish I was the evidence, I wish I was the grounds
For 50 million hands upraised and open toward the sky

I wish I was a sailor with someone who waited for me
I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me
I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good
I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro's hood

I wish I was an alien at home behind the sun
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on
I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on
I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down

I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up
I wish...
I wish...

It's very fitting that the song fades away so quickly at the end that you really have to turn the volume up pretty high to catch that last line about the radio song that you turn up.

So which of those wishes on Eddie's list jumps out as a favorite of yours? I like most of the ideas, but I've got one that I'd choose above the rest.

And...what would be on your wishlist if you made one?

"How I wish that somewhere there existed

an island for those who are wise

and of good will."

—Albert Einstein

I Want To Be a Paperback Writer

If someone told you to put a pen to paper and write non-stop for ten minutes—no thinking, no editing, no crossing out—on the subject of, I dunno, bananas...could you do it?

I spent the last three Saturday afternoons in a writing workshop, and that’s an example of one of the exercises we did, taking specific prompts like that and doing timed writings.

The idea is that free-writing about bananas might lead your subconscious to a deeper topic about which you really wanted to write...like a Christmas memory with Aunt Nell, perhaps. (who maybe was bananas!)

There were seven of us in the class, led by a high-energy instructor who had mountains of information to share and gazillions of techniques to get us writing and keep us writing. None of us students earned a living with our writing, but we were all writers, all there for basically the same reason: we knew the thrill of putting a word down on paper or screen, and then putting another word after it, and continuing on that path to see where it would lead us.

My bookshelves contain dozens of books on the writing craft: how to free your creativity, how to overcome writer’s block, when to use “laying” instead of “lying.” I’ve spent more time reading about writing than I’ve spent...writing.

And while learning about writing is an integral element for writers of all levels, the bottom line is that if you want to be a writer, you’ve gotta write!

For the record, I knew this simple rule going in...but it was reinforced during our hours together, and often it needs to be slammed home a few times before the light bulb goes on and you tell yourself, “Ohhh yeah. I better sit down and write.”

Sure, I’ve got this blog, and I write a weekly column, and I’ve been known to write mini-novellas in e-mails to friends.

But I don’t practice my writing as much as I should. Just like a pro hooper still shoots layups before each game, a writer needs practice, too. I need to put in my time writing about bananas, doing my layups.

I didn’t know what to expect when I signed up for this workshop, and when it said enrollment was limited, I wasn’t sure if that meant 30 students or 10. We had seven, and spent our sessions around a table in a “group discussion” setting, not exactly my strong suit.

Never the most vocal member of any group, I’m more comfortable in a classroom setting where I can sit in the back row near the heat register and blend in. If I want to express myself, I grab a pen or a keyboard, rather than raising my voice to speak. (gee, I must be a writer, or something.)

But a slight transformation took place among that group. I found myself opening up a little more than I’m used to. I cared a great deal about the material, and once in a while I knew what I wanted to say, and I said it. Out loud. I kinda fit in, I guess.

There were eight very different personalities around that table, but it was an easy, loose environment in which to share ideas and questions, and to read each other’s work.

By the end of our last class, I learned that, to some degree, I know what I’m doing. I also learned that I’ve got a long, long way to go. I learned that there are so many people out there with so many fascinating ideas, it’s fun to see how those ideas translate to the page.

And I learned that I have to write.

I...am a writer. Are you? Grab a pen and find out!
And give me ten minutes on...aardvarks.
Or, Idaho potatoes, perhaps.

“So it is very deep to be a writer.

It is the deepest thing I know.

And I think, if not this, nothing—it will be

my way in the world for the rest of my life.

I have to remember this again and again.”
—Natalie Goldberg

...With Nothing More To Buy, Ever!

In about a five-day span last week, I received mailers from the following in my mailbox:

• Quality Paperback Book Club
• Rhapsody Book Club (romance novels)
• Mystery Guild
• One Spirit (mind. body. spirit.)
• Book-of-the-Month Club
• Writer's Digest Book Club
• The Literary Guild
• Crafter's Choice
• History Book Club
• The Good Cook Book Club
• The Military Book Club
• Crossings Book Club for
Today's Christian Family
• Doubleday Book Club

I feel sorry for the mailman that had to lug that load on his shoulders.

