A Penny Here, A Nickel There...

Not that I found three-dollar-and-seventy-one-cent gasoline such a big thrill that I had to rush right out and start snapping photos of signs, but...

...I guess I'll take $3.71 over $3.99 or $4.07 any day.

Word on the street is that we're heading down to about the $3.50 mark. Yay. Still pretty outrageous, if you ask me.

I don't usually pay very close attention to gas prices. I don't know who's got it a couple cents cheaper than whom, or how much it was last week compared to today. But, as we all know, it's as big a topic of conversation as which team Brett Favre may or may not be playing for this season in the NFL. (and if you don't live in this state, be grateful...because as much as you're hearing about it, we're being bombarded one hundred times over.)

I've always lived by the rule that when my gas tank is empty...or close...I stop and put in some gas. (Feel free to use this method of operation for yourself. It seems to work well.) I figure that gas prices are out of my control, so...why waste what limited brain resources I have remembering who's got it the cheapest?

Four-dollar gasoline, however, makes people sit up and take notice. Four...bucks!

It hasn't deterred me from driving where I want to drive, or forced me to buy a moped to travel (slowly) across the state, or prompted me to write a letter to George W. Bush telling him what an idiot he is and what a terrible job he's doing. (who needs high gas prices to do that, anyway?)

No, what caused me to stop and take a photo of a gas station sign tonight was a regular feature that we run in our newspaper, highlighting events and news stories from 10 years ago, 25 years ago and 45 years ago.

Anyone care to guess what the average price was for a gallon of gasoline across the state of Wisconsin 10 years ago this week? (make your guesses quickly...or read more slowly...because the answer's coming up in the next paragraph or two.)

Let's see...that was 10 years ago, and Bush has been The Decider Guy for eight of those 10 years. Hmm...maybe he is to blame! Because we all know that if Al Gore had been president for the last eight years, all of our vehicles would run on banana peels and tap water by now. And they'd fly, too!

Ten years ago, one gallon of gasoline across the state of Wisconsin cost $1.14.

Makes that sign up there still look pretty sickening, doesn't it?

"The way things are going, we are not too far
from the day when it will take an hour's labor
just to pay for the gasoline to get to the job."
—Sherwood Boehlert

Om Mani Padme Hum: Part II

Not that I’m trying to turn this into Gregg's Little Spiritual Corner of the Web, but if Eckhart Tolle was deserving of a blog post a couple entries ago, then I’m pretty sure this next guy warrants a few hundred words as well.

I spent more than an hour with His Holiness the Dalai Lama on Saturday.

(If the first thought that pops into your head when you read that is, “Big hitter, the Lama,” don’t be ashamed. My brain works that way, too.)

Not exactly one-on-one time, mind you. The Tibetan spiritual leader was in Madison and gave a public talk at the Alliant Energy Center Coliseum, so I had to split time with about 7,000 of my closest friends.

I first heard about his visit on Friday morning, and had a ticket by the lunch hour. He had also been in Madison in the spring of 2007, but that event was sold out.

I’ve spent my share of time in coliseums and amphitheaters and other buildings where sizable crowds gather, listening to singers belt out a lyric or musicians strum guitar chords.

This…was a totally different dynamic.

The Dalai Lama walked out slowly and the crowd stood and began sort of a low, courteous applause. When he got to his high-back chair in the middle of a sparsely decorated stage, he made a motion with his arms for everyone to sit...but instead, the applause immediately grew much louder and more enthusiastic.

The words of Gov. Jim Doyle’s introduction, who mentioned that the Dalai Lama often refers to himself as “just a simple Buddhist monk,” were illustrated when the Dalai Lama began by saying that some come to see him because they think he has great religious power or spiritual power or healing power...but in fact, he says, he has none of those powers.

He spoke..very..deliberately..at times. With many..short...pauses..between his words. And then...sometimes as he was making a point, his voice would raise up an octave or two, and he would stay that high for a dozen words before coming back down, and taking...a few..more...pauses..while he spoke.

A favorite phrase, noticeably overused during his speech, was, “...so therefore...”

Often difficult to understand, partly because of his accent and his understated speaking style, and partly because I was in the nosebleed of all nosebleed seats in the coliseum, the Dalai Lama’s message was one that almost all of us have heard before: compassion, affection, humility, kindness to other people.

He stressed that we cannot achieve peace in the outer world until there is peace within each of us. “Frustration leads to anger, and anger leads to violence,” he said.

While I didn’t conduct a straw poll of those around me, I’d imagine that many in the crowd were there, sure, to hear the words he had to share with the audience. But also, simply to be in his presence.

After he spoke for about 35 minutes, he spent another 35 minutes answering audience questions, which were pre-written on cards and delivered by his aide who was on stage with him throughout the speech.

The questions ranged from a middle-aged widow’s request for advice on how to overcome her deep sadness and depression at the recent loss of her husband, to the Dalai Lama’s opinion on the Chinese government, to the source of his strength.

“Good sleep, and good food,” the Dalai Lama said with a laugh in answer to the last question.

Big hitter, the Lama.

“Whether one believes in a religion or not,
and whether one believes in rebirth or not,
there isn’t anyone who doesn’t appreciate
kindness and compassion.”
—Dalai Lama

A Bogey-Free Round...With A Little Help

Last Sunday I played in my first-ever "full-sized" golf scramble.

I've golfed in one other scramble, a couple years ago, but that was on a par-3 course, so I really didn't count that.

Now I can say I've played on a big boy's course. And the results, while they could have been a shot or two better, made me hungry to go back out and give it another try.

It was the cause that got me to agree to the scramble in the first place, as these days I'm not getting out on the course nearly as much as I used to. Our local autism chapter sponsored the tournament, and my buddy's son is autistic. He and his wife were two of the organizers of the event, so it made sense that three-quarters of our four-man dart team should go hack it up on the course for a day.

