Santa Claus has a sarcastic side, at least in our house he does.
Prior to coming Christmas Eve, my 6-year-old son, Braden, wanted to set something out for him to eat. “Santa will like some candy,” said the boy, setting out four Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for the big man.
“I’m not sure Santa would want that,” I told Braden. “He gets sweets everywhere he goes tonight. Why not set out some chips and salsa? I bet he would really like that.”
“Nope. He wants candy.”
“I think you’re wrong on that one.”
I lost the argument, and we left out some candy for him.
The next morning Braden woke my wife and me up fairly late, at 7 a.m. much to our delight, and was excited not just for the gifts under the tree but also for the note Santa left him.
“What does it say?” my wife asked, encouraging him to use his new reading skills.
Braden read the note: “Dear Braden. Thanks for the candy, but some chips and salsa would have been nice. Santa.” He struggled with the words “chips” and “salsa,” but otherwise read it perfectly.
“I guess you were right Dad. Santa would have liked some chips and salsa better.”
Validation. It’s always nice, but I think I had the advantage on that one so I’m not sure it counts. Besides, I think Santa helped himself to some chips and salsa right before saying “Ho, ho, ho,” which Braden insists he heard that night. He might be right on that one.
When I was a kid, we always left out cookies and milk for Santa, as well as carrots for his reindeer. Santa was always nice in return, leaving appreciative notes.
Santa has found his sarcastic side now, the victim of several decades of sarcasm that bombarded my entire generation. Kids in films always had to be more sarcastic than the kid next to him or her, and the laugh tracks of comedy series on television were set to go off with every sarcastic comment by characters like Jerry Seinfeld and Roseanne.
It’s such a part of our lexicon now that even Braden knows its definition, much to his great aunt Barb’s amazement Christmas Eve when he told her someone’s comment was sarcastic. As her mouth dropped from his correct usage of the term, my wife told her he also can define “lines of symmetry.”
“I couldn’t tell you what they were,” she said. “What are they Braden?”
He pointed to her television stand, at a line created by a pair of cupboard shelves, and said it’s the line of symmetry because it divides the rectangle in half and creates two rectangles that are exactly the same.
I’m glad he defined it for her, because even though I was on my school’s geometry team in high school, I couldn’t remember it.
“Pretty simple,” Braden told her, dripping his statement with a bit of sarcasm.
I can’t wait until I see what types of notes Santa leaves his children.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 30, 2011.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Picture sometimes needed to put right face to a name
You might notice something different with my column this week: my picture. After years of refusing to put it in the paper, I’m finally giving in – not because I want everyone to put a face to my name, but more so because I don’t want people putting the wrong face to my name.
You see, I met the wife of a Gazette employee for the first time at the company Christmas party last week. She told me she was a fan of my column (her words – I’m not trying to make myself seem more important than I really am), but said she said was surprised by my looks. Apparently, I look nothing like she imagined I would.
She thought I would be short, pudgy and much balder. In other words, George Costanza.
In real life, I’m 6’4”, and while I could lose another 30 pounds, I think I carry my weight fairly well in a sturdy German-like package. I won’t deny that I’m balding, but I’ll note I still have some hair up there, which I keep short to disguise how thin it really is.
I wear glasses some of the time but mostly wear contacts, and I have braces on my teeth but they are coming off Jan. 16. When they do, I won’t be afraid to smile like I have most of my life.
I also have big lips. Not cool Steven Tyler of Aerosmith-type lips, but fat ones that make me look like I have a big mouth. I can have a big mouth, but I also know when to keep it shut.
I usually have a goatee and sideburns, although I sometimes let the hair grow all over my face when I desire to have a beard. I grow the beard to assure myself once in awhile that I still have the ability to grow hair on my head.
I’m also one of the whitest people I know. My Irish blood doesn’t allow me to stay out in the sun too long, so I can sympathize with the vampires in “The Twilight Saga” and “True Blood.” When I was younger, I hated my inability to tan, but now that I’m older and wiser, I realize tanning isn’t really important in the big scheme of things, especially with the health risk involved.
My white skin comes with a lot of moles. Moles on my hands, arms, legs, back and face. A dermatologist removed a large ugly mole near my eye last year, much to my delight, as well as several other moles she suspected could be trouble. They weren’t, but I’ll continue to return as my mom had a cancerous one removed earlier this year.
That’s me in words, and my picture with this column proves it. I definitely don’t want people thinking I’m George Costanza, although I’d love to be him for a day if it means I can drape myself in velvet like he once did. I’d agree with him in saying I’d wear it if it were socially acceptable.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 23, 2011.
You see, I met the wife of a Gazette employee for the first time at the company Christmas party last week. She told me she was a fan of my column (her words – I’m not trying to make myself seem more important than I really am), but said she said was surprised by my looks. Apparently, I look nothing like she imagined I would.
She thought I would be short, pudgy and much balder. In other words, George Costanza.
In real life, I’m 6’4”, and while I could lose another 30 pounds, I think I carry my weight fairly well in a sturdy German-like package. I won’t deny that I’m balding, but I’ll note I still have some hair up there, which I keep short to disguise how thin it really is.
I wear glasses some of the time but mostly wear contacts, and I have braces on my teeth but they are coming off Jan. 16. When they do, I won’t be afraid to smile like I have most of my life.