I've been courted by many of these clubs in the past, and have been a member of several, because let's face it...who can pass up cheap books? (if you raised your hand and answered, "Me! Me! Me!" to that question, then you and I are such very different animals.)

It appears, however, that my contact info has been shared with several new lists since the last go-round, because a few of these I've never heard of. Rhapsody Book Club? Crafter's Choice? Umm, The Good Cook?? (puh-leeaase. only if you've got titles in there like, "188 Ways to Burn Toast," or "How to Successfully Order Pizza for Delivery After the Pot Roast Has Been Charred." study your target demographic more closely, people.)

I can't resist offers that advertise four books for a penny apiece, or a buck each, or whatever it may be. Even with the shipping charges they tack on, it still works out to be two of my very favorite words in the English language when placed side-by-side. Cheap. Books.

And they always try to sweeten the deals in case you were riding the fence about those first four books. "Order a fifth book now for only $5.99, and reduce your commitment to only one book in the next year!" or "Take three books free just for joining, plus a fourth, plus a fifth...and oh, hell, why not, a sixth book, too! And have nothing more to buy, ever!"

And if not additional books, then they offer some lame gift, like a tote to carry all your brand new books with you everywhere you go. Or a handy desk reference. Or...this is my favorite so far, one I haven't seen before...a red polka-dot umbrella and tote set. (that's from Rhapsody, because apparently you're going to no doubt be spending all summer on the beach, reading all the trashy smut books they send you.)

If I didn't mind being overrun with reply cards to send back, or boxes to click online to prevent a billion selections of the month from being sent to me each month, I'd join each and every one of those clubs to see how many more mailers I'd get the next time.

But I think I'll choose a bit more wisely. I mean, really...what would I do with a red polka-dot umbrella, anyway?

"Getting out of the hospital is a lot like

resigning from a book club.

You're not out of it until the computer

says you're out of it."

—Erma Bombeck

"A man who doesn't read good books

has no advantage over the man

who can't read them."

—Mark Twain

They're Blue, Man.

Over the holidays, my teenage nephew had a band revue at his high school, with a bunch of acting skits and musical numbers and a general theme that flowed from beginning to end to tie it all together.

It kinda blew me away, because I don't remember any groups in my high school...band or drama or chorus or otherwise...putting on productions as impressive as the one I saw that night. They did a great job, and were thoroughly entertaining.

My nephew's a percussionist, and during one skit in the program, he and several other members of that section were in a diner setting, and used what they had around them to bang out some rhythms. A few guys used knives to "drum" on the tables they were sitting at, and a couple others used Tupperware bowls turned upside down.

The unusual "instruments" they were playing led me to make a loose connection between them and Blue Man Group. (very loose, I know.) And a light bulb went off in my head that night, that my nephew was gonna get a ticket to see them for a Christmas gift. If he could play Tupperware bowls, I wanted him to get to see guys playing PVC pipes and 55-gallon drums and...and...whatever else it is we'll find there.

I've always had an itch to see Blue Man Group. I've heard many spectacular things about how wild and energetic and wacky and unique their shows are, but for whatever reason I never did much research into finding out where they play. Turns out they have regular shows in New York and Chicago and Boston, and their biggest production shows are in Vegas, I believe.

So sometime in February, I hope, or early March, we're going to the Briar Street Theatre in Chicago to check 'em out on a Saturday or Sunday. You can bet that'll be a blog-worthy entry after I see that show. And maybe my expectations are too high, but I can see myself needing at least an annual Blue Man fix after I experience them the first time. I'm heading to Vegas in April, so if I become quickly addicted after their Chicago performance, I might have to catch their show at the Venetian, too.

Has anyone reading this ever seen them, or know anyone who's seen them, who can give me a little first- or second-hand gossip before we go down for the show? I'd be curious to hear any and all opinions.

