As a little girl she used to sit at night, staring out her window to the skies above. The stars in her eyes were the inspiration to many an endless dream. There was something soothing in the infinity of the black star speckled landscape of the heavens. She had memorized so thoroughly the star patterns that when she closed her eyes she still could with picture perfect precision see all the constellation formations. At the same time the predictability, the knowing that whatever was up above would be there long after her own life was over, was of great comfort. There was something meaningful out there that was far bigger and more important than the daily tasks she had in front of her.
It didn't matter how the events of her day left her feeling. At the end of every day her gaze into the stars filled her heart with wonder and comfort, her mind with all that she could look forward to. Then one day she read a newspaper report saying that those who had the power to, were considering downgrading Pluto from a planet, to something else. The unthinkable was about to happen, she was going to lose a planet. And it was her favorite one on top of it all.
The news was of quite a shock and she began to see that the things she had come to take for granted and rely on were not as eternal as she had always believed. It was a gnawing, disheartening realization that was interrupted by a loud noise from outside. The noise startled her. She looked down at the wintery scene below her beloved stars. Something was out of place but she wasn't quite sure, nor could she see enough from her window to know what it was. There was something alarming about the sound that made her think about those people frightened at the prospect of the end of the millennium. Their fears seemed so crazy. She knew the sky wasn't going to fall. She rocked herself to sleep, her mind racing a mile a minute.
The next morning she wandered out to the lake outside her house. The frozen lake was covered with an undisturbed fresh sheet of snow, so smooth, so white that she wondered if the events of the previous night had just been a dream. She looked farther out on the lake and noticed a hole in the ice. As she got closer she noticed no footprints leading to the hole which she could now see was star-shaped.
Instinctively she looked up to the gray sky. Something was different than ever before. She couldn't see it with the naked eye, but she somehow knew that bigger than the hole in the ice was a hole in the heavens where Pluto would usually be. It must be tough to accept a loss of planet status, she thought. She was now directly over the hole. The water below seemed as deep as it was cold. She couldn't see anything underneath the rippling green of the exposed water. She was due to be at work soon so she slid her way back to her house and began her daily routine. On her way to work she turned on her radio and heard that local officials thought the hole in the ice she had seen was caused by a meteorite.
When she got to her work, she wondered if she should tell any of her co- workers about her recent events. But the words weren't there. Instead she pulled out her notebook and jotted the following: "Due to a limited lexicon I have a legitimate liability that can't be legally levied. Lots of leprechauns are less lucky. So soulfully I sing to the sinners who sold their salads for a song and dance." It didn't make any sense but somehow it made her feel better. She closed her notebook and carefully put it back in her desk in its familiar spot.
She decided she indeed could accept what she now knew, even if such an admission (and the internal confession of that self discovered admission) would've been inconceivable just twenty four hours before. How she felt, how she saw her world was forever changed yet there wasn't a choice in returning to the comfort of what she always knew. She pulled out her favorite comic book- the only comic she regularly read and its pictures were as familiar as those stars she sat underneath every night. Maybe the heavens weren't as reliable as she once thought, but at least the pictures of the yellowing pages of her favorite comic book would always be familiar. Yes she could always rely on her favorite storyline to remain consistent and true- Popeye forever in love, forever chasing the admirable independence of his heart's true love, Olive Oyl. The dependable 70 years of courting made her feel calm and relaxed. She knew she could always count on them to remain true to their code...
Monday, January 25, 1999
Monday, January 18, 1999
Plant Parenthood
CYCLAMEN (Cy'clamen)
DESCRIPTION: These gorgeous plants have heart-shaped leaves marked with silver and they produce double or single flowers that are colored white, salmon, lavender, or red, on top of slender stems. Some flower in the fall, others in late spring. These plants range from Greece to Syria. A minimum temperature of 45 degrees is required.
For Christmas I went to a floral shop to buy my mom a plant. I had no idea how to pick out a plant my mom would like so after much contemplation, I looked at all my many options and decided just to go with the one I liked best. I ended up with a Cyclamen which I must say was a terrific choice. What a fine looking plant it is.
I eventually chose the Cyclamen because of its color. It is a light violet, a shade that suggested something between peace and beauty. But as with everything with me, once I made my choice I needed to find out all I could about this new discovery and share it with everyone I know.
I've never been much for taking care of plants. The fact that you actually have to work at keeping them going has been more than I wanted to attempt. And for the last seven years I've had a roommate with a fondness for eating any shrubbery I may bring into our humble abode. Yet the plant I chose for my mother is the type I think would brighten up my own home. There is something quite rejuvenating about watching its cycles: from flowering to wilting to regeneration of new buds. And while each is new, the cycle itself breeds comforting familiarity. Just when you think it won't come back, a new bud is born again. Yes indeed, I've become a Cyclamen man.
This has been an extremely long week. I'm tired and as I put the finishing touches on the newsletter, I must admit all I can think about is my new found knowledge. Thus the following is just about all you'd ever need to know about my new favorite plant. Go ahead, go pick one up for yourself! It's guaranteed to liven up any room!
POTTING: Young plants should be planted in small pots filled with a compost of two-thirds loam and one-third leaf mold, with an abundance of sand added. A warm, dry atmosphere must be avoided. Ashes placed on the benches will humidify the air by the moisture they hold. The greenhouse must be ventilated well in mild weather and the floor and benches dampened often. As the Cyclamen grow, they need to be continuously repotted. By early summer, they should be in pots that are 5 or 6 inches in diameter, these are usually the final pots in which they will bloom. For the final potting, the soil should consist of two-thirds loam, one-third leaf mold and dry cow manure, with a scattered amount of sand, charcoal and bone meal added.