I also have big lips. Not cool Steven Tyler of Aerosmith-type lips, but fat ones that make me look like I have a big mouth. I can have a big mouth, but I also know when to keep it shut.
I usually have a goatee and sideburns, although I sometimes let the hair grow all over my face when I desire to have a beard. I grow the beard to assure myself once in awhile that I still have the ability to grow hair on my head.
I’m also one of the whitest people I know. My Irish blood doesn’t allow me to stay out in the sun too long, so I can sympathize with the vampires in “The Twilight Saga” and “True Blood.” When I was younger, I hated my inability to tan, but now that I’m older and wiser, I realize tanning isn’t really important in the big scheme of things, especially with the health risk involved.
My white skin comes with a lot of moles. Moles on my hands, arms, legs, back and face. A dermatologist removed a large ugly mole near my eye last year, much to my delight, as well as several other moles she suspected could be trouble. They weren’t, but I’ll continue to return as my mom had a cancerous one removed earlier this year.
That’s me in words, and my picture with this column proves it. I definitely don’t want people thinking I’m George Costanza, although I’d love to be him for a day if it means I can drape myself in velvet like he once did. I’d agree with him in saying I’d wear it if it were socially acceptable.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 23, 2011.
Doomsday may be less than year away, if Mayans are correct
I hope everybody has some fun in the next 12 months, as we are now less than one year away from the apocalypse, if you believe the Mayans are correct in their end of time prophecy.
Actually, the claims about the prophecy are disputable; plenty of people say they have been misinterpreted. For fun, though, let’s imagine the world will end on Dec. 21, 2012, because that’s always a fun thing to do.
I don’t have a “bucket list,” as my biggest goal in life is just to achieve a triple-triple word playing Scrabble. It’s not much of a goal, and I do expect to achieve it someday, but so far in more than 600 online games against friends it has eluded me. I’d feel bad about this petty goal, and the fact I spend so much time playing Scrabble (that has been over a two-year period in which I have compiled a fairly impressive 497-106 record), but a friend I play against has the same goal in life, which makes me feel somewhat better.
Not having a bucket list means I can pretty much do what I want during this possible final year of life on this planet. Of course, what I choose to do will be with my family, which includes my 6-year-old son, Braden. This means I won’t be climbing to the top of Mount Everest, which is something I’d love to try although I’m afraid of heights, hate the cold and I’ve read Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air,” which should pretty much dissuade anybody from ever trying the endeavor.
So limited in what I’ll pursue, the first thing I’ll do with my family is go someplace warm for the winter. I don’t care where, as long as it has a beach. The only ocean beach I’ve ever been on was in San Francisco this past January, and that hardly counted because I only touched the water once just to say I touched the ocean. I wouldn’t want the apocalypse to come next year without having even touched it. On a warm beach, though, I can submerge myself in the ocean waters and try to get over my fear of sharks eating me. I have a feeling I won’t be too scared of this, because becoming shark bait would be slightly better than becoming just another apocalypse victim like billions of others.
If I manage to survive the ocean, the next thing we’ll do is road-trip through the various sites in America. My wife has told me she would never take a long car trip with me, because of some minor road rage issues she says I have, but I believe I could control myself knowing bad drivers will get their due on 12-21-12. Then again, my time is limited, and if I have to follow a slow Ford Focus in a city where every traffic light I encounter turns red as I get there, then I might get upset.
We’d go out west first, to take Braden to cool places like the Badlands and Yellowstone Park, as well as the Idaho isthmus where he has told me he’s wanted to go. I’m not sure what’s there – hopefully not just potatoes – but I think it would be fun to find out.
Then we’ll go down South, so I can explore the rock and roll, jazz, and country music scenes cities there are famous for. And to eat authentic Southern food, which I’ve never had.
We’ll head up on the East Coast in the final leg of our American tour, stopping in Washington, D.C., New York and Boston on our way.
At home, every day would be a fun day, and nothing would be off the table. If Braden wants me to build him a tree fort, I’ll try to find a way, even though we don’t have any trees and I don’t have any building skills. It’ll probably be the worst nontree fort in history, but we won’t care. The apocalypse will be coming anyway.
After we have our fun at home, and if money and time are still available, we’d then go to Europe. I might have to wait until after 2012 for that one, though, as I have a feeling we’ll still be around. What do those Mayans know anyway?
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 16, 2011.
Actually, the claims about the prophecy are disputable; plenty of people say they have been misinterpreted. For fun, though, let’s imagine the world will end on Dec. 21, 2012, because that’s always a fun thing to do.
I don’t have a “bucket list,” as my biggest goal in life is just to achieve a triple-triple word playing Scrabble. It’s not much of a goal, and I do expect to achieve it someday, but so far in more than 600 online games against friends it has eluded me. I’d feel bad about this petty goal, and the fact I spend so much time playing Scrabble (that has been over a two-year period in which I have compiled a fairly impressive 497-106 record), but a friend I play against has the same goal in life, which makes me feel somewhat better.
Not having a bucket list means I can pretty much do what I want during this possible final year of life on this planet. Of course, what I choose to do will be with my family, which includes my 6-year-old son, Braden. This means I won’t be climbing to the top of Mount Everest, which is something I’d love to try although I’m afraid of heights, hate the cold and I’ve read Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air,” which should pretty much dissuade anybody from ever trying the endeavor.