I'm looking forward to it. They're talented, they're innovative, they're kinda crazy, they're wildly popular...

...and they're BLUE, man!

"It's a rock concert, heavy on percussion.

A display of magic and illusion.

A critique of modern technology

and information overload."

—Glenn Sumi, reviewer

Get It While It's...Disgusting.

So, we’ve got one of these in the neighborhood now. Well, not exactly in the neighborhood, but about 10 miles down the road. Close enough.

This doesn’t affect me all too seriously, because I may be the only person in the country who’s never been in a Starbucks. But I realize that its presence has increased our area's hip-and-trendy quotient by a factor of at least…one.

I’ve never been a coffee drinker, and I don’t see myself becoming a coffee drinker. When someone takes a sip of coffee and I hear them say, “Mmm, that’s good coffee,” it translates for me into, “Mmm, that’s a good cup of hot, liquid dirt.” Doesn’t make sense. The term “good coffee” is an oxymoron of the highest order in my vocabulary.

Over the past several years, I’ve approached coffee with something of an open mind. During holiday get-togethers, I make it a point to have one cup of coffee. So that’s like, three or four cups a year. (three or four too many, if you ask me.) I continue with this experiment to give my family members a chance to chuckle as they watch me choke down the “tasty” beverage, while affording myself the opportunity to ask, “Whyyy do you people drink this stuff?”

How can a beverage with such a pleasing aroma during the brewing stage produce such a disgusting end result?

But now, I’ve got the most famous coffee shop just a short drive away, and I’m sure I’ll do some very thorough research into its lineup of beverages. While I’ll never approach the status of being a “regular” in their ordering lines, I’ve got to at least go exploring. Because they don’t serve just hot, liquid dirt. Oh, no.

We’ve all seen “Friends,” right? There’s the big oversized latté mug, and the tiny espresso mug and the extra-tall mug for…extra foam, or whatever. And Starbucks has its Frappucinos and its espressos, hot or iced, and its seasonal lattés of eggnog and gingerbread.

I get to learn which of their drinks have steamed milk and which have foamed milk, and some will have a double shot of this and…oh, boy, I’m in for an education, to be sure.

For the most part, I’m willing to try anything when it comes to food and drink, so I have no problem admitting that there will undoubtedly be something on their menu that I like. But it’ll have to be a pretty heavily flavored something, because the chances that you’ll hear me walking out of there with a regular coffee, uttering the phrase, “Mmm, that’s good coffee,” are about as good as ever hearing me say, “My, that Britney Spears is one smart girl.”

On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day I managed to have two cups of coffee in two days, probably a personal best for me. And while those coffees earned high praise from the regular coffee drinkers around the table, I still didn't get it. And I never will.

Easter's the next time I'll force myself to choke down a cup of coffee, and then I'm good through the spring and summer until Thanksgiving again. Lucky me.

Gimme a Diet Dew, a Diet 7-Up, a cup of tea (iced or otherwise) or just plain ol' H20 any day, thankyouverymuch.

“Fear is when you’re stuck in traffic

and you realize that you’ve had

two cups of coffee and a bran muffin.”
—John Mendoza

What An Honor

I feel so...important.

Never has such an honor been bestowed upon me, so I'm not sure what the proper etiquette is here. (except to look up the word "etiquette" and make sure I spell it correctly, with only one double-t pair, and not two.)

I've been named TIME Magazine's Person of the Year. I don't know what to say.

All of you reading this should start practicing your shocked-and-awed expressions as well, because you've been given the same award.

Yes, you. And you.
And you and you.
And you, too.

The idea behind naming
several hundred million
people as the
"person" of the year
is to give us all credit
for changing and
controlling and manipulating
the Information Age.

Through blogs and
YouTube and MySpace
and breaking news
video clips. And more.

Joe and Josephine Average are being heralded as the ones that can make important news travel fast. And I don't disagree with that.

But out of more than 800 readers who wrote in to voice their opinions after the issue was published, nearly half of them called it a cop-out. And I don't disagree with that, either.