My other buddy's father-in-law rounded out our foursome, and I don't think any of us had big expectations for the day, except to hit a couple/few shots that we weren't embarrassed to call our own, and enjoy a couple cold beverages on a gorgeous July day. None of us are tremendously hideous golfers, but none of us are Tiger Woods, either.

I got pretty excited for the whole event, cleaning up my clubs the night before, and digging through every pocket of my golf bag. I didn't count 'em all...but I'm pretty sure I found about a hundred golf balls in there. (several of which will have to be deposited, driver-style, into the lake off the dock next time I go up nort.)

I cleaned up my golf shoes that I haven't worn in three or more years, and I reached high on a shelf in my closet and pulled out a couple new sleeves of my favorite golf ball...the Molitor Scary Long, by Spalding.

Now, it's not my favorite because it's a two- or three-piece ball, or it's got a balata cover or whatever other technical reason you can dream up for liking a golf ball. Nope. I like this ball because it's....."Scary Long!" (says so right there on the ball.) And because when they were available, they were nine bucks for fifteen balls.

When we used to golf a couple times a week, my buddies probably got so tired of hearing me say, "Scary lonnngg!" a dozen times each round. And rather than pronounce it "Molitor" like the former baseball player Paul Molitor...I'd always say "Moli-TOR." Don't ask me why. But I did it again on Sunday. Many times over. And I had a blast.

The tournament was held at The National Course at Fox Hills, a course I knew very well once upon a time, because I had a job there my first summer out of high school...which was the summer it opened.

I shoveled more than my share of shovels full of limestone onto the cart paths (which have since been replaced by asphalt...all my hard work, paved over!) and woke up at ungodly hours of the morning to mow the greens. Employees had free golfing privileges, and I bet I can count on three fingers the number of times I golfed that summer. (I was still a tennis player then...not a golfer. Not that I'm a golfer now, either, but...)

So anyway...we get to our first tee (which was the 10th), and no one wants to be the one to duff the first shot, so I take it upon myself to tee up a Moli-TOR, and send one out there far enough to be good, and in the short grass.

My tournament's officially a success. I can pack it in...let's go home.

The other guys aren't any better on their drives, so we use my shot in the fairway, and I send another shot up near the green, a little to the left, but pin high. That one's playable, too. We chip it on and put it in the hole for a par. Smooth start.

Our second hole is a par-3 over water, and the prize for a hole-in-one is a new car. I send a nice easy 5-wood (shut up) through the air and it lands on the green...but it's about 25 feet from the hole. (I like my car, anyway.) Two putts and we're in for another par.

Just as I start to think that this game is pretty easy, I step up to the next tee and my Scary Long turns into a Scary HIGH. I'm pretty sure I knocked down a seagull with that ball, and it landed maybe ten yards in front of the women's tee. "I should have gone home after my first drive," I mumble to myself.

The rest of our round was filled with different guys stepping up at different times, and coming through with shots that kept us in it. We might not have done anything fancy, but we did OK. A couple downhill 10-footers for birdies, and sixteen pars, and we found the clubhouse at 2-under. (I would add here that I made one of those birdie putts, but that might sound like bragging. So I'll leave that part out.)

We had plenty of decent looks at birdie putts during our round, from eight, ten, twelve feet away. My buddy's father-in-law's mantra was, "Never leave a birdie putt short." And time and time...and time...again, we left 'em short. I was the biggest culprit. My putter and my brain just didn't know how to work together. I hit twelve-foot putts nine feet, and I hit thirty-foot putts twenty-two feet. And I got a little frustrated.

But then I recalled how many times I've golfed in the past three years (like...fewer than ten), and I reached for my beer and looked forward to teeing off on the next hole.

Realistically, we had a good chance at finishing around 5-under. And that would have been a good number. Because when we went in for the post-golf dinner and raffle and awards ceremony, we learned that the winning score was.........3-under.

That speaks more to the fact that the 16 teams in the field were pretty average golfers than it does to the fact that we were good enough to finish only one stroke out of first place. I would guess that in a competitive scramble, a winning score would be closer to 10-under, but I can't say for sure.

It still would have been sweet to win it, though. Fifty bucks a man for placing first...and an evening of "What ifs" and "If onlys" for the runners-up.

I also bought forty bucks worth of raffle tickets.
And guess what I won there.

Yeah.

It was for a good cause...
...and I can't wait to tee off next year.

"Golf is a game whose aim is to hit
a very small ball into an even smaller hole,
with weapons singularly ill-designed
for the purpose."
—Winston Churchill

Om Mani Padme Hum

Curiosity got the best of me tonight, and led me to a workshop involving some ideas that have always intrigued me, but about which I know very little.

Our local art museum is sponsoring three sessions that introduce Qigong practice, silent meditation, and the spiritual teachings of Eckhart Tolle.

I was most interested in viewing the DVD interview with Tolle, after hearing about him and his book, A New Earth, from my sister. I skimmed through her copy and added it to my list of possible reads, but then found out that he wrote a book before that one that was also a huge success, called The Power of Now.

About a month ago I purchased that one, but hadn't had the urge to go too far past the first few pages, until now. I think it's vaulted to the top of my reading list. Whether I find the reading as interesting as I found his interview is yet to be determined.

The workshop tonight began with a meditation expert leading the group through various Qigong exercises. (for those of you who don't click the link, it's pronounced chi-KUNG.) I'd never heard of it before, but it seems to be a close relative of Tai Chi.

After 15 minutes of Qigong, we sat for 15 minutes of silent meditation and were advised, as in most forms of meditation, to concentrate on following our breathing. (did I mention I was really there for the hour-long Tolle interview?)

When I was considering whether or not to attend tonight, I wondered what kind of crowd a workshop like this might draw, and what the demographic would be. There were more than 40 people, most of them women at least 15 to 30 years older than me, but there were two other guys there, also, and a couple women in their 30s.