So limited in what I’ll pursue, the first thing I’ll do with my family is go someplace warm for the winter. I don’t care where, as long as it has a beach. The only ocean beach I’ve ever been on was in San Francisco this past January, and that hardly counted because I only touched the water once just to say I touched the ocean. I wouldn’t want the apocalypse to come next year without having even touched it. On a warm beach, though, I can submerge myself in the ocean waters and try to get over my fear of sharks eating me. I have a feeling I won’t be too scared of this, because becoming shark bait would be slightly better than becoming just another apocalypse victim like billions of others.
If I manage to survive the ocean, the next thing we’ll do is road-trip through the various sites in America. My wife has told me she would never take a long car trip with me, because of some minor road rage issues she says I have, but I believe I could control myself knowing bad drivers will get their due on 12-21-12. Then again, my time is limited, and if I have to follow a slow Ford Focus in a city where every traffic light I encounter turns red as I get there, then I might get upset.
We’d go out west first, to take Braden to cool places like the Badlands and Yellowstone Park, as well as the Idaho isthmus where he has told me he’s wanted to go. I’m not sure what’s there – hopefully not just potatoes – but I think it would be fun to find out.
Then we’ll go down South, so I can explore the rock and roll, jazz, and country music scenes cities there are famous for. And to eat authentic Southern food, which I’ve never had.
We’ll head up on the East Coast in the final leg of our American tour, stopping in Washington, D.C., New York and Boston on our way.
At home, every day would be a fun day, and nothing would be off the table. If Braden wants me to build him a tree fort, I’ll try to find a way, even though we don’t have any trees and I don’t have any building skills. It’ll probably be the worst nontree fort in history, but we won’t care. The apocalypse will be coming anyway.
After we have our fun at home, and if money and time are still available, we’d then go to Europe. I might have to wait until after 2012 for that one, though, as I have a feeling we’ll still be around. What do those Mayans know anyway?
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 16, 2011.
Second guessing technology experts can bring favorable results.
Just because some of us might not be considered technology experts, doesn’t mean we’re stupid.
Twice in the past week I learned of two examples in which so-called experts looked down on some mere “amateurs” and tried to make them look stupid. Unfortunately for the experts, they only made themselves look stupid.
The first example occurred when someone I knew went to a certain cell phone company to replace a phone a washer had destroyed. He had another phone already, so he didn’t need to buy a new one; he just needed the number from his old phone switched to the other phone.
The customer service representative looked at the phones and said the switch wouldn’t work. “That’s an Alltel phone and won’t work,” he said.
Either the guy was new to the company or he was trying to pull a fast one to sell a new phone, but Alltel was the company his had been until a switch took place last year that frustrated thousands of customers. Yes, it was an Alltel phone, but it still was compatible with the phone company he worked for.
Instead of arguing with the customer service representative, the guy went home and got his wife’s cell phone, which was identical to the one he was trying to switch to. Realizing he wasn’t going to fool the guy, the customer service representative reluctantly made the switch, but not before trying to argue the battery was dead in the new cell phone so it wouldn’t work. The guy simply took the battery from his wife’s phone and put it in the new one and said, “make the switch.”
The second example occurred to me as I was attempting to get some help from the computer lab support person at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point library.
On Sunday, while working on a paper, the computer at the library stopped working. I had saved my file recently, but apparently I had saved it to the wrong file on the computer desktop and not the H drive as I didn’t know I was supposed to do, unbeknownst to me.
Figuring I’d come back when the computer was working, I left, not worrying too much about it. When I came back on Wednesday morning, I discovered the computer and the three others around it were “Out of Order.” Now I was worried.
I told the nearest library employee about my situation and he kindly referred me to the computer lab assistant who referred me to another person who promptly told me that nothing could be done about it. The hard drive was probably wiped and I would have lost everything, she said.
Confused by the word “probably,” I explained my situation again, wondering why she made such an assumption that the hard drive was wiped. Thankfully I did so, because one of the library’s computer guys, Miles, overheard the conversation and stepped in. “If the problem is affecting other computers around it, the hard drives probably weren’t wiped,” he said as we took a walk upstairs to look at the situation.
He looked at the computers and determined something must have gone wrong with the wiring and that he would fix the issue before I came back later in the afternoon. He assured me the hard drive hadn’t been wiped and that I will be able to access my report when I return.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed he’s right, but I’m definitely thankful he got involved in my situation. I’m thankful too I questioned the initial diagnosis. Just because I’m not an expert, doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
The moral of the story: don’t be afraid to second guess what someone may tell you in technological matters. Second guessing might bring favorable results (or at least I hope in my case, which is yet to be fully determined).
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 9, 2011.
Twice in the past week I learned of two examples in which so-called experts looked down on some mere “amateurs” and tried to make them look stupid. Unfortunately for the experts, they only made themselves look stupid.
The first example occurred when someone I knew went to a certain cell phone company to replace a phone a washer had destroyed. He had another phone already, so he didn’t need to buy a new one; he just needed the number from his old phone switched to the other phone.
The customer service representative looked at the phones and said the switch wouldn’t work. “That’s an Alltel phone and won’t work,” he said.