During the summer, they should be placed in a shaded area where the atmosphere is cool and moist. In hot weather, it would be beneficial to sprits them with water. Do not over water these plants, but make sure they don't dry out either. In the spring, when they have finished blooming, the plants are usually thrown out, but it is possible to keep old plants and replant them the following year. If this is to be done, the plants are to be watered until they die. As the leaves whither, less and less water is given. When they have completely died, the pots holding the tubers are left in a shaded area until late July or early August. They are then taken out of the soil and repotted in the compost as described above. Place them in a cold frame where they will start growing again if the soil is kept fairly moist. Near the end of September they need to be placed in a cool, ventilated greenhouse. These plants may also be planted in the garden. They'll thrive in partially shaded areas. Some leaf mold and pieces of sandstone or brick should be mixed into the garden soil, unless it's already suitable. In cold climates they should be protected with leaves in the winter. When planting the tubers of hardy Cyclamen, make sure to set them at the correct depth. Those of C. neapolitanum should be covered with 2 to 3 inches of soil, but the others should only be set under about an inch. The best time to plant those that bloom in the late summer and fall is in July or August. Those that bloom in the spring should be planted in August or September.
PROPAGATION: Seeds should be sown in pans full of leaf mold, sifted loam and sand and placed in a shady frame or a cool greenhouse. Since they don't germinate at the same time, it is necessary to sow them thinly, so the first seedlings can be transplanted when they're large enough to be handled.
VARIETIES-Autumn Flowering: C. africanum (lg. marbled leaves & pale reddish flowers); C. cilicicum (pretty leaves & light rose flowers); C. europaeum (lovely marked leaves & fragrant rose colored flowers); C. neapolitanum (pale rose-red flowers opening before the leaves).
Spring Flowering: C. coum (rose-red); C. ibericum (rose-red); C. repandum (reddish-crimson).
DESCRIPTION: These gorgeous plants have heart-shaped leaves marked with silver and they produce double or single flowers that are colored white, salmon, lavender, or red, on top of slender stems. Some flower in the fall, others in late spring. These plants range from Greece to Syria. A minimum temperature of 45 degrees is required.
For Christmas I went to a floral shop to buy my mom a plant. I had no idea how to pick out a plant my mom would like so after much contemplation, I looked at all my many options and decided just to go with the one I liked best. I ended up with a Cyclamen which I must say was a terrific choice. What a fine looking plant it is.
I eventually chose the Cyclamen because of its color. It is a light violet, a shade that suggested something between peace and beauty. But as with everything with me, once I made my choice I needed to find out all I could about this new discovery and share it with everyone I know.
I've never been much for taking care of plants. The fact that you actually have to work at keeping them going has been more than I wanted to attempt. And for the last seven years I've had a roommate with a fondness for eating any shrubbery I may bring into our humble abode. Yet the plant I chose for my mother is the type I think would brighten up my own home. There is something quite rejuvenating about watching its cycles: from flowering to wilting to regeneration of new buds. And while each is new, the cycle itself breeds comforting familiarity. Just when you think it won't come back, a new bud is born again. Yes indeed, I've become a Cyclamen man.
This has been an extremely long week. I'm tired and as I put the finishing touches on the newsletter, I must admit all I can think about is my new found knowledge. Thus the following is just about all you'd ever need to know about my new favorite plant. Go ahead, go pick one up for yourself! It's guaranteed to liven up any room!
POTTING: Young plants should be planted in small pots filled with a compost of two-thirds loam and one-third leaf mold, with an abundance of sand added. A warm, dry atmosphere must be avoided. Ashes placed on the benches will humidify the air by the moisture they hold. The greenhouse must be ventilated well in mild weather and the floor and benches dampened often. As the Cyclamen grow, they need to be continuously repotted. By early summer, they should be in pots that are 5 or 6 inches in diameter, these are usually the final pots in which they will bloom. For the final potting, the soil should consist of two-thirds loam, one-third leaf mold and dry cow manure, with a scattered amount of sand, charcoal and bone meal added.
During the summer, they should be placed in a shaded area where the atmosphere is cool and moist. In hot weather, it would be beneficial to sprits them with water. Do not over water these plants, but make sure they don't dry out either. In the spring, when they have finished blooming, the plants are usually thrown out, but it is possible to keep old plants and replant them the following year. If this is to be done, the plants are to be watered until they die. As the leaves whither, less and less water is given. When they have completely died, the pots holding the tubers are left in a shaded area until late July or early August. They are then taken out of the soil and repotted in the compost as described above. Place them in a cold frame where they will start growing again if the soil is kept fairly moist. Near the end of September they need to be placed in a cool, ventilated greenhouse. These plants may also be planted in the garden. They'll thrive in partially shaded areas. Some leaf mold and pieces of sandstone or brick should be mixed into the garden soil, unless it's already suitable. In cold climates they should be protected with leaves in the winter. When planting the tubers of hardy Cyclamen, make sure to set them at the correct depth. Those of C. neapolitanum should be covered with 2 to 3 inches of soil, but the others should only be set under about an inch. The best time to plant those that bloom in the late summer and fall is in July or August. Those that bloom in the spring should be planted in August or September.
PROPAGATION: Seeds should be sown in pans full of leaf mold, sifted loam and sand and placed in a shady frame or a cool greenhouse. Since they don't germinate at the same time, it is necessary to sow them thinly, so the first seedlings can be transplanted when they're large enough to be handled.
VARIETIES-Autumn Flowering: C. africanum (lg. marbled leaves & pale reddish flowers); C. cilicicum (pretty leaves & light rose flowers); C. europaeum (lovely marked leaves & fragrant rose colored flowers); C. neapolitanum (pale rose-red flowers opening before the leaves).
Spring Flowering: C. coum (rose-red); C. ibericum (rose-red); C. repandum (reddish-crimson).
Monday, January 11, 1999
Pennies from Heaven
My friend promised me that if I got a job she would come over and help me clean out and organize my closets. So with this extra bit of incentive I decided that yes indeed, it was time to end my retirement. This past week I took a position with the Senate Publications Office (for those of you who HAVE to read every word I write you can see my work at: www.leg.senate.state.mn.us). True to her word, my friend was over on Saturday to work on the project I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.