While it's a remarkable thing that's happening to Web 2.0, as it's being coined, surely there could have been an individual more deserving than bloggers or amateur videographers. Were you to press me for a specific example or two, I'd ashamedly have a blank expression. (Britney Spears, perhaps? Oh, wait. She's up for Mother of the Year. Sorry...got those two confused for a minute.)

My point is, in the past it's been given to presidents or queens or popes. The entire list, dating back to its inception in 1927, can be found here. Do I deserve to be among them simply because I ramble on a blog? Or because I read a handful of them regularly?

This isn't the first year that TIME has chosen a group rather than an individual. Past winners have also been Hungarian Freedom Fighters, U.S. scientists, Middle-Americans, and American Women, to name a few.

In 1982, the computer was the first object to be named Person of the Year.

And here we are a quarter century later, taking that object, coupled with Al Gore's magnificent invention, and winning awards ourselves.

I would stand up and take a bow, but it just doesn't feel right.

A couple dozen respondents took this honor in the spirit it was intended, and jokingly said they were going to put it on their résumé. (at least...I hope they were joking.)

Seeing as how TIME got 800 responses to its selection, and how I've got about 800 readers...OK, eight. (or two.)...it'd be fun to hear from all (both) of you on this topic. Do you think it was a good choice? Or a cop-out? And if not you.........then who? Who else deserved recognition in 2006?

I expect my opinion to be in the minority on this one. We'll see.

— • — • —

Side note: The actual cover of the magazine didn't have the word "You." printed on the monitor's screen, but instead had a piece of reflective Mylar in its place, so that when you looked at the magazine, you saw...you. Thing is, that Mylar stuff usually has a few wrinkles and flaws, and when I look at the cover I see what amounts to be a flesh-colored traffic cone shape with eyeglasses and a two-day scruff.

The people at TIME found a Mylar supplier in Minnesota and made them sign a confidentiality agreement before going ahead with the order, so as not to leak who the Person of the Year would be until the magazine was in the mail or on newsstands. Then they placed an order for 6,965,000 pieces of Mylar.

That's a lot of yous.

"It's been my policy to view the Internet
not as an "information highway," but as
an electronic asylum filled with
babbling loonies."
—Mike Royko

"I imagine most stuff

on the information highway

is just roadkill anyway."

—John Updike

To Whom Me It May Concern

An Open Letter

To: Mr. William Clay Ford, Sr.
Owner, Detroit Lions

From: A longtime, long-suffering "fan"



What..the..fuck.........are you thinking?

I mean, uhh...
Um.

Dear Sir:

It has come to my attention that you plan to keep Matt Millen as your president for yet another year of leading your football team deeper and deeper beneath the ground floor of the NFL's elite laughable franchises. The Lions aren't even in the basement these days, they're fast approaching the earth's inner core.

The Arizona Cardinals had two more wins than your team did this year, Mr. Ford, including a head-to-head victory. The Cleveland Browns even bested your record by one game. Does any of this make any sense to you, or don't you pay very close attention to the National Football League? You know, being a team owner and all.

The only thing that kept the Lions from having the worst record in the league this year was that season-ending, 39-point-scoring victory over the Dallas Cowboys in Big D, against Bill Parcells, a certain Hall of Famer and my favorite coach in the NFL. Congratulations, Mr. Ford. Instead of providing motivation and inspiration heading into the offseason, all that victory did was hand the very first pick in April's NFL draft over to the Oakland Raiders. Even when you win...you lose. I hope you weren't too high on Brady Quinn, because he probably won't be available when it's your team president's turn to botch his selection at No. 2. (Brady Quinn is a quarterback, by the way, Mr. Ford. For Notre Dame. In case you were too busy dreaming up new features for your Ford Focus to concern yourself with up-and-coming players that might help your football team.)

Millen has said that he won't quit.

"If it's not working, you just keep on working at it until you get the freaking thing done. And that's just what you do. You don't ever quit."

That's how he put it. Those words instill such confidence in me, I'm already quivering with anticipation for next season. Oh boy, I can't wait.