Either the guy was new to the company or he was trying to pull a fast one to sell a new phone, but Alltel was the company his had been until a switch took place last year that frustrated thousands of customers. Yes, it was an Alltel phone, but it still was compatible with the phone company he worked for.
Instead of arguing with the customer service representative, the guy went home and got his wife’s cell phone, which was identical to the one he was trying to switch to. Realizing he wasn’t going to fool the guy, the customer service representative reluctantly made the switch, but not before trying to argue the battery was dead in the new cell phone so it wouldn’t work. The guy simply took the battery from his wife’s phone and put it in the new one and said, “make the switch.”
The second example occurred to me as I was attempting to get some help from the computer lab support person at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point library.
On Sunday, while working on a paper, the computer at the library stopped working. I had saved my file recently, but apparently I had saved it to the wrong file on the computer desktop and not the H drive as I didn’t know I was supposed to do, unbeknownst to me.
Figuring I’d come back when the computer was working, I left, not worrying too much about it. When I came back on Wednesday morning, I discovered the computer and the three others around it were “Out of Order.” Now I was worried.
I told the nearest library employee about my situation and he kindly referred me to the computer lab assistant who referred me to another person who promptly told me that nothing could be done about it. The hard drive was probably wiped and I would have lost everything, she said.
Confused by the word “probably,” I explained my situation again, wondering why she made such an assumption that the hard drive was wiped. Thankfully I did so, because one of the library’s computer guys, Miles, overheard the conversation and stepped in. “If the problem is affecting other computers around it, the hard drives probably weren’t wiped,” he said as we took a walk upstairs to look at the situation.
He looked at the computers and determined something must have gone wrong with the wiring and that he would fix the issue before I came back later in the afternoon. He assured me the hard drive hadn’t been wiped and that I will be able to access my report when I return.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed he’s right, but I’m definitely thankful he got involved in my situation. I’m thankful too I questioned the initial diagnosis. Just because I’m not an expert, doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
The moral of the story: don’t be afraid to second guess what someone may tell you in technological matters. Second guessing might bring favorable results (or at least I hope in my case, which is yet to be fully determined).
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 9, 2011.
Child negotiators can be tough to deal with
If you give my 6-year-old son, Braden, an inch, he’ll try to take 10.
Actually, with his math, he’ll try to take 50 inches.
Braden has the makings of a world-class negotiator. An example:
The other night he had his first loose tooth. My wife and his mother, Jenny, told him the Tooth Fairy would bring him $2 if the tooth was extra shiny and clean when it fell out, hoping that would encourage him to brush his teeth better every day.
“If it is super extra shiny, bright and clean, maybe she’ll bring me $100,” he responded, attempting to increase the amount by 50.
Fortunately, Jenny was quick with her own response. “I don’t think she has that much money,” she said.
Everything is a negotiation with the kid.
“Braden, five minutes until bedtime,” I’ll tell him.
“Can it be 10 minutes?” he’ll ask.
“You can have one cookie.”
“Can I have three?”
“If you want dessert, you’ll have to eat this much on your plate,” we’ll tell him, showing him how much he needs to eat.
“Can I eat only that much?” he’ll say, moving some of the food we said he has to eat to the other side containing food he doesn’t have to eat.
I’m pretty sure most parents of young children have to deal with similar negotiations, but Braden is persistent about it, even though he rarely wins because Jenny and I are both too stubborn to let him. “No” is usually our final answer.
He’ll often try again, with a different figure less than what he was asking before, but our answer is still “no.”
Jenny’s response then is “This is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship and Mommy is the boss.”
That’s fine now, but wait until he starts learning about real-life dictators in history classes. She might not like the comparisons he’ll make then.
I believe he continues to negotiate, even though he knows he won’t win, because he has several grandmothers who allow him to win more often than not. It’s hard to blame them, because grandmas are supposed to spoil grandchildren and allowing them to win negotiations is part of the spoiling process.
I know this because it’s how I operated when I was a kid. If my mother didn’t allow something to happen, I’d just wait until I saw one of my grandmas and ask them. It usually worked.
I’m sure his negotiations probably annoy some of his teachers, but they probably have a lot of experience handling such manners. After all, they probably hear them multiple times an hour and know giving in to their demands would not be good for them in their career.
Jenny and I believe Braden will be an arbitrator when he gets older. For the most part, he’s scientific with his negotiations and tries to keep emotion out of it. He’ll often give good reasons why people should give in to his demands. He once told a babysitter that sometimes we allow him to stay up past 8:30 p.m., so she should do so despite our request to have him in bed by that time.
He’s correct in saying that, because there are times he can go to bed later, but he left out the fact that those times only occur on special occasions. Fortunately the babysitter didn’t listen to him.
At least he hasn’t gotten to the stage of promising to do more chores if we give in to him. I remember telling my mother I’ll do dishes for a week straight if she bought me something at a store. It often worked, too.
When he gets to this point, then we might be in trouble.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 2, 2011
Actually, with his math, he’ll try to take 50 inches.
Braden has the makings of a world-class negotiator. An example:
The other night he had his first loose tooth. My wife and his mother, Jenny, told him the Tooth Fairy would bring him $2 if the tooth was extra shiny and clean when it fell out, hoping that would encourage him to brush his teeth better every day.