I have a bit of a secret. The reason my house looks as clean as it does is that everything of clutter is thrown into my limited closet space. There is stuff stored in my closets that I haven't looked at since moving into my house three years ago. Darn if my friend didn't do a miraculous job. She reorganized my closets to better organize my clothes. She showed me how to properly fold my pants so that I don't end up looking like a hobo. She even suggested buying a pants hanyer (or as we Maeda's say, "hanger." Since when is a "G" silent I ask?) which can hold multiple pairs of slacks and a tie rack to organize my impressive collection of hideous neckwear.
So as I prepare to begin my new job on Monday I may still have the same old clothes but now I can better find them and they don't have a permanent wrinkled look to them. My appearance promises to dazzle all down at the State Capitol. I'll knock their socks off, and now that my own socks are neatly arranged, I may even have on a matching pair my own self.
My friend left with some further suggestions as to how I could reorganize my rooms and closets and furniture to get my money's worth from my space. So as I was rearranging some furniture (in between bouts of anxiety worrying about whether or not this is truly the time the Earth has broken out of its orbit and we are hurdling away from the sun- thus the frigid weather) I accidently bumped into my dresser and down crashed my whiskey bottle full (and I mean FULL) of pennies. Glass and pennies flew everywhere. Mr. Max proved he hasn't lost any of his reflexes. I've never seen a cat bolt out of a room faster. I spent the next hour trying to separate the glass from the pennies. It seemed like an insurmountable task and for a moment I seriously considered giving up and leaving the mess there- my own little version of what Ground Round does- only with pennies on the floor instead of peanuts.
Of course as I carefully separated the glass from the pennies I couldn't help but get a little philosophical about my blasted predicament. Life is like a jar of pennies. You save up in hopes of building up a nice nest egg. Most often throwing the pennies in the jar is an afterthought- you have nowhere else to put them. You never think what you collect will add up to much. But after a period of diligent saving you actually accumulate a nice little stash. (Heck I may have enough where I can put a nice down payment toward another whiskey bottle.)
But through clumsiness or laziness or lack of attention you bump into the savings you have taken for granted and it all comes crashing down. Now the valuables you have saved are mixed in with dangerous sharp pieces of glass- some so tiny you don't seem them until after they cut you. And it's up to you, and you alone, to clean up the mess that's left behind. You grab a plastic water pitcher you never use and begin to put the pennies inside. You fret that it doesn't look as impressive without the clear container that allows you to watch your collection grow. But you soon realize that the container isn't nearly as important as what is inside. It's the inside that most often matters.
One by one you gather up the pennies. You wonder if you'll ever be able to get them all bottled up again. Sooner than you expect the pile doesn't look so intimidating any more. You actually see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. And the moment eventually comes when you are done. You sweep up the glass and look at your dirty hands. You may have made the mistake of carelessness but you have corrected that mistake and you have the sweat and blackened palms to prove it. You've even learned a valuable lesson from your experience. Whoever said never put all your eggs in the same basket didn't have it quite right. It's more accurate advice to say you shouldn't put all your pennies in a glass whiskey bottle. And it is always quite helpful getting advice about what should and when you should come out of your closet.
I have a bit of a secret. The reason my house looks as clean as it does is that everything of clutter is thrown into my limited closet space. There is stuff stored in my closets that I haven't looked at since moving into my house three years ago. Darn if my friend didn't do a miraculous job. She reorganized my closets to better organize my clothes. She showed me how to properly fold my pants so that I don't end up looking like a hobo. She even suggested buying a pants hanyer (or as we Maeda's say, "hanger." Since when is a "G" silent I ask?) which can hold multiple pairs of slacks and a tie rack to organize my impressive collection of hideous neckwear.
So as I prepare to begin my new job on Monday I may still have the same old clothes but now I can better find them and they don't have a permanent wrinkled look to them. My appearance promises to dazzle all down at the State Capitol. I'll knock their socks off, and now that my own socks are neatly arranged, I may even have on a matching pair my own self.
My friend left with some further suggestions as to how I could reorganize my rooms and closets and furniture to get my money's worth from my space. So as I was rearranging some furniture (in between bouts of anxiety worrying about whether or not this is truly the time the Earth has broken out of its orbit and we are hurdling away from the sun- thus the frigid weather) I accidently bumped into my dresser and down crashed my whiskey bottle full (and I mean FULL) of pennies. Glass and pennies flew everywhere. Mr. Max proved he hasn't lost any of his reflexes. I've never seen a cat bolt out of a room faster. I spent the next hour trying to separate the glass from the pennies. It seemed like an insurmountable task and for a moment I seriously considered giving up and leaving the mess there- my own little version of what Ground Round does- only with pennies on the floor instead of peanuts.
Of course as I carefully separated the glass from the pennies I couldn't help but get a little philosophical about my blasted predicament. Life is like a jar of pennies. You save up in hopes of building up a nice nest egg. Most often throwing the pennies in the jar is an afterthought- you have nowhere else to put them. You never think what you collect will add up to much. But after a period of diligent saving you actually accumulate a nice little stash. (Heck I may have enough where I can put a nice down payment toward another whiskey bottle.)
But through clumsiness or laziness or lack of attention you bump into the savings you have taken for granted and it all comes crashing down. Now the valuables you have saved are mixed in with dangerous sharp pieces of glass- some so tiny you don't seem them until after they cut you. And it's up to you, and you alone, to clean up the mess that's left behind. You grab a plastic water pitcher you never use and begin to put the pennies inside. You fret that it doesn't look as impressive without the clear container that allows you to watch your collection grow. But you soon realize that the container isn't nearly as important as what is inside. It's the inside that most often matters.