Look at him smiling over there, Mr. Ford. Do you know why he's smiling? Because you're paying him millions of dollars a year, that's why. And positive results are apparently not a condition of him keeping his job. Instead of kicking him to the curb, you're giving him contract extensions.

What does a guy have to do to get fired from a management position in one of your companies? Sell your automotive trade secrets to the people at Kia?

If you're a shrewd businessman, Mr. Ford, and are looking for a way to save a couple/few million, fire Millen and hire me. I'll work for one or two million, and while I can't promise better results, I can most assuredly promise not to do worse. Nobody...can do worse.

At least the offseason is here (you do know what an "offseason" is, don't you, Mr. Ford? it's the only season in which you can't lose any games) and I can bur...uhh, I mean...pack away my Lions gear until next year.

Sincerely,
A Colts fan

"Mr. Ford and I, we talk a bunch.
We were talking all season long.
It never even got to anything
other than just keep on
doing what we're doing."
—Matt Millen

Same-ol', Same-ol'.

So I pulled up this screen tonight, thinking I should say something memorable and profound to start the brand new year, and...

...
...

nothing.

(looks like the new year is gonna be just like the old year. sorry, folks.)

I'd rattle off my long list of New Year's resolutions here, but I kinda sorta don't have any. (kinda sorta.) Because the word "resolution" has come to mean "an objective one sets that will be abandoned in 48 hours, max." I might have a few ideas of how to make '07 better, but those will be kept, for the most part, to myself. Lest I stray from my short list, I don't want an entire avalanche of people bearing down on me. That kind of abuse is reserved for the select few.

The word "profound" up there always takes me back to a blip on a talk show, when Ashley Judd was on with...Jay Leno, I think it was. I don't even remember the context of the conversation, but she was talking about words and language, and said that someday she hoped to "utter some great profundity."

I just stared at the screen and thought to myself, "Let me get this straight. You're smokin' hot, you're a self-professed language dork and you freely toss around phrases like, 'utter some great profundity'??"

I think I even said, "Marry me." out loud in the direction of my television set.

She didn't hear me.

I've never forgotten that phrase, or where I first heard it.

So there you go. You might have stopped in for a big bloggorific welcome to the brand new year. But instead you get an Ashley Judd story. (and a great profundity uttered by Benjamin Franklin.)

Happy New Year.

"Be at war with your vices,

at peace with your neighbors,

and let every new year

find you a better man."

—Benjamin Franklin

...And To All, A Good Night.

Ho, Ho, Heyyy…where did it all go?

All those weeks of hype, and in the blink of an eye, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are in the past, and we’re staring down the barrel of a brand new year. With it all behind us, I thought I’d use this space to share a few post-holiday thoughts that stuck with me last weekend.

• Somehow, big crowds and long lines and holiday chaos at the malls are a lot easier to handle the day before Christmas Eve than they are during the first few weeks of December. You’d think it wouldn’t be so, but as I was out for several hours of last-minute shopping on December 23 this year (a late date even by my standards!), I wasn’t nearly as frustrated with the hustle and bustle as I thought I might have been.

• If your buddies who are home for a few days for the holidays call you to go out, and you still have gifts to wrap and other things on your “to do” list, go out anyway. They’re your buddies. And if a couple hours turns into, oh, maybe four and a half…don’t worry. Things have a way of working themselves out.

• While the “Special XMAS” station I mentioned in my last entry can be a great mood lifter during the weeks leading up to Christmas, it seems only fitting on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to switch the dial to the “Classical Christmas” station one notch to the left that features big-production symphonies and choirs and traditional hymns in Latin and German and other ethereal carols. Just…because.

• Not having snow in the air—or on the ground—for Christmas is like not having chips and dip at a Super Bowl party. Something’s missing.

• If a beverage bills itself as a “Christmas Lager” on the label, and features honey and orange and spices in its ingredients, it might be entirely possible that it’ll end up getting tasted and then poured down the drain. Merry Christmas and all, but please leave the nutmeg and cinnamon out of my beer.