Not that I exactly had visions of telling my children years from now, "Yeah, Junior, your mom and I met one night while we were both learning to pronounce chi-KUNG." It wasn't what I would call a singles hot spot, is what I'm getting at.

But I digress.

I don't scoff at meditation and practices like Tai Chi and Qigong, but not being an avid practitioner, I couldn't help but lose focus a bit and look around the room to see how others were doing. Some were experienced at Qigong and knew the moves and their meanings, while others were just as green as I was.

Turns out I wasn't the only one paying attention to my neighbor. During the Qigong exercises, we were all standing and spread out a bit, but for the meditation and the interview, we were seated in chairs, and while the DVD was being set up, a friendly elderly lady next to me introduced herself and asked if I'd ever done Qigong before. When I told her no, she replied, "Well, you looked like you were doing very well to me."

So I guess I was being checked out a little bit, and admired for my, um, moves.

The Tolle interview was worth the price of admission. While he doesn't have the most dynamic personality, the substance of his answers held everyone's attention. (Except the nice little old lady next to me, who nodded off about a dozen times.)

Tolle went through many rough times growing up, dropping out of school at a very early age, educating himself between the ages of 13 to 19, then later passing the necessary exams that allowed him to go to university in London.

He suffered from anxiety, dealt with several bouts of depression, and one night when he was 29, he woke up in the middle of the night and said, "I can't live with myself any longer."

Examining this sentence led him to wonder if he was one, or two. Are the "I" and the "self" different? They must be if the "self" is someone that the "I" cannot live with. And he thought, "Maybe only one of them is real."

This is what started his transformation, and he awoke the next morning in a state of peace, recognizing his surroundings for the first time as new and fresh. And so began his teachings.

I have yet to delve more deeply into the book, but in his interview, he also stated that people are so caught up with always pushing toward the next moment and the next...whether that be an hour from now or tomorrow or next week...that they forget to live in this moment.

I'm not yet ready to say that I've found my new spiritual path...but a lot of what he says makes pretty good sense. And I think I'll go back next month for session No. 2.

Now that I know how to pronounce "Qigong."

So yeah.
I spent seven bucks to meditate in public tonight.
How did you spend your Wednesday night, hmm?

"Be at least as interested in what goes on
inside you as what happens outside.
If you get the inside right, the outside
will fall into place."
—Eckhart Tolle

Walking The Manitowoc PierWith A Camera 'Round My Neck

"If a man knows not what harbor he seeks,
any wind is the right wind."
—Seneca

Quotable

This sorta qualifies as a squib, and I haven't pulled out the graphic in months. So there ya go.

Mark Cuban had a great quote on his blog several days ago, that he called his new favorite saying. I haven't been able to find out to whom it's attributed...but when a quote's good, it doesn't matter who said it, right?

"Today is the youngest you will ever be. Act like it."

"It is better to be quotable
than to be honest."
—Tom Stoppard

Next...Please.

I've heard all the horror stories about the DMV...the five-hour waits, the surly customer service reps, the road test administrators who flunk you before you even pull out of the parking lot.

But I've never had a bad experience with the DMV.

I passed my driving test on the first try, and if I remember correctly, after my test the instructor told my parents that I was a very good driver. If I don't remember it correctly, I'm going to ask my parents to corroborate my story so that it at least sounds like I'm a very good driver. Which...I am.

This morning I went to get my driver's license renewed, and as soon as I walked in, I knew that this was the day all of my good luck with the DMV would come to a screeching halt. (by the way...if you're forced to come to a screeching halt while taking your road test, I'm betting you'll almost certainly fail.)

I barely got in the door and found myself at the end of a line snaking around a table and all the way to the back of the room. There were three customer service guys manning their battle stations, and all of them were busily tending to the needs of Wisconsin drivers.

I counted my way back and found that I was the thirteenth person in line. I considered calling my boss to tell him that the hour I thought I'd be gone might be extended a bit, and that he shouldn't expect me back until the middle of next week.

The lady in front of me was doing everything in her power to support the stereotype of the month-long wait at the DMV by complaining to her friends about the hours and hours *gasp!* she waited in line other times at the office in the next county.

The line inched ahead a little bit...and then a little bit more, and before long I was more than halfway up to the front of the line. A couple more minutes and I was in the on-deck circle. Smooth sailing.

When one of the customer service guys became available, I'm certain I heard him say, "I can help who's next, please."

Please?? Did he say...please? I thought these guys were supposed to just glare at you, drumming their fingertips on the desktop until you finally realized in your great stupidity that yes, YOU, were next, and you better get your ass over there or they'll send you back to the end of the line.

But no. He said please.

Two minutes, a lame eye test and thirty-four dollars later, I was signing my name and standing on the tiny rectangular mat in front of the backdrop to get my pic taken.

And about five minutes after that, as he handed me my new license, he said, "Gregg...here you go, buddy. Have a good day."

Buddy? He said buddy......and please?

I love the DMV!!

"Thanks. You have a good day, too," I replied.

"Thaaank you!!" he said.

Couldn't have asked for a nicer guy.

Now...about that picture. Definitely the one blemish on my DMV experience. It's a good thing the only people who will see it are the police ociffer who writes me a ticket for the one (or two) speeding tickets I will inevitably get in the next eight years before I have another crack at a better photo...and all the swell people in liquor stores and nightclubs who look at me and think to themselves, "Hmm...he might not be 21 just yet. I better check and make sure."

I'm always more than happy to show them that I was born only a couple years after Moses. And for making me feel young again, their prize is getting to see firsthand that I take a really shitty driver's license photo.

That's a trade-off I can live with.

"I close my eyes while driving
and just sing along. I always
open them again in time."
—Tyra Banks

A Seat With A View

I need to begin this post by thanking Carolyn Lanza and Richard Greisch, and I don't even have a clue who they are. But they helped make my Saturday morning a bit more pleasant.