One by one you gather up the pennies. You wonder if you'll ever be able to get them all bottled up again. Sooner than you expect the pile doesn't look so intimidating any more. You actually see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. And the moment eventually comes when you are done. You sweep up the glass and look at your dirty hands. You may have made the mistake of carelessness but you have corrected that mistake and you have the sweat and blackened palms to prove it. You've even learned a valuable lesson from your experience. Whoever said never put all your eggs in the same basket didn't have it quite right. It's more accurate advice to say you shouldn't put all your pennies in a glass whiskey bottle. And it is always quite helpful getting advice about what should and when you should come out of your closet.
Monday, January 4, 1999
1998 Woman of the Year
Previous Women of the Year:
1992- H. Ross Perot
1993- St. Francis of Assisi
1994- Newt Gingrich
1995- Cal Ripken Jr.
1996- The Dole Campaign
1997- Dolly the Sheep
Due to the uproar and outrage that was voiced by protest groups angry with last year's selection of Dolly the cloned sheep as our newsletter's Woman of the Year, committee members met early in 1998 to discuss the selection process. The committee also met with protesters from the most vocal opposition group, People Against the Newsletter's Selection of Dolly the Sheep as the Woman of the Year (PATNSODTSATWOTY).
Protesters of PATNSODTSATWOTY expressed concern that the selection of Dolly did not meet the standards written in the committee's bylaws as to what qualifies as a Woman of the Year. The newsletter committee tried its best to explain the selection citing the criteria for Woman of the Year states that the winner must "meet the high standards" that sets Cheapo apart from its competition. Dolly met this criteria according to the newsletter committee due to the innovation behind her creation and the fact that her "used" DNA was metaphoric for Cheapo's reputation as the finest used music store in the Twin Cities area.
While the newsletter committee stood behind its selection it was agreed there were issues involved that needed to be addressed to alleviate concerns over the fairness of the selection process. These concerns included incidents such as the "erroneous coin flip" and the increase in the number of pass interference calls. To avoid similar problems in the future it was agreed that each committee member look within themselves to examine what could be done to improve the process.
Eventually it was decided that each committee member should devote more energy toward the selection process and thus it was mandated that to serve on the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee, members had to quit their other occupations and become full time committee participants. The other major improvement was to upgrade the selection committee's computer. Unfortunately the funds were no longer available seeing none of the committee members had any income coming in so the old computer equipment was once again utilized for this year's process.
With renewed vigor and energy committee members ferreted through reams of information about perspective candidates. Hours upon hours were devoted to intensive research, discussion, and debate. Once all the information was fed into the computer, it became apparent Y2K issues were rampant in the hardware and software utilized in the process. For whatever reason no matter what data was fed in, only one name was generated: Susan B. Anthony. While Ms. Anthony's credentials impressed all the committee members, none of the members were too fond of that whole Susan B. Anthony dollar coin fiasco of years back.
Thus the committee resigned itself to manually selecting this year's Woman of the Year. Although there were numerous qualified candidates the committee quickly narrowed its choices down to four. Consideration had to be given to the cast of characters involved in the Washington debacle that occupied so much of our nation's attention this past year. The committee considered Hillary Rodham Clinton for her admirable strength and dignity through the whole ordeal. Either Ms. Clinton has nerves of steel or she hides her turmoil better than any human this side of the Mississippi. Also considered was Linda Tripp because she single handedly focused attention upon the tape industry- an industry our company still has a stake in. After much discussion both women were eliminated from consideration because the scandal involved goes beyond absurdity. Enough already.
The runner up candidate too received far too much attention for the committee's tastes. But of course any year end review consideration had to include Mr. Ventura. Yes Jesse's story was quite remarkable and the next four years should at the very least be entertaining (something government rarely is). Jesse's last bit of publicity was to suggest his wife should be paid for her first lady's duties. The newsletter committee tends to suspect Jesse made the suggestion less out of concern for women's rights issues and more out of concern for the Ventura family pocketbook.
When it came down to the wire the winner was rather obvious because 1998 was nothing if not the year of the storm. It blew. It came. It went. The damage left behind is still a tad indeterminable. But it left its mark. For every disaster there was someone out there who was willing to blame it on our winner. And in that end it all kind of makes sense. We have been told by one who should know that our winner's name is considered offensive by those who speak the language. Still, no name was heard from as much in 1998. Congratulations to the 1998 Woman of the Year: El Nino.
1992- H. Ross Perot
1993- St. Francis of Assisi
1994- Newt Gingrich
1995- Cal Ripken Jr.
1996- The Dole Campaign
1997- Dolly the Sheep
Due to the uproar and outrage that was voiced by protest groups angry with last year's selection of Dolly the cloned sheep as our newsletter's Woman of the Year, committee members met early in 1998 to discuss the selection process. The committee also met with protesters from the most vocal opposition group, People Against the Newsletter's Selection of Dolly the Sheep as the Woman of the Year (PATNSODTSATWOTY).
Protesters of PATNSODTSATWOTY expressed concern that the selection of Dolly did not meet the standards written in the committee's bylaws as to what qualifies as a Woman of the Year. The newsletter committee tried its best to explain the selection citing the criteria for Woman of the Year states that the winner must "meet the high standards" that sets Cheapo apart from its competition. Dolly met this criteria according to the newsletter committee due to the innovation behind her creation and the fact that her "used" DNA was metaphoric for Cheapo's reputation as the finest used music store in the Twin Cities area.
While the newsletter committee stood behind its selection it was agreed there were issues involved that needed to be addressed to alleviate concerns over the fairness of the selection process. These concerns included incidents such as the "erroneous coin flip" and the increase in the number of pass interference calls. To avoid similar problems in the future it was agreed that each committee member look within themselves to examine what could be done to improve the process.