• “Silent Night,” sung on Christmas Eve…doesn’t matter if it’s by the Mormon Tabernacle or your local church choir…is as moving a song as has ever been written.

• If your 8-year-old niece asks you on Christmas Day what Santa brought you, after she'd been with you on Christmas Eve and seen the gifts you got during the family gift exchange, you'd better be a quick enough thinker to come up with a believable answer. (I'm not sure that I was. At first, I told her that I was naughty and that Santa didn't bring me anything. But I said it with a grin. So then I changed my answer and told her he brought me some books, because Santa knows how much I love books, and quickly shifted the topic to something else. I think I passed, but I've gotta work on my creativity.)

One big New Year’s Eve bash left for whomever wishes to ring in the new year in that fashion, and before you know it, the 2006 holiday season will be a memory and we’ll be grumbling for the snow to melt and why is it so cold and when is spring gonna get here and why won’t my car start?

Time. Marches. On.

“Next to a circus there ain’t

nothing that packs up and

tears out any quicker than

the Christmas spirit.”
—Frank McKinney Hubbard

No More Humbuggery

Let the holly-jollyness commence!
I believe I've just begun
the countdown to
full festive mode.

I'm the first to admit that it takes me longer than most people to find the "spirit" of Christmas. When I see the first signs of it popping up in stores shortly after Halloween, I block it out completely. And if too many people try to smother the great holiday that is Thanksgiving with too much talk of the big day that's "only" a month away, I tightly pack spoonfuls of stuffing into my ears and refuse to listen.
(Note: Mashed potatoes work equally as well.)

Regardless of the title of this entry, or the tone of its first couple paragraphs, my middle name is not Ebenezer. I promise you that. I'm a big fan of Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, as well. I just can't maintain the level of hype that some folks do for so many days prior, whistling carols as I work, or trying to sing like Burl Ives.

Around mid-December each year, though, there are a couple indicators that give me a jolt and tell me it's time to start Ho! Ho! Ho!ing.

The first has been occurring for more than a decade now, and it never fails to put me in the right mindset. The newspaper at which I work publishes a Children's Album each Christmas, as I'm sure many newspapers do. The middle school kids submit drawings, and the elementary school kids write stories and poems and letters to Santa and tell why they like Christmas and winter and......whether I'm typesetting some of their handwritten pages or formatting them to fit in the pages of our newspaper, it's impossible to not be inspired by some of the creativity contained within.

We do our best to leave as many of their "creative" spellings unchanged, so the reader gets to see what we see in the original. And while many of the themes are recurring...kids like to play in the snow and get cold so they can go inside for hot cocoa, or boys like to throw snowballs at their sisters, or boys like to go ice fishing with their dads and grandpas and uncles (who sure can drink a lot of beer!)...there's an originality to each kid's writing.

One girl wrote about how the snow sounds when it's falling. Didn't think that was possible, did you? Listen next time it snows, and if you hear, "Ch, ch, ch," then her writing is true. (If you just think of Jason from the "Friday the 13th" movies, then you're not revealing enough of your inner child. Dig deeper!)

Out here in these rural parts, if Santa's reindeer get a little touch of frostbite on those extra-cold nights, do you know how Santa finishes his rounds? You got it...he lands in a farmer's field and borrows some cows.

In one story, a girl writes about how everything was going wrong in the days leading up to Christmas, and one of the elves went to Santa and said (and I quote), "...our wood got broke." Luckily, things all worked out in the end. Whew!

In this year's issue, one girl was writing about Christmas candy and mentioned a bag of "likalice." I'll never eat another Twizzler the same way.

And my favorite of the year (here comes my bias) is the boy that wants a Barry Sanders jersey for Christmas. This kid was probably only a handful of years old when Barry left the league, and yet he's this boy's idol because he was so great, and so humble. And because he played for Detroit. I can relate.

— • — • —

The other outlet that gives me a Christmas boost is relatively new, as I stumbled onto it just last year. I have XM Radio in my car, and during the holiday season they play Christmas carols on several of their stations. One in particular, called Special XMAS, caught my ear last year.