I had some work done on my car over the weekend...a list of items slightly longer than a 20-minute oil change. (remember those tires I said I was going to buy? consider the economy stimulated.)

So rather than pass the time in the waiting area flipping through a stack of magazines or watching TV, or shopping on the north side of Manitowoc (is there any shopping left on the north side of Manitowoc??), I took a stroll up to Mariner's Trail along Lake Michigan, walked a couple hundred yards up the trail and found a bench with a sign that read, "Bench donated by Carolyn Lanza and Richard Greisch."

I sat down on the bench and stared out at the lake, a couple tiny sailboats dotting the murky brown water, thin strips of blue slicing through to give hope for a more attractive great lake in the coming summer months.

Bikers and runners and walkers made their way along the trail a few feet behind me, out to soak in much of the same view I was getting while I waited for my worn Kumhos to be replaced with Goodyear triple-treads.

A nun rode past on what looked to be an older style three- or five-speed bicycle, with sidebags on either side of her rear tire. She had a helmet tightly strapped to her head, her habit beneath it, flowing down her back. And she also wore a neon orange mesh vest like you see guys wear when they work on road crews.

I wish I would have had my camera out, because it would've made a great photo. I wanted to run after her and ask her how often she comes out to enjoy the trail...but I'm kinda slow, kinda fat and kinda old. And she was on a bike, you know. So I conserved my energy and recorded the image in my mental filing drawer instead.

An older couple walked on the beach along the water's edge with their dog that was carrying what looked to be an old rag doll in its mouth.

A short time later, another woman came walking with her dog. This dog had a ball that it couldn't seem to keep in its mouth, or maybe it just didn't want to, as it was more concerned with digging its front paws in the sand or splashing in the water than playing fetch.

One woman came by carrying two pieces of driftwood that she picked up along the beach. I didn't know her, and my bench was too far away from the water's edge for me to call down and ask, but...I'm assuming she had a collection, and those were her two latest additions.

I sat and read a few chapters from Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts On Faith, and when I looked up to concentrate on the lake, I was able to drown out the noise from the traffic on the busy road behind me, and hear only the waves lapping against the shore.

This made me feel a little more Zen than I normally do.

Once when I looked up from my book, I noticed a dot on the horizon, and knew it was much bigger than a sailboat. And soon I got to witness the familiar sight of the Badger carferry moving tortoise-like toward the finish line of the Manitowoc port on its journey from Ludington, Michigan.

After absorbing all the sights and sounds and spending equal amounts of time reading and people-watching, I grabbed a notebook and a pen, and wrote this blog entry, grateful to Carolyn and Richard for providing me with such a spectacular front-row seat.

A more enriching way to spend a couple hours than in an auto garage's waiting area, don't you think?

I should have my tires replaced a couple times a month.

"I'm an old-fashioned guy...
I want to be an old man
with a beer belly sitting on
a porch, looking at a lake
or something."
—Johnny Depp

For Wish No. 2, I'd Like...

Did you see that?

At the end of my last post, I asked for sun and 70...and today, it was sunny and in the 70s!

I think after laying dormant for so long, my blog has developed magical wish-granting powers. How cool is that??

Let's give it another whirl, shall we?


Please send meeeeeee...

.........a suitcase filled with hundred-dollar bills, delivered to my doorstep by Vanessa Marcil.


(I think I just heard my blog chuckling at me.)

"Destiny has two ways of crushing us—
by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them."
—Henri Frederic Amiel

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

...the gray skies are boooooring. (and scary, too.)

If there was a way to search through all of the Wisconsin bloggers in the blogiverse, I bet 99 percent of them blogged in the last couple days about the weather.

Lame topic, you say?

But there was nothing lame about the rain that came down on Saturday. When the news stories report that cars were floating away in intersections, and people were swimming to safety...it's time to sit up and take notice.

Seven Wisconsin counties reported tornadoes. In the streets, 200-pound manhole covers were flipped like pennies from the water pressure in the storm sewers below. (I didn't write that...I read it in this story. But isn't that great imagery?)

We had serious...serious...water in our state over the weekend. I was down in the Milwaukee area to spend some time with my sister and her family, and we watched the day change from blue skies to storm clouds to sheets of rain. When the storm sirens went off, we hit the basement, and the reservations we had for dinner at a Japanese hibachi place were put on hold.

My nephew still had to go out, though, to play in the band for his high school's graduation. Attendance at that event served as his final exam. With all the flash flood warnings and tornado warnings, I thought having graduation that day was pretty stupid. But I'm not a school administrator.

After hearing the storm sirens go off at least three times, and waiting out several waves (heh.) of rain showers, we decided the worst was over and went for Japanese food. We didn't float away.

My niece got a kick out of playing The Catching Game, as she called it...where the chef flipped shrimp off his spatula into the air for us to catch in our mouths. (yes, I caught mine.) And I got my sushi fix...so all was good.

The drive home was mostly uneventful, except for a 10-minute stretch halfway home where you couldn't see much, but you got one hell of a car wash as you drove. I don't drive with my hands at 10 and 2 very often, but I know when to hold on. My "reward" for making it through the downpour was a pretty spectacular lightning show from time to time on the rest of the drive.

Ten minutes of white-knuckling it during an hour and a half drive certainly isn't a whole lot to complain about, as it could have been much, much worse.

Yesterday it stayed gray throughout the day, and Mother Nature thought it would be a fun trick to play to make me spend most of my day either opening or closing my windows.

I'd open five or six of them, and sit down by the computer or the TV, and it would start to rain. So I'd close my windows, and five minutes later, the rain stopped. Soooo...I'd open them again. I repeated this process more times than I'm going to admit in this blog entry.

But, umm...

...sunny and 70, anyone?
I'm all for it.

"Don't knock the weather;
nine-tenths of the people
couldn't start a conversation
if it didn't change once in a while."
—Kin Hubbard

A Gentle Nudge.

I got a bit of a drive in the ass from a friend a couple days ago, regarding this blog.