Eventually it was decided that each committee member should devote more energy toward the selection process and thus it was mandated that to serve on the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee, members had to quit their other occupations and become full time committee participants. The other major improvement was to upgrade the selection committee's computer. Unfortunately the funds were no longer available seeing none of the committee members had any income coming in so the old computer equipment was once again utilized for this year's process.
With renewed vigor and energy committee members ferreted through reams of information about perspective candidates. Hours upon hours were devoted to intensive research, discussion, and debate. Once all the information was fed into the computer, it became apparent Y2K issues were rampant in the hardware and software utilized in the process. For whatever reason no matter what data was fed in, only one name was generated: Susan B. Anthony. While Ms. Anthony's credentials impressed all the committee members, none of the members were too fond of that whole Susan B. Anthony dollar coin fiasco of years back.
Thus the committee resigned itself to manually selecting this year's Woman of the Year. Although there were numerous qualified candidates the committee quickly narrowed its choices down to four. Consideration had to be given to the cast of characters involved in the Washington debacle that occupied so much of our nation's attention this past year. The committee considered Hillary Rodham Clinton for her admirable strength and dignity through the whole ordeal. Either Ms. Clinton has nerves of steel or she hides her turmoil better than any human this side of the Mississippi. Also considered was Linda Tripp because she single handedly focused attention upon the tape industry- an industry our company still has a stake in. After much discussion both women were eliminated from consideration because the scandal involved goes beyond absurdity. Enough already.
The runner up candidate too received far too much attention for the committee's tastes. But of course any year end review consideration had to include Mr. Ventura. Yes Jesse's story was quite remarkable and the next four years should at the very least be entertaining (something government rarely is). Jesse's last bit of publicity was to suggest his wife should be paid for her first lady's duties. The newsletter committee tends to suspect Jesse made the suggestion less out of concern for women's rights issues and more out of concern for the Ventura family pocketbook.
When it came down to the wire the winner was rather obvious because 1998 was nothing if not the year of the storm. It blew. It came. It went. The damage left behind is still a tad indeterminable. But it left its mark. For every disaster there was someone out there who was willing to blame it on our winner. And in that end it all kind of makes sense. We have been told by one who should know that our winner's name is considered offensive by those who speak the language. Still, no name was heard from as much in 1998. Congratulations to the 1998 Woman of the Year: El Nino.
Monday, December 28, 1998
In Search of Chihuahuas
I spent one of the last days of 1998 with my friend on a mission. She wanted to find a Taco Bell that still had the little stuffed Chihuahua that says, "here lizard lizard..." The restaurant chain is selling four different speaking Chihuahuas and the lizard beckoning one is the most popular. We had limited time so I mapped out our trail in advance. We went to three Taco Bells and called two others before we found one that had a few left. Our little mission made me wonder if this is what my Dad used to go through when we were little kids and one of us wanted a hard to find toy from Santa.
My friend is the proud parent of Kurbie, the world's fiercest Rat Terrier (who sort of looks like a Chihuahua) and she wanted to get the Taco Bell mascot as a gift to Kurbie's doting grandparents. It was a nice moment to remember 1998 by- a year that has been very difficult for me personally and professionally. It was a gentle reminder that in times of trouble if you can keep your mind on a goal, a mission, you can accomplish just about anything. And to share those special moments with friends and family- that's what it ultimately is all about. Here are ten other moments I'll remember the year by:
10) Live Moment of the Year: Los Lobos at the Minnesota Zoo. We were seated four rows from the front of the stage. As the band ripped into One Time One Night in the cool summer air as the dancers swayed in front of the stage I looked into David Hidalgo's eyes and listened to his vocals which were so passionate and pristine. I swear he was singing the song for me.
9) Sporting Moment of the Year: Mark McGwire? Nope. Those incredible Yankees? Not even close. The Macalester women's soccer team winning the national championship? Mighty impressive indeed. But the ultimate sports story was Joan's Jetts, a hapless softball team just a few years back, playing its heart out (with an aging right fielder) and winning the state's softball tournament.
8) Best Song of the Year (Male Vocalist): Imagination by Brian Wilson. Wilson has written better songs that capture his manic genius more impressively but I don't know if he has ever written a song that has touched me more deeply. "To look in your eyes and know how you feel and then realize that nothing's for real." Brian's is a sad story but his music overcomes that. Quite the gift.
7) Best Song of the Year (Female Vocalist): Liz Phair's Polyester Bride. Yes it was great having a new CD from Phair after a lengthy absence. The CD has grown on me with repeated listenings and I always have to smile when this song comes on. "I'm a sucker for your lucky pretty eyes."
6) Best Song of the Year (Group): Fastball's The Way. I heard them perform it on David Letterman and couldn't get the tune out of my head. A few weeks later my friend asked me to pick up the disc because she loved the song. It was then I realized her taste in music was nearly as impeccable as mine. The Latin like rhythm is as irresistible as the McCartneyesque melody.
5) Saddest Farewell of the Year: Frumpy The Clown. He came unexpectedly to the cartoon pages of the Pioneer Press. At first I didn't know what to make of him- an abrasive and caustic clown hired to be the live in nanny for two children. Underneath his squinty weary scowl was a heart of gold. And just as sudden as his appearance he rode of f on an elephant into the sunset never to be seen again. I miss Frumpy.
4) Soundtrack of the Year: Mr. Sinatra's What is This Thing Called Love. I heard the song on one of the many tribute shows after he died. When he gets to the climax line, "So I ask the Lord above, what is this thing called love?" his voice is pure emotion and just smothers your heart. Now I can't stop listening to the song. So long Mr. Frank.
3) John Hiatt Moment of the Year: (Tie) The release of Hiatt's version of The Way We Make a Broken Heart on his Best Of CD. The song was left off his best CD, Riding With the King and was later covered by Rosanne Cash. It was a treat to be able to finally hear John's version. Just as special was his abbreviated performance at the Cities '97 Sampler concert. A stunningly fun show.