“If it is super extra shiny, bright and clean, maybe she’ll bring me $100,” he responded, attempting to increase the amount by 50.
Fortunately, Jenny was quick with her own response. “I don’t think she has that much money,” she said.
Everything is a negotiation with the kid.
“Braden, five minutes until bedtime,” I’ll tell him.
“Can it be 10 minutes?” he’ll ask.
“You can have one cookie.”
“Can I have three?”
“If you want dessert, you’ll have to eat this much on your plate,” we’ll tell him, showing him how much he needs to eat.
“Can I eat only that much?” he’ll say, moving some of the food we said he has to eat to the other side containing food he doesn’t have to eat.
I’m pretty sure most parents of young children have to deal with similar negotiations, but Braden is persistent about it, even though he rarely wins because Jenny and I are both too stubborn to let him. “No” is usually our final answer.
He’ll often try again, with a different figure less than what he was asking before, but our answer is still “no.”
Jenny’s response then is “This is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship and Mommy is the boss.”
That’s fine now, but wait until he starts learning about real-life dictators in history classes. She might not like the comparisons he’ll make then.
I believe he continues to negotiate, even though he knows he won’t win, because he has several grandmothers who allow him to win more often than not. It’s hard to blame them, because grandmas are supposed to spoil grandchildren and allowing them to win negotiations is part of the spoiling process.
I know this because it’s how I operated when I was a kid. If my mother didn’t allow something to happen, I’d just wait until I saw one of my grandmas and ask them. It usually worked.
I’m sure his negotiations probably annoy some of his teachers, but they probably have a lot of experience handling such manners. After all, they probably hear them multiple times an hour and know giving in to their demands would not be good for them in their career.
Jenny and I believe Braden will be an arbitrator when he gets older. For the most part, he’s scientific with his negotiations and tries to keep emotion out of it. He’ll often give good reasons why people should give in to his demands. He once told a babysitter that sometimes we allow him to stay up past 8:30 p.m., so she should do so despite our request to have him in bed by that time.
He’s correct in saying that, because there are times he can go to bed later, but he left out the fact that those times only occur on special occasions. Fortunately the babysitter didn’t listen to him.
At least he hasn’t gotten to the stage of promising to do more chores if we give in to him. I remember telling my mother I’ll do dishes for a week straight if she bought me something at a store. It often worked, too.
When he gets to this point, then we might be in trouble.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 2, 2011
Service could help deliver not so good news to people who need to hear it
Earlier this week I overheard a conversation in which the two participants talked about how no one wanted to deliver bad news to a specific person, and as a result this person was oblivious to a certain fact that affects her.
The news wasn’t really bad, in the sense of truly bad news like someone dying, but it was something that she wasn’t going to like when she heard it.
One of the people in the conversation said this person should have picked up on the clues about this fact, but so far she had not figured it out.
That’s when I interjected myself into the conversation. “I’d be happy to deliver that news to this person,” I said.
It’s not that I like to be the bearer of bad news, because truly bad news is something I’d never want to deliver, but in this case something needed to be said to her, and nobody seemed to have the heart to tell her.
Since I don’t know her, and the news wasn’t anything awful that would change her life, I figured it would be kind of fun to be a random stranger telling someone something not so good.
In fact, I thought, I could start a service: Bearers of Not Really Bad News and in parenthesis, But Not Good News Either.
I often have ideas for services I can start, although I’ve never actually started any, but this one seems like one of my better ideas. If you have to tell someone they are no longer wanted as a friend, I could be there. “So and so no longer enjoys your company. As a result, he is terminating your friendship.”
Even better, I could deliver news about a break-up. “Sorry, so-and-so is moving on. You need to also.”
Or I could let someone know they didn’t make a sports team. “Sorry, you weren’t good enough to make the baseball team. Try golf.”
Telling someone their cooking stinks and nobody wants to eat it would be fun. “Sorry, you don’t need to bring anything to so-and-so’s party. Nobody there wants to eat your food.”
Maybe I could tell an old person he or she shouldn’t drive anymore. “Sorry, so-and-so is concerned you are going to get into an accident. So we’re taking your keys away. Take a cab.”
This all sounds cruel, and I probably sound like a jerk for even considering such a service, but it seems like this service is needed if people can’t deliver such news themselves. Ultimately, this service delivers what’s needed to be said, and at the same time relieves the anxiety of those who don’t want to bear bad news. It seems like a win-win to me.
I just hope nobody has to hire me to tell me my idea kind of stinks.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 25, 2011.
The news wasn’t really bad, in the sense of truly bad news like someone dying, but it was something that she wasn’t going to like when she heard it.
One of the people in the conversation said this person should have picked up on the clues about this fact, but so far she had not figured it out.
That’s when I interjected myself into the conversation. “I’d be happy to deliver that news to this person,” I said.
It’s not that I like to be the bearer of bad news, because truly bad news is something I’d never want to deliver, but in this case something needed to be said to her, and nobody seemed to have the heart to tell her.
Since I don’t know her, and the news wasn’t anything awful that would change her life, I figured it would be kind of fun to be a random stranger telling someone something not so good.
In fact, I thought, I could start a service: Bearers of Not Really Bad News and in parenthesis, But Not Good News Either.