Oh sure, she tried to soften the blow somewhat, calling it a "nudge" instead. But I could read between the lines. Basically, from the few words I saw on screen, what I read was:

"Dude, what's up with your blog, man? You've got this blog (noun), so...blog(verb)!!"

Yeah. Like I haven't been telling myself that for days upon days upon days.

But...I value her opinion. And her nudge. And I had the gist of this post formed in my head yesterday, ready to send through the keyboard. But then Ed McMahon saved me as I channel surfed past Larry King Live, so I made fun of him instead, and rolled this post around for another day.

What I've learned from this highly scientific experiment I've been conducting over the past couple months is...it's easier to not blog, than it is to blog. It's true!

Don't believe me? Try this simple test. Go and get yourself a blog, if you don't already have one. And then when you've got one...ignore it. Just...don't blog.

Pretty simple, isn't it?

Not very fulfilling. Not the most productive creative outlet.
But boy, is it easy!

However...hopefully the Un-Blog has worn out its welcome, and it's time to get back to The Blog again. We'll see how long I can make that statement stick.

One of my very favorite writers, Anne Lamott, talks about writer's block in her book, Bird by Bird, and also in an audio tape I have of one of her workshops, called Word by Word. (I highly recommend both the book and the workshop-on-tape. Or...disc, as it's available now.)

Lamott views writer's block not as being blocked or stuck, but as being empty instead. And that every so often, you've got to refill this rag bag that writers carry around...and that memories and sights and sounds and snippets of daily life and stories and conversations all serve as the rags for our rag bag, which we then dip into when we sit down to write.

Perhaps you find a piece of burlap or a shred of canvas, or a piece of muslin or maybe a torn T-shirt, or an embroidery thread. All these pieces are collected and used to fill the rag bag.

I love that example, and I'd totally steal it and try to pass it off as my own idea, but I don't have a fuckin' clue what muslin is, so therefore...proper citing of my sources. (And I wouldn't do that to Annie, anyway. Or anyone else.)

I've spent some time with her audio workshop in my car over the last several days, and then I got the, um...nudge...at just the right time from the friend I mentioned. So I figured it was time to put ass in chair and get to work.

I've managed to continue to bang out a column for the paper over these past weeks, but when it came to something voluntary, like Ton-Fifty-ONE, ohhh it was so easy to let it slide. And then of course I'd beat myself up for ignoring it for another day...and another...and another.

I don't know if my rag bag is as full as it should be, or if my rags will be worth writing about.

But at least I'm collecting.

"Seeing yourself in print is such
an amazing concept: you can get
so much attention without having
to actually show up somewhere.
You don't have to dress up, for instance,
and you can't hear them boo you right away."
—Anne Lamott

And Now...Heeeeeeeere's Foreclosure!

Ed McMahon got 15 minutes of airtime on Larry King Live tonight.

Why? He's fighting foreclosure on his multimillion-dollar Beverly Hills home.

So, what's the only logical step when facing foreclosure? Go on Larry King!

I happened to catch the story early enough that it kept me interested through a couple commercial breaks, but as I watched, I wondered to myself, "What is Ed hoping to accomplish here? Does he want me to feel sorry for him?"

Carson sidekick for about a century, host of Star Search and bloopers shows...and he wants me to throw a big ol' pity party that his six-million-dollar home might be taken from him, and that he's more than six...hundred...thousand...dollars behind on his payments.

Now...he broke his neck a year and a half ago, and hasn't been able to work because of that. So a bit of sympathy is in order there. But...he's 85 years old! Why should he need to work anyway?

Oh yeah. That pesky matter of the six hundred grand. I forgot.

Larry asked him during the interview, how a celebrity like him, who's supposedly got so many millions, can fall into a trap like this. And Ed's answer just about made me chuck my remote at the TV.

"Well, Larry...when you spend more than you make...you know how it goes."

Unbelievable.

Larry and Ed also made a quick mention that Evander Holyfield was in danger of losing his home, too. ($10 million mansion ... 109 rooms ... 17 bathrooms ... three kitchens ... bowling alley. Nothing too elaborate.)

Don't high-profile boxers...of which Holyfield certainly was one...make like $20 million per bout? According to one source, Holyfield's grossed more than $120 million in his career.

Stories like this make me shake my head as much as hearing about all the lottery winners who go broke only a few short years after cashing in on their mega-jackpots.

Perhaps I'm not qualified to judge these people until I have 20 or 40 or 100 million dollars to manage. But you know...if someone out there wants to give me the opportunity to prove it can be done, I bet I can make it last a lotta lotta years, and have my share of fun with it, bringing plenty of family and friends along for the ride as I go.

Or maybe I'll just take one twenty-million-dollar tourist trip up to the International Space Station, and then come back to Earth and go back to my nine-to-five grind.

I think I know how Ed can save his home...

Those American Family Publishers people can send him an envelope that says, "You may have already won $10,000,000!" And then show up on his doorstep with a big fat check.

(if he subscribes to a couple magazines, of course.)

"Bankruptcy is a legal proceeding
in which you put your money
in your pants pocket and give
your coat to your creditors."
—Joey Adams

Come Around

"Stop. Stop. Hold up......stop."

...
...

"Is someone having a heart attack out there or something?"


Not what you normally hear from the lead singer when you go to a concert, is it?

Well, those were the words a few thousand fans and I heard a couple weeks ago when I went to see a Counting Crows show at Carthage College in Kenosha. (how the Crows ever added a small school like Carthage as a tour stop is beyond me. but I've also seen them in a little gymnasium-type thing at UW-Stevens Point, too...a few years ago. hey, wherever they go, I go.)

Halfway through the song, "Insignificant," off of their new disc, Adam Duritz was right near the front of the stage when he apparently saw someone in the crowd having...issues. So he stopped the music and said the above words.