2) Bob Dylan Moment of the Year: (Tie): First off his wonderful performance of Love Sick (Soy Bomb) at the Grammy's and subsequent winning of the Best Album of the Year for Time Out of Mind. Second his homecoming concert in Duluth. Third his energetic performance the next night at the Target Center. But most of all it was at that show when my friend who I was worried wouldn't like Dylan, turned to me and said, "I LOVE his voice."
1) Most Looked Forward To Moment of the Year: Every Sunday night for the past few years I have had dinner with Mom and Dad. The food is great but the company and conversation is even better. Just another reminder of how blessed I am.
My friend is the proud parent of Kurbie, the world's fiercest Rat Terrier (who sort of looks like a Chihuahua) and she wanted to get the Taco Bell mascot as a gift to Kurbie's doting grandparents. It was a nice moment to remember 1998 by- a year that has been very difficult for me personally and professionally. It was a gentle reminder that in times of trouble if you can keep your mind on a goal, a mission, you can accomplish just about anything. And to share those special moments with friends and family- that's what it ultimately is all about. Here are ten other moments I'll remember the year by:
10) Live Moment of the Year: Los Lobos at the Minnesota Zoo. We were seated four rows from the front of the stage. As the band ripped into One Time One Night in the cool summer air as the dancers swayed in front of the stage I looked into David Hidalgo's eyes and listened to his vocals which were so passionate and pristine. I swear he was singing the song for me.
9) Sporting Moment of the Year: Mark McGwire? Nope. Those incredible Yankees? Not even close. The Macalester women's soccer team winning the national championship? Mighty impressive indeed. But the ultimate sports story was Joan's Jetts, a hapless softball team just a few years back, playing its heart out (with an aging right fielder) and winning the state's softball tournament.
8) Best Song of the Year (Male Vocalist): Imagination by Brian Wilson. Wilson has written better songs that capture his manic genius more impressively but I don't know if he has ever written a song that has touched me more deeply. "To look in your eyes and know how you feel and then realize that nothing's for real." Brian's is a sad story but his music overcomes that. Quite the gift.
7) Best Song of the Year (Female Vocalist): Liz Phair's Polyester Bride. Yes it was great having a new CD from Phair after a lengthy absence. The CD has grown on me with repeated listenings and I always have to smile when this song comes on. "I'm a sucker for your lucky pretty eyes."
6) Best Song of the Year (Group): Fastball's The Way. I heard them perform it on David Letterman and couldn't get the tune out of my head. A few weeks later my friend asked me to pick up the disc because she loved the song. It was then I realized her taste in music was nearly as impeccable as mine. The Latin like rhythm is as irresistible as the McCartneyesque melody.
5) Saddest Farewell of the Year: Frumpy The Clown. He came unexpectedly to the cartoon pages of the Pioneer Press. At first I didn't know what to make of him- an abrasive and caustic clown hired to be the live in nanny for two children. Underneath his squinty weary scowl was a heart of gold. And just as sudden as his appearance he rode of f on an elephant into the sunset never to be seen again. I miss Frumpy.
4) Soundtrack of the Year: Mr. Sinatra's What is This Thing Called Love. I heard the song on one of the many tribute shows after he died. When he gets to the climax line, "So I ask the Lord above, what is this thing called love?" his voice is pure emotion and just smothers your heart. Now I can't stop listening to the song. So long Mr. Frank.
3) John Hiatt Moment of the Year: (Tie) The release of Hiatt's version of The Way We Make a Broken Heart on his Best Of CD. The song was left off his best CD, Riding With the King and was later covered by Rosanne Cash. It was a treat to be able to finally hear John's version. Just as special was his abbreviated performance at the Cities '97 Sampler concert. A stunningly fun show.
2) Bob Dylan Moment of the Year: (Tie): First off his wonderful performance of Love Sick (Soy Bomb) at the Grammy's and subsequent winning of the Best Album of the Year for Time Out of Mind. Second his homecoming concert in Duluth. Third his energetic performance the next night at the Target Center. But most of all it was at that show when my friend who I was worried wouldn't like Dylan, turned to me and said, "I LOVE his voice."
1) Most Looked Forward To Moment of the Year: Every Sunday night for the past few years I have had dinner with Mom and Dad. The food is great but the company and conversation is even better. Just another reminder of how blessed I am.
Monday, December 21, 1998
They're Mossome
Football is to baseball as Cheez Whiz is to Gouda. Baseball is a game of subtle nuances. To fully appreciate it, you have to understand how with every pitch the strategy is different; how depending on the situation (how many runners are on base? what is the weather? what are the stadium factors involved?) the players must react in various ways to succeed. Football despite all its fancy plays ultimately comes down to which of the oversized men can hit each other harder. Baseball isn't over until the last batter is out; football relies on a clock and a coin toss to determine its outcome.
Baseball has always been, and no matter how hard they try to ruin it (extra playoff rounds, growing disparity between large market and small market teams) will always be my favorite game. There is no more exhilarating thing to watch in sports than to see Greg Maddux pitch. There is no more explosive sight than a Mark McGwire home run. But in this time of Presidential sized scandals I have to cleanse my soul and admit that the first time I had my heart broken was in 1973 when the Vikings lost to the Miami Dolphins.
My mother had given me a Vikings yearbook at the beginning of the year. Having just become a Twins fan the previous summer I now switched my attention to this other sport. This was Fran Tarkenton's second year back during his second stint with the team. It was Chuck Foreman's rookie season. The Vikings had gone 10-4 that year and despite having to play the defending champion Dolphins, I was absolutely sure the local team would become the Super Bowl champs. But they played their worse game of the year. My only memories of the game are of the many times it was up to Paul Krause to try and tackle Larry Csonka. The Dolphins ran at will. The Vikings offense went nowhere and it was a painful loss to endure.