I often have ideas for services I can start, although I’ve never actually started any, but this one seems like one of my better ideas. If you have to tell someone they are no longer wanted as a friend, I could be there. “So and so no longer enjoys your company. As a result, he is terminating your friendship.”
Even better, I could deliver news about a break-up. “Sorry, so-and-so is moving on. You need to also.”
Or I could let someone know they didn’t make a sports team. “Sorry, you weren’t good enough to make the baseball team. Try golf.”
Telling someone their cooking stinks and nobody wants to eat it would be fun. “Sorry, you don’t need to bring anything to so-and-so’s party. Nobody there wants to eat your food.”
Maybe I could tell an old person he or she shouldn’t drive anymore. “Sorry, so-and-so is concerned you are going to get into an accident. So we’re taking your keys away. Take a cab.”
This all sounds cruel, and I probably sound like a jerk for even considering such a service, but it seems like this service is needed if people can’t deliver such news themselves. Ultimately, this service delivers what’s needed to be said, and at the same time relieves the anxiety of those who don’t want to bear bad news. It seems like a win-win to me.
I just hope nobody has to hire me to tell me my idea kind of stinks.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 25, 2011.
Pit of Doom returns bigger than ever
The Pit of Doom is back, and it’s bigger than ever before.
No, the Pit of Doom is not the Sarlacc Pit that swallowed ultracool bounty hunter Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” and it’s not some megahard olive pit that may have destroyed your back molar.’
It’s the name I gave to my wife’s purse years ago, and one that caught on with other husbands I know, including my late father-in-law who used to joke around with me that his wife’s Pit of Doom was bigger and deadlier than my wife’s.
Both of us knew that once an item went into the Pit of Doom, there was only a 50-50 chance it was ever coming out again.
But something strange happened over the years. The Pit of Doom shrunk. With every incarnation, it got smaller, to the point I rarely referred to it as the Pit of Doom. I figured smaller purses must have been the trend, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.
But out of nowhere the Pit of Doom returned. My wife said to me, as she often has, “I got a new purse.” Figuring I’d have to do the obligatory “It looks very nice,” my mouth nearly dropped when she showed me something not much smaller than a larger carry-on luggage bag.
“Whose body do you plan on hiding in there?” I asked, thinking maybe mine for even asking the question.
“Nobody’s,” she laughed. “I just liked it.” She probably said something about it being on sale, but I missed that because I was still awed at the sheer size of it, like people probably felt upon encountering the Titanic prior to its fateful maiden voyage.
I dropped the subject, figuring that maybe such a big purse would actually eliminate previous Pit of Doom issues, purely on the fact she could just stick her head in there when she needed to find something, making the task much easier.
That wasn’t to be, though, as I often started hearing the once familiar phrase of “I can’t find it in my purse.” Like the Bermuda Triangle, things have gone missing again, with little hope of ever being found again.
The Pit of Doom has its benefits when things aren’t getting lost in it, though. Needing a scissors one day, my wife pulled one out of her purse. I’m guessing not many other people can have scissors ready like that at their disposal.
With concealed carry, a gun is likely to get lost in the Pit of Doom, but the purse itself could serve as an effective weapon, so I don’t ever have to worry about her safety. Should she ever need it, she would just have to swing the purse and hit her target. The only problem would be having enough momentum to actually swing the purse.
I can joke all I want, but I wouldn’t dare print this without giving my wife her say. Her comment:
“I will accept and acknowledge that my purse has, on multiple occasions, become the final resting place of many an item which is never to be seen again. I attribute this to the same creature that eats at least one half of a pair of socks with every load of laundry that comes out of the dryer.
“As for the size, I, like many other mothers, find it necessary to carry something more fashionable, yet not dissimilar to a diaper bag for amusing and contending with children (and often husbands) on public outings. Frequently, you will find a wide variety of crayons, matchbox cars or Star Wars figurines within its clutches.
“Note to readers… the husband frequently cites Star Wars references… any guesses who the figurines are for in this case? It is not uncommon to find a juice box, packs of gum or a variety of other treats as well. We women need to do what we need to do to manage our families. If that includes keeping an arsenal in a large accessory, so be it.”
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 18, 2011.
No, the Pit of Doom is not the Sarlacc Pit that swallowed ultracool bounty hunter Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” and it’s not some megahard olive pit that may have destroyed your back molar.’
It’s the name I gave to my wife’s purse years ago, and one that caught on with other husbands I know, including my late father-in-law who used to joke around with me that his wife’s Pit of Doom was bigger and deadlier than my wife’s.
Both of us knew that once an item went into the Pit of Doom, there was only a 50-50 chance it was ever coming out again.
But something strange happened over the years. The Pit of Doom shrunk. With every incarnation, it got smaller, to the point I rarely referred to it as the Pit of Doom. I figured smaller purses must have been the trend, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.
But out of nowhere the Pit of Doom returned. My wife said to me, as she often has, “I got a new purse.” Figuring I’d have to do the obligatory “It looks very nice,” my mouth nearly dropped when she showed me something not much smaller than a larger carry-on luggage bag.
“Whose body do you plan on hiding in there?” I asked, thinking maybe mine for even asking the question.
“Nobody’s,” she laughed. “I just liked it.” She probably said something about it being on sale, but I missed that because I was still awed at the sheer size of it, like people probably felt upon encountering the Titanic prior to its fateful maiden voyage.