Turned out it wasn't a heart attack, but I'm not sure if it was a seizure or just someone fainting or passing out in the crowd. I wasn't close enough to see what was going on. But paramedics showed up, Duritz handed his bottle of orange Gatorade into the crowd for the affected girl, and then sat near the front of the stage looking rather concerned.

The show was stopped for about 15 minutes as she was tended to, and then she was taken out of the arena in a wheelchair.

A couple minutes into the unscheduled intermission, a guy near the back of the crowd yelled, "Play some music!!" into the silence, and earned himself some big-time Insensitive Dumb Shit points from almost everyone in attendance.

After everything was under control, rather than starting the song over or skipping the rest of it and moving on to the next song in the set list, the boys on stage had a 10-second con-fab and picked up almost right where they left off...in the middle of the song.

— • — • —

I bought the Crows' latest effort, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, on March 25, the day it was released. And while I'm always eager (huge understatement) to listen to new Crows, this release didn't impress me right out of the box like some of their other discs did.

It took me a few listens, and then a few more, before I warmed up to some of the songs. But well over half the disc became standard awesome Crows after about a half dozen listens. I will say that I really enjoyed the harmonica with Duritz's voice on several selections. Not a lot of harmonica coming through in most of their older stuff.

I had my DellPod almost exclusively on repeat between the release date and the day I drove down to see them on April 12.

For my eleventh time attending a Counting Crows show, I was ushered into a second-floor recreation and sports arena...a few basketball hoops reeled up to the ceiling, a six-lane track around the perimeter...and at its peak, I'd say there were maybe three thousand people there. The place probably could have held five. But I'm kinda glad it wasn't filled to capacity, because as it was, the floor was a bit bouncy as the crowd swayed and moved to the music.

Duritz and Co. played eight of the fourteen songs off of their new disc, along with a rather eclectic mix of other stuff from all of their other albums.

No "Big Yellow Taxi," no "Rain King" or "Omaha," no "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"...no "Round Here," which was quite a shock. They always seem to remember to play "Long December," though, which I have to say I can live without. Apparently other people can't, because it went over pretty well. It was a great mix of music, and as usual...a hell of a way to spend a couple hours.


I enjoyed listening to Duritz explain some of the meanings behind the new songs. In "On Almost Any Sunday Morning," he talks about how lonely it is to sleep alone, and how he tries to do anything to avoid that feeling, so he goes out and finds someone to be with so he doesn't have to be alone, but when he wakes up with that person in his bed on Sunday morning, he doesn't particularly care for that feeling, either. So he thinks it might be better to just be alone...but then the loneliness kicks in again and he finds himself looking again for someone to be with...and how that cycle keeps repeating itself. (the life of a rock star, huh?)

In "Washington Square," he writes about how he doesn't care for being on the road as much as he used to, and how touring is getting to be a drag, because he'd rather be at home spending time with his family and friends. (he, of course, softened the blow of such a statement as he was explaining it to us by saying that the two hours he's onstage in front of great fans like us *ahem* are a great part of his day...but a day's got 24 hours in it, and it's the other 22 hours of the day he wishes he was back at home.

But then, by the end of the record, his mindset on touring had changed a bit, and he wrote the song, "Come Around," which says that even though they may be gone for a while, they still realize that eventually...they'll hit the road again, and come back out on tour and be back in front of the fans, playing music.

(kind of a corny correlation to this blog entry, which is why I titled it what I did...that, and I couldn't think of anything else. while I know I'm not a rock star, and I know I don't have...um...fans, per se, I realize that I've been absent for far too many days. and although I may be fickle like that from time to time, I never had or have any intentions of dumping this blog and ignoring it forever.)

So there you have it. Adam Duritz and me. As similar as two peas in a pod.

Except for the dreads. And, um...the talent. And uhhhh....you know, the movie stars 'n shit. Oh, and the rock star-ishness.

Next stop: Milwaukee in August. Co-headlining with Maroon 5. (which probably means a slightly shorter set as a co-headliner. and whyyy can't they pick someone like Matt Nathanson to co-headline with?? is that asking too much?)

"I have waited for tomorrow
from December till today,
and I have started loving sorrow
along the way."
—Come Around, Counting Crows

[yes, the photos are mine. it's amazing that you can get a handful
of shots in focus if you press the shutter enough times throughout the night.]

I'll Stop The World...

The Modern English song, "I Melt With You," is making a comeback.

The problem is...it's in a Taco Bell commercial.

I heard it on TV today among images of cheese and meat and tortilla shells, as Taco Bell promoted its new Cheesy Beefy Melt.

And I was a bit saddened.

Something about such a classic '80s anthem being used to push generally crappy Mexican food just doesn't fit. I'm considering boycotting Taco Bell; at the very least I know I'll never order a stupid cheesy beefy melt.

But my disappointment should really be directed at Modern English for selling out. Don't they realize that song should just stay on the "Valley Girl" soundtrack where it belongs?

"Taco Bell is not a
Mexican telephone company."
—Unknown

An Easter Splash

One Easter morning many years ago...I wish I remember how many, but let's just say more than two, but fewer than 40...I was hunting for my Easter basket. (wait, maybe it was two or three years ago!)

My Easter basket was a big tall yellow plastic thing. I'd finished looking upstairs and I made my way down to the basement, where we had a second refrigerator and a freezer in one of the rooms.

I want to say I found it on top of the refrigerator, behind a couple boxes of cereal, but...I can't be certain. And I'm not sure if I was too young and short for that to be a "mean" hiding place, or if I was tall enough to at least consider it a possibility, and maybe pull a chair over and stand on it to check on top of the fridge.

Anyway...all my rambling is leading to the fact that it was somewhere near that fridge. Either on top or inside or next to, or...you get the idea. That much I remember.

And when I found it, I put it on the concrete floor and knelt down in front of it, rummaging through the fake green plastic grass to see what candy treats the Easter Bunny brought me. (I think I was old enough at that point where I didn't believe in the Easter Bunny anymore.)