This station specializes in some of the "alternative" Christmas carols, if you will. Even more obscure than, "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer." For instance, just tonight I heard an AC/DC impersonator doing his rendition of "Jingle Hells Bells."

The other night, I heard the audio of Cartman singing, "O Holy Night," in Mr. Garrison's class, and every time he screwed up or forgot the lyrics, Kyle got to zap him with a cattle prod.

I've heard an ode to regifting, called, "Didn't I Get This Last Year?" (a la "Do You Hear What I Hear?") I also heard a singer named Richard Cheese (heh.) and his leisure suit-wearing band, Lounge Against The Machine, do a jazzed up version of "Christmastime is Here," made famous by Charles Schultz and his Peanuts (as he put it).

My favorite example, though, comes from last year, when I first heard "Santa Lost a Ho! This Year at Christmas." I wish I could find an audio link to it so you could hear it for yourselves, but the lyrics in the chorus go something like this:

"He used to go Ho! Ho! Ho!
Now he goes Ho! Ho!.....Oh-Oh!
Where'd the other Ho! go? Don't know!!"

(I know, I know. Simple things for simple minds.)

— • — • —

I'm going to spend some holiday family time at my sister's this weekend, and you can bet that there will be nary a single "Humbug" in my vocabulary, and my sense of humor will be set firmly in place.

However. Now that I've finally reached the preferred state of mind for this grand season of yuletide, would somebody pleeaase tell me what I can get my mom for Christmas?

"Never worry about the size
of your Christmas tree.
In the eyes of children,
they are all 30 feet tall."
—Larry Wilde

Ma Nature Says Hello...

It was all just an illusion, you know. The November without a jacket, save for a couple days. The 50s on Thanksgiving Day. You knew it had to come eventually. This is Wisconsin, after all. And on Dec. 1, it came.

It's not as if we got dumped with three or four feet of snow, but there were an awful lot of big flakes flying around in the a.m. hours, and things got a whole lot whiter before it was over. Doesn't look like it's gonna go away, either. Winter is here.

I've been through 30-plus of these seasons, closing in on 40 of 'em, actually. And while I don't make it a habit to bitch about winter too much, I don't like it. I don't own a snowmobile, and I don't ski. The occasional snowball fight can still be fun. But what I do mostly in winter is...wait. For spring. And most recently, I curse the shitty tires that came on the car I got last September. New tires...plenty of tread. Just, horrible in the snow! (a Kumho endorsement, I'll never get.) I've got a buddy that owns a Goodyear dealership, and if I'm going to stay on the roads this winter, I might have to pay him a visit.

There is one good thing about winter, however. Relatively minor on one hand, but amazingly grand in scale if you look at it through the right eyes.

Winter is the season for Orion. Visible in the northern hemisphere from November to April, it's one of the most well-known constellations in the sky. It's been mentioned in literature and pop culture and music, from Homer and Milton and Tennyson and Frost, to Jimmy Buffett and Metallica and Prince and Springsteen and Jethro Tull.

Known as The Hunter, many references have been made to Orion's belt and sword, and other constellations surrounding him make up his two hunting dogs, Canis Major and Canis Minor, and his prey, such as Taurus the Bull. According to one story in Greek mythology, Orion was killed by the poisonous sting of the scorpion, Scorpio. The two constellations are positioned so that Orion (fall and winter) and Scorpio (spring and summer) do not appear in the sky together.

I'll never claim to be the biggest astronomy scholar on the planet, and I don't own my own Hubble, but I never...never...miss an opportunity to stare up at the sky in winter and find Orion. I talk to him. And when spring comes, I bid him adieu for another couple seasons.

It would make for a great personal ad, don't you think?

(Lonely, slightly crazy SWM into star-gazing at heavenly bodies, Greek mythology, talking to himself, reading the classics like "Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," shooting good darts and playing bad poker...seeks SF with same interests. Heavenly body preferred, but not required. Scorpios need not apply.)

I can see all the soulmates lining up already.

"You know Orion always

comes up sideways.

Throwing a leg up over

our fence of mountains."

—Robert Frost in "The Star-Splitter"