The next year my love of the Vikings became even greater. Once again I lived and died with them all season long only to watch another awful Super Bowl performance, this time a 16-6 loss to the underdog Pittsburgh Steelers. (My lone memories from that game are of Mr. Tarkenton having a heck of a time trying to pass over the hands of Steeler lineman L.C. Greenwood. Seems like there were twenty blocked passes that game.)
The biggest heartbreak of all came however in 1975 (the best Vikings team ever until this season) when the team went 12-2 only to lose in that controversial playoff game to Dallas (the Drew Pearson game). It was after this season (with the image of the referee getting hit in the noggin by a liquor bottle) when I decided my heart couldn't take such regular disappointment. The highs of the season were equaled by the lows of the post- season. The Twins who were going through a mediocre stretch in the mid-70's were much easier to take with their .500 seasons and absence from the big game pressures of the playoffs and World Series.
I followed football for a couple more years (and another Viking Super Bowl loss) until my hero, the ever cool Bud Grant announced his retirement. It was to be the last time the Vikings broke my heart. I remember lying in bed on a Saturday morning when my mother came in to tell me of Mr. Bud's decision. I cried.
The Les Steckel year was comical. The Jerry Burns years were mind numbingly tedious. Football was a game to me that increasingly seemed lacking in any personality. Seemed like every game ended up 24-17 or something similar and the players were fast becoming interchangeable (Alfred Anderson or Scottie Graham? Rich Gannon or Gino Torretta? Who the hell cared?)
Before this season I went out on the limb and optimistically told anyone within ear range the Vikings would end up 12-4. I figured their passing attack, impressive as it has been the past few seasons, would be even better with Randy Moss and that the defense with ten returning starters would be much better (especially with the development of Duane Ruud). But being the casual football fan that I was, and despite my high expectations, I couldn't possibly imagine the dominance this team would have. I figured twelve wins was stretching the limits. Now anything less than a Super Bowl appearance would be down right disheartening.
Of course the question for me is can I watch another Vikings' Super Bowl appearance? I have finally after twenty years let the team back inside my heart to the extent I actually have watched most of their games this season (except their appearance in Chicago which I couldn't watch for personal reasons). If they don't make it to the Super Bowl it will be disappointing (just watch them lose to Green Bay). But if they make it to the Super Bowl and lose... someone may have to come and take me away.
Baseball has always been, and no matter how hard they try to ruin it (extra playoff rounds, growing disparity between large market and small market teams) will always be my favorite game. There is no more exhilarating thing to watch in sports than to see Greg Maddux pitch. There is no more explosive sight than a Mark McGwire home run. But in this time of Presidential sized scandals I have to cleanse my soul and admit that the first time I had my heart broken was in 1973 when the Vikings lost to the Miami Dolphins.
My mother had given me a Vikings yearbook at the beginning of the year. Having just become a Twins fan the previous summer I now switched my attention to this other sport. This was Fran Tarkenton's second year back during his second stint with the team. It was Chuck Foreman's rookie season. The Vikings had gone 10-4 that year and despite having to play the defending champion Dolphins, I was absolutely sure the local team would become the Super Bowl champs. But they played their worse game of the year. My only memories of the game are of the many times it was up to Paul Krause to try and tackle Larry Csonka. The Dolphins ran at will. The Vikings offense went nowhere and it was a painful loss to endure.
The next year my love of the Vikings became even greater. Once again I lived and died with them all season long only to watch another awful Super Bowl performance, this time a 16-6 loss to the underdog Pittsburgh Steelers. (My lone memories from that game are of Mr. Tarkenton having a heck of a time trying to pass over the hands of Steeler lineman L.C. Greenwood. Seems like there were twenty blocked passes that game.)
The biggest heartbreak of all came however in 1975 (the best Vikings team ever until this season) when the team went 12-2 only to lose in that controversial playoff game to Dallas (the Drew Pearson game). It was after this season (with the image of the referee getting hit in the noggin by a liquor bottle) when I decided my heart couldn't take such regular disappointment. The highs of the season were equaled by the lows of the post- season. The Twins who were going through a mediocre stretch in the mid-70's were much easier to take with their .500 seasons and absence from the big game pressures of the playoffs and World Series.
I followed football for a couple more years (and another Viking Super Bowl loss) until my hero, the ever cool Bud Grant announced his retirement. It was to be the last time the Vikings broke my heart. I remember lying in bed on a Saturday morning when my mother came in to tell me of Mr. Bud's decision. I cried.
The Les Steckel year was comical. The Jerry Burns years were mind numbingly tedious. Football was a game to me that increasingly seemed lacking in any personality. Seemed like every game ended up 24-17 or something similar and the players were fast becoming interchangeable (Alfred Anderson or Scottie Graham? Rich Gannon or Gino Torretta? Who the hell cared?)
Before this season I went out on the limb and optimistically told anyone within ear range the Vikings would end up 12-4. I figured their passing attack, impressive as it has been the past few seasons, would be even better with Randy Moss and that the defense with ten returning starters would be much better (especially with the development of Duane Ruud). But being the casual football fan that I was, and despite my high expectations, I couldn't possibly imagine the dominance this team would have. I figured twelve wins was stretching the limits. Now anything less than a Super Bowl appearance would be down right disheartening.
Of course the question for me is can I watch another Vikings' Super Bowl appearance? I have finally after twenty years let the team back inside my heart to the extent I actually have watched most of their games this season (except their appearance in Chicago which I couldn't watch for personal reasons). If they don't make it to the Super Bowl it will be disappointing (just watch them lose to Green Bay). But if they make it to the Super Bowl and lose... someone may have to come and take me away.