I dropped the subject, figuring that maybe such a big purse would actually eliminate previous Pit of Doom issues, purely on the fact she could just stick her head in there when she needed to find something, making the task much easier.
That wasn’t to be, though, as I often started hearing the once familiar phrase of “I can’t find it in my purse.” Like the Bermuda Triangle, things have gone missing again, with little hope of ever being found again.
The Pit of Doom has its benefits when things aren’t getting lost in it, though. Needing a scissors one day, my wife pulled one out of her purse. I’m guessing not many other people can have scissors ready like that at their disposal.
With concealed carry, a gun is likely to get lost in the Pit of Doom, but the purse itself could serve as an effective weapon, so I don’t ever have to worry about her safety. Should she ever need it, she would just have to swing the purse and hit her target. The only problem would be having enough momentum to actually swing the purse.
I can joke all I want, but I wouldn’t dare print this without giving my wife her say. Her comment:
“I will accept and acknowledge that my purse has, on multiple occasions, become the final resting place of many an item which is never to be seen again. I attribute this to the same creature that eats at least one half of a pair of socks with every load of laundry that comes out of the dryer.
“As for the size, I, like many other mothers, find it necessary to carry something more fashionable, yet not dissimilar to a diaper bag for amusing and contending with children (and often husbands) on public outings. Frequently, you will find a wide variety of crayons, matchbox cars or Star Wars figurines within its clutches.
“Note to readers… the husband frequently cites Star Wars references… any guesses who the figurines are for in this case? It is not uncommon to find a juice box, packs of gum or a variety of other treats as well. We women need to do what we need to do to manage our families. If that includes keeping an arsenal in a large accessory, so be it.”
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 18, 2011.
Completing picture puzzle can take plenty of time
My family and I have been living in our new house for five months now, and this past weekend we finally hung the majority of our pictures. I’m not sure if anyone ever said this, and if they didn’t I’m saying it now, but pictures really do make a home a home.
Our walls haven’t been completely blank. We had a few pictures on the wall to at least liven each room up a little bit, but many walls were empty. It appeared as though we didn’t have any family, and like the Unabomber – without any real family connections except the brother who eventually turned him in – lived there.
We’re not the Unabomber family, though. We just took a long time in getting our rooms in order to know where we wanted to go with all our pictures. Actually, it was just one room – the master bedroom – but they all needed to be in order before the picture puzzle (sounds like a Bill Cosby preschool program) could be completed.
The bedroom was finished with the arrival last week of a new dresser and media center, allowing us to complete our puzzle.
When we lived in Wautoma, our house had a country home vibe, so our taste in pictures and artwork reflected this. The frames were the type you could buy at most gift shops, and they did not have any type of theme to them.
Our tastes started to change when we moved to an apartment in Plover. The country home vibe no longer worked for us, and we wanted a theme. The theme we settled on: black frames. Widely available and easy to match with each other, these frames quickly became standard in our apartment.
In our new home in Stevens Point, the black frames would work well in setting an overall “black” theme. Black curtains, black appliances, black dishware, black Sony Playstation. Well, we didn’t have choice with that last one, but at least it matches. Although the frames with the pictures were the last thing to go up, they set a precedent for everything else we did.
At our Wautoma home and Plover apartment, family photos dominated the living room. Now they’ve been relegated to every room except the living room, which now has six large scenery photos taken either by my wife or me. Actually, she took all except one of them, which kind of makes her a semi-professional photographer, I think, because our living room has become a photo gallery for her work. That should count for something.
We’ve been careful not to clutter our walls with pictures. We’re fans of the “less is more” approach, but we realize that doesn’t work for everyone, with everyone namely being my mother and most old people we know.
My mother’s walls have little white space (or whatever the color of the wall might be). If there’s room to fit a picture, she’ll make it happen. Maybe it’s from years of accumulating photos, or maybe it’s just an old person thing, but she definitely doesn’t waste the space.
To this day, I’m still discovering pictures on her walls I’ve never noticed before. If you are in my family at any point in you’re life, your probably on my mom’s walls, which have now become a weird sort of visual family tree, even with the branches that sometime twist together in unexplainable ways.
Together with the army of snowmen she brings out every winter, my mom’s house is definitely a delight for the eyes. I wouldn’t want it any other way, though. It’s what makes her home unique.
Just like our taste has made our home unique. Others might not like it, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 11, 2011.
Our walls haven’t been completely blank. We had a few pictures on the wall to at least liven each room up a little bit, but many walls were empty. It appeared as though we didn’t have any family, and like the Unabomber – without any real family connections except the brother who eventually turned him in – lived there.
We’re not the Unabomber family, though. We just took a long time in getting our rooms in order to know where we wanted to go with all our pictures. Actually, it was just one room – the master bedroom – but they all needed to be in order before the picture puzzle (sounds like a Bill Cosby preschool program) could be completed.
The bedroom was finished with the arrival last week of a new dresser and media center, allowing us to complete our puzzle.
When we lived in Wautoma, our house had a country home vibe, so our taste in pictures and artwork reflected this. The frames were the type you could buy at most gift shops, and they did not have any type of theme to them.