I think each year one of the things in my basket was a two-piece plastic bunny filled with candy...and you had to pop off the bunny's head to get it.

But this particular year, along with the chocolate goodies and malted milk eggs...there was a small white cardboard card with rounded corners, maybe about twice the size of a credit card, and on it in my mom's flawless printing, it said...

"Gregg is wished a Happy Easter and a summer of fun at the Family Swim Club!"

That was the community pool across the street from my house. And that unofficial membership card was the beginning of quite a few summers of many...oh, so many...hours spent at that pool.

One of my favorite Easter memories.

"In matters of principles,
stand like a rock.
In matters of taste,
swim with the current."
—Thomas Jefferson

It's Already Broken.

So I'm sitting here staring at my bracket...like I have each year at this time for the past several years.

Apparently, this NCAA tourney thing is a pretty big to-do. And I just wanna fit in. Oh, I've watched a little bit of hoopin'. I've listened to what some analysts have to say...who they like, who they don't, who they think got snubbed.

And I copied and pasted the teams into all the right cells on the spreadsheet, and tomorrow I get to watch it all start crumbling down. It always does, you know.

Perhaps this year, though, I have a secret weapon. Someone I never would have thought I'd call an ally.

I've heeded the advice and basketball knowledge of Bobby Knight. I never cared much for the guy, but his 900-plus wins as a coach make it pretty obvious that he knows his stuff. And in his first year as a guest analyst on ESPN, I can see the storyline playing out: "Knight Joins ESPN, Picks National Champion."

So I sent Pittsburgh all the way to the center of my bracket, because Bobby Knight told me to. I just wanted to do something a little different than all the North Carolinas and Kansases. I'm already resigned to the fact that my bracket will be sufficiently broken by Friday.

But as of right now, it looks like a sure thing...because it's got Bobby Knight's seal of approval. (at least the final slot does.)

My Final Four: Louisville, Kansas, Pittsburgh and Duke.

The chuckling may commence.......now.

"Trying to take money out of politics
is like trying to take jumping
out of basketball."
—Bill Bradley

Does Anyone Have A Lint Brush I Can Borrow?

Today I learned what "chenille" is.

And I learned that it leaves a trail.

A couple weeks ago I was end-of-season clearance-rack shopping (not something I'll admit to in person...only on my blog) and found a sweater that was a prime candidate for purchase, because it a) fit; b) was practically a steal; and c) looked good, too. (I do have some taste, in case you were wondering.)

And this morning, with winter's last chilly gasp still in the air, I decided to wear it to work. So I snipped off the tags, noticing that one of them said, "Textured Chenille."

At the time I didn't know what chenille was. But by about mid-morning, I noticed that the front of my khaki pants looked a little...dirty, for lack of a better word. And I knew they weren't dirty when I put them on.

Turns out "chenille," in the fabric world, means "tiny, almost imperceptible fibers that get on your pants and make them look dirty, and are tremendously difficult to brush off."

I doubt that anyone at work noticed, and even if they did...I don't really care. But I came home from work and my white T-shirt was no longer white, but instead sort of a fuzzy gray. (ish.)

Oh, and I learned one other thing, today, too. If you wear a white T-shirt under a dark-colored sweater that has a loose weave or is a loose knit or whatever the hell it's called (this isn't a fashion blog, people...it's a blog where I bitch about stuff!), as you move and twist and turn in the sweater, little pinholes of white will peek through.

If I stood under a black light in that sweater and that T-shirt, I would probably be a spot-on match for a clear night sky. I'm actually going to make patterns with the holes in the shape of the Big Dipper and Orion.

Or perhaps I'll instead remember to never wear a white T-shirt under that sweater again. Yeah, that might be the better way to go.

I'm assuming that a spin through the washing machine will take care of most of the stray nineteen billion chenille fibers resting among that loose weave.

And if not...then I need to go and buy a lint brush.
Or two.

"If you are a dog and your owner
suggests that you wear a sweater,
suggest that he wear a tail."
—Fran Lebowitz

Happy St. Uhh...Um.......Go Have A Green Beer!

This might be an extremely picky point, but...

...which is it?

St. Patty's Day? or St. Paddy's Day?

As a newspaper ad designer, this holiday always bothers me, because plenty of restaurants and bars are advertising their green beer specials and their corned beef and cabbage. And some write it as St. Patty's, while others write St. Paddy's.

Every year when I look through other newspapers, I never see a clear favorite, either. I think the d's are slightly more popular, but you see plenty of t's in ads, too.

What really irks me about this dilemma is that I don't have a strong opinion one way or the other. If it's up to me, I spell it St. Patty's Day. But if people want to push for Paddy's...I don't argue. I see the logic in that spelling, too.

But it taps far enough into my neurotic self that I wish we could pick one and go with it! I don't see that happening anytime soon.

Enough about that.

Today in my e-mail I found an Irish blessing, and while I know St. Pat's is nearly over as I write this, I thought I'd share it anyway...

Always remember to forget
The things that made you sad.
But never forget to remember
The things that made you glad.

Always remember to forget
The friends that proved untrue.
But never forget to remember
Those that have stuck by you.

Always remember to forget
The troubles that passed away.
But never forget to remember
The blessings that come each day.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone. And if you find yourself mulling over the d's vs. t's debate from above to the point of confusion...just order another one of these, and soon you won't care how anything is spelled!

"In Ireland the inevitable never happens
and the unexpected constantly occurs."
—Sir John Pentland Mahaffy

They've Got A Lot Of Sole

What do you get when you take ordinary objects like push brooms, newspapers, rubber hoses, plastic and paper bags, empty water jugs, plungers, folding chairs, basketballs, Zippo lighters, trash cans and trash can lids, the occasional 55-gallon drum, and yes, even the kitchen sink...

...and combine them all with bushels of creativity and more rhythm than ordinary human beings should be allowed to possess?