Monday, December 14, 1998
Dammit Jim, I'm a Dork
In a fit of indiscretion I once admitted to the World's Greatest Helmetless Soccer Player that as a child I enjoyed watching Star Trek. She thus lumped me in with all those Spock eared wearing techies so associated with the show who have developed a near religious like following (which is a tad bit scary in its devotion ) to all things Star Trek. I even admitted to watching The Next Generation because it was the only way I could talk to my nephew who was the show's number one fan (and as you all know, it's very important for me to be able to talk to the kids as part of my ongoing tough love program).
Once she had that bit of dirt on me however, the World's Greatest Helmetless Soccer Player couldn't resist giving me the business. Though she had seen every other movie ever made she insisted she had never stooped to watching any of the Star Trek movies. On the day that the Hale Bop news hit the airwaves she made it a point to call me up to check to see if I had gotten my purple shroud and Nikes out of the closet (I think she was relieved to know I hadn't). I don't think I was ever a "Trekkie" or a "Trekker." My tolerance level of the show is it is OK to watch but I needn't study any of its pseudo philosophies. If I have to watch a TV science fiction show I much prefer Red Dwarf.
Thus as I was standing in line to see the latest movie in the series, Star Trek Insurrection, I must admit I really gave my harshest pair of skunk eyes to the gentleman standing in the lobby dressed in a Starfleet uniform. I may have sunk quite low these days but as this sighting so accurately proved, there is a whole social strata below me. So I'm a bit sheepish to report that I actually quite enjoyed the movie. The energy crackles from the screen and there are bits of humor that work- which is in distinct difference to much of the series' writing.
Insurrection is sort of an update of the second Star Trek movie, The Wrath of Khan. In that movie the crew was battling a madman who was after the scientific equivalent of Genesis. In Insurrection the crew is battling a madman who is after the scientific equivalent of the fountain of youth. Early on I thought I was really in for something special as they hinted at an anti-technology theme underneath the main story line questioning when the good of the many is worth sacrificing the good of the minority. By the end of the movie of course, that anti-technology sentiment is watered down as we see what the series always teaches us: to live a more spiritually pure life requires the rescue of conventional heroes with their computers and weapons (sort of an update of Witness). Like all good Star Trek films, Insurrection gives us a little sermon to ponder: about the benefits of living in the moment; of somehow stopping time to appreciate what's in front of us. Stopping time is what the greatest movies magically do for us, and that this movie doesn't quite manage to do it without openly stating the notion is one of the film's few flaws.
Things I learned and was amused by? That Dr. Bev (still looking fab) is quite the sharp shooter. That in an emergency, Data can be used as a floatation device. Seeing Worf go through Klingon puberty. Things I wasn't so amused by and didn't really need to see or know? Commander Riker in a frisky mood; Deanna Troi talk about her boobs; Jean-Luc get all googly eyed over an older woman (We expect that from Cap'n Kirk and expect better from Cap'n Picard).
Insurrection is one of the better efforts of the entire series. The movie moves at a brisk pace and the villain (played by F. Murray Abraham) isn't merely evil incarnate, but rather a fleshed out (with stretchy skin) character (we're even allowed to understand what is at the root of his madness). I doubt the World's Greatest Helmetless Soccer Player will stand in line to see the film, but if she should happen to think of me while seeing an ad or a preview, I hope she understands just how much she is missing.
Once she had that bit of dirt on me however, the World's Greatest Helmetless Soccer Player couldn't resist giving me the business. Though she had seen every other movie ever made she insisted she had never stooped to watching any of the Star Trek movies. On the day that the Hale Bop news hit the airwaves she made it a point to call me up to check to see if I had gotten my purple shroud and Nikes out of the closet (I think she was relieved to know I hadn't). I don't think I was ever a "Trekkie" or a "Trekker." My tolerance level of the show is it is OK to watch but I needn't study any of its pseudo philosophies. If I have to watch a TV science fiction show I much prefer Red Dwarf.
Thus as I was standing in line to see the latest movie in the series, Star Trek Insurrection, I must admit I really gave my harshest pair of skunk eyes to the gentleman standing in the lobby dressed in a Starfleet uniform. I may have sunk quite low these days but as this sighting so accurately proved, there is a whole social strata below me. So I'm a bit sheepish to report that I actually quite enjoyed the movie. The energy crackles from the screen and there are bits of humor that work- which is in distinct difference to much of the series' writing.
Insurrection is sort of an update of the second Star Trek movie, The Wrath of Khan. In that movie the crew was battling a madman who was after the scientific equivalent of Genesis. In Insurrection the crew is battling a madman who is after the scientific equivalent of the fountain of youth. Early on I thought I was really in for something special as they hinted at an anti-technology theme underneath the main story line questioning when the good of the many is worth sacrificing the good of the minority. By the end of the movie of course, that anti-technology sentiment is watered down as we see what the series always teaches us: to live a more spiritually pure life requires the rescue of conventional heroes with their computers and weapons (sort of an update of Witness). Like all good Star Trek films, Insurrection gives us a little sermon to ponder: about the benefits of living in the moment; of somehow stopping time to appreciate what's in front of us. Stopping time is what the greatest movies magically do for us, and that this movie doesn't quite manage to do it without openly stating the notion is one of the film's few flaws.
Things I learned and was amused by? That Dr. Bev (still looking fab) is quite the sharp shooter. That in an emergency, Data can be used as a floatation device. Seeing Worf go through Klingon puberty. Things I wasn't so amused by and didn't really need to see or know? Commander Riker in a frisky mood; Deanna Troi talk about her boobs; Jean-Luc get all googly eyed over an older woman (We expect that from Cap'n Kirk and expect better from Cap'n Picard).
Insurrection is one of the better efforts of the entire series. The movie moves at a brisk pace and the villain (played by F. Murray Abraham) isn't merely evil incarnate, but rather a fleshed out (with stretchy skin) character (we're even allowed to understand what is at the root of his madness). I doubt the World's Greatest Helmetless Soccer Player will stand in line to see the film, but if she should happen to think of me while seeing an ad or a preview, I hope she understands just how much she is missing.
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