You get...STOMP!

Yesterday I went to see the percussive performance group at the Fox Cities Performing Arts Center, unsure of what to expect. I'd heard glowing reviews from a couple people, and read even more online.

But the age range among the people with whom I was attending stretched from kindergarten through AARP member. So I was hoping there was enough appeal in the show to entertain everyone.

There was.

The show starts with one lonely individual walking out on stage with a broom, and as he sweeps the floor, a rhythm begins to build. He's joined by a friend...and then another, and another...until the entire eight-person cast is on the floor, all making magic with push brooms.

They did that throughout the show, using all of the items mentioned above, among others. Many of the props were accompanied by clapping and...wait for it...stomping of their boots on the floor to add different layers to the beats.

The rehearsal time that must go into a show like that has to be immeasurable, to get the choreography down as well as they do. Because if you don't bounce a basketball from the correct height, it won't hit the floor at the right time, and that particular beat has just passed you by.

During one skit, four of the members came out with stainless steel sinks hanging around their necks and used the sounds of rubber gloves against the metal and drumsticks against pots and pans filled with various levels of water to create the rhythm.

And after getting the floor more than a little wet from some overzealous drumming, other members come on stage and put on a show among the puddles using plungers.

It's all very unique, very percussive, very creative.

Have you ever looked at a Zippo lighter as a percussion instrument? All eight members came out on a darkened stage in a single line, and had the crowd's full attention by flicking them on and clicking them closed, the tiny flames lighting the stage.

The beats and the odd props and the energy, I expected. The comedy...I didn't. But there was plenty of that to go around as well.

Although there were no spoken words in the entire hour and a half show, save for a few grunts and "wup!" sounds as they performed their skits, each member's personality came through, from the confident leader who urged the crowd to mimic some of the clapping and finger-snapping rhthyms he demonstrated, to the comedic hit of the show...one cast member who tried so hard to fit in, but was always a step or two slow. His timing was impeccable.

The first hour of the show was relatively tame, noise level-wise, but the last half hour included some of their trademark metal garbage can drumming and lid smashing, along with a slow, plodding, Imperial Walker-esque trek across the stage by several members with 55-gallon drums attached to their feet.

After the show was over, I asked my six-year-old niece if she thought it was a lot of fun, or if it was too loud.

"Toooo loud," she immediately answered.

But more than once I saw her clapping along with the lead member, and laughing at the funny guy, and staring pretty intently at the action on the stage.

So maybe it was a combination of the two.

I think I'd still give a slight edge to Blue Man Group, but STOMP! far exceeded my expectations. And as they were highly recommended to me, I can also highly recommend them as an unforgettable, high-energy performance.

OK, now...what can you do with an empty yogurt container and a plastic spoon? Grab a couple friends and find out! It's a percussion instrument!

"Pop art for the ears.
Rhythm for the eyes.
Theatre for the feet."
—from a review in an Australian newspaper

Anybody Need A Pint?

I'd love to sit down tonight and write a long, engaging, entertaining blog post to make up for the drivel I hastily posted last night, but I'm feeling kinda drained.

Literally. (Heh.)

I gave a double unit of platelets and a pint of whole blood this morning, which is I think the most they can take out of the human body in one sitting before it starts to shrivel noticeably and take on a ghostly white tinge.

Truth be told, I'm fine. I just couldn't resist such a...*ahem*...witty opening line. But I was in a chair with a needle stuck in me for 96 minutes this morning.

About four years ago, the Blood Center of Wisconsin came around for one its biannual blood drives in my village, and I thought it might make for an interesting column if I donated my first pint.

I'm not squeamish around needles or the sight of blood (usually), and everything went off without a hitch. I dropped off a pint, got some free cookies and juice (whoo hoo!) for my troubles, and went home and wrote the column.

Thing is...once you give them your personal information and fill out all their paperwork, you are officially entered into Their System.

So about eight weeks after my first donation, when I was eligible again, my phone rang one night, and the nice lady on the other end explained to me that there was a critical need for my blood type in my area, and would I be able to stop by the Blood Center's Manitowoc site sometime soon and donate another pint?

"A critical need?" I thought. Uh-oh. That sounded serious. And I'd proven the time before that I was a textbook example of a swell blood donor. So I made an appointment for a Saturday morning, and drained another pint.

This time they asked me before I left if I'd like to make another appointment.

I had just become a "regular."

After a couple more whole blood donations, I was asked if I'd consider giving platelets. This process takes longer than a whole blood donation...up to an hour and a half...and the blood is drawn and run through an apheresis machine, where the cells are separated and collected, and then the blood is returned.

In every minute on the machine, 50 seconds of that minute are spent drawing blood and collecting what it needs, and 10 seconds are spent shooting the blood back into the donor.

Basically...I go and sit in a chair, a needle stuck in my arm, and read a book. Not too difficult. It's like being at the library. Except for the women in the white coats. And, um...the needle. And the bleeding.

Several extra minutes on the machine can usually lead to a "split," or a double unit of platelets. And the new platelet machines at the Manitowoc site allow for donation of a unit of whole blood at the end of the platelet session, if the donor wishes.

So I kinda gave the full menu this morning. I try to go and donate something once a month...or as my schedule allows, because the Manitowoc site is only open two Saturdays a month. But last October I went in to give a unit of whole blood, and was asked if I had a little extra time to give a double unit of red cells, which involved being hooked up to the machine for about 40 minutes.

A donation of a double unit of red cells, though, takes you out of commission on their eligible donor's list for sixteen weeks!

Hey, I'll give 'em whatever they want, or what they need most...but that's a longgg time between donations.

I think I'll stick to platelets on a semi-regular schedule, instead. And the 90 minutes it provides for turning pages in a book.

Not to mention the free juice and cookies!

"He that will not give some portion
of his ease, his blood, his wealth,
for others' good, is a poor, frozen churl."
—Joanne Baillie