Our tastes started to change when we moved to an apartment in Plover. The country home vibe no longer worked for us, and we wanted a theme. The theme we settled on: black frames. Widely available and easy to match with each other, these frames quickly became standard in our apartment.
In our new home in Stevens Point, the black frames would work well in setting an overall “black” theme. Black curtains, black appliances, black dishware, black Sony Playstation. Well, we didn’t have choice with that last one, but at least it matches. Although the frames with the pictures were the last thing to go up, they set a precedent for everything else we did.
At our Wautoma home and Plover apartment, family photos dominated the living room. Now they’ve been relegated to every room except the living room, which now has six large scenery photos taken either by my wife or me. Actually, she took all except one of them, which kind of makes her a semi-professional photographer, I think, because our living room has become a photo gallery for her work. That should count for something.
We’ve been careful not to clutter our walls with pictures. We’re fans of the “less is more” approach, but we realize that doesn’t work for everyone, with everyone namely being my mother and most old people we know.
My mother’s walls have little white space (or whatever the color of the wall might be). If there’s room to fit a picture, she’ll make it happen. Maybe it’s from years of accumulating photos, or maybe it’s just an old person thing, but she definitely doesn’t waste the space.
To this day, I’m still discovering pictures on her walls I’ve never noticed before. If you are in my family at any point in you’re life, your probably on my mom’s walls, which have now become a weird sort of visual family tree, even with the branches that sometime twist together in unexplainable ways.
Together with the army of snowmen she brings out every winter, my mom’s house is definitely a delight for the eyes. I wouldn’t want it any other way, though. It’s what makes her home unique.
Just like our taste has made our home unique. Others might not like it, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 11, 2011.
Uncapping inner filter could be fun to try
I nearly fell off the couch laughing so hard because of something one of my favorite television characters said on the show “Parks and Recreation.”
Ron Swanson (Nick Offerman), the director of the Parks and Recreation Department for the fictional Indiana city of Pawnee on the NBC show, is a man’s man. He believes people should hunt for their own food, build their own houses and fix their own problems.
During the most recent episode, a salesman at a home improvement center nicely asked Swanson if he needed any help finding anything for the project he was shopping for or any information that could help him with it.
Baffled anyone would ask him such a foolish question, Swanson gave the salesman a nasty look and said, “I know more than you,” and then walked away.
Swanson is a character who can pretty much say what he wants to anyone, and then not worry about whether or not he offended that person. It makes for great comedy because there are times many of us wish we could say what we want, but because of that stupid inner filter, most of us never do.
I’d give real-life examples, but my inner filter prevents me from doing so, even away from the situation and potentially even away from the people who may have made me wish I didn’t have an inner filter.
But nothing can stop me from giving some more Ron Swanson examples:
When a co-worker was desperately trying to please him, he said she was getting too chummy. “Anne was getting a little chummy. When people get a little too chummy with me, I like to call them by the wrong name to let them know I don’t really care about them,” he said. I can think of a few people I should try this tactic on.
After beating out a co-worker for an award, Swanson offered his condolences. “Be proud of yourself. You deserve an award. Not this one, obviously. This one belongs to me. But some other one. Some other lesser award.” In some ways, coming from him this is a compliment.
At a meeting: “My name is Ron. You don’t need to know my last name. Whoever wants to talk, go ahead and we’ll be out of here in a tight 15.” As much babble as I hear at government meetings, having a Ron Swanson in charge would be a great thing.
To his ex-wife: “You’ve aged horribly.” There is probably little she could have said to make him feel worse than she felt after hearing that one.
Here’s a compliment to one person, but probably not to everyone else: “I like Andy. I’m surrounded by a lot of women in this department. And that includes the men.”
Here’s another backhanded compliment: “I need to find someone to fill in for April. Now I know I’m not going to find someone who’s both aggressively mean and apathetic. April really is the whole package.”
And this one pretty much sums up Swanson’s philosophy on life: “The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. I’m not interested in caring about people. I once worked with a guy for three years and never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still never talk sometimes.”
While being friends with an unfiltered person like Swanson is something I’d never want – because I’m sure that person would offend me – watching him or her from a distance, with a little admiration, would be fun. I need such a non-friend.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 4, 2011.
Ron Swanson (Nick Offerman), the director of the Parks and Recreation Department for the fictional Indiana city of Pawnee on the NBC show, is a man’s man. He believes people should hunt for their own food, build their own houses and fix their own problems.
During the most recent episode, a salesman at a home improvement center nicely asked Swanson if he needed any help finding anything for the project he was shopping for or any information that could help him with it.
Baffled anyone would ask him such a foolish question, Swanson gave the salesman a nasty look and said, “I know more than you,” and then walked away.
Swanson is a character who can pretty much say what he wants to anyone, and then not worry about whether or not he offended that person. It makes for great comedy because there are times many of us wish we could say what we want, but because of that stupid inner filter, most of us never do.
I’d give real-life examples, but my inner filter prevents me from doing so, even away from the situation and potentially even away from the people who may have made me wish I didn’t have an inner filter.
But nothing can stop me from giving some more Ron Swanson examples:
When a co-worker was desperately trying to please him, he said she was getting too chummy. “Anne was getting a little chummy. When people get a little too chummy with me, I like to call them by the wrong name to let them know I don’t really care about them,” he said. I can think of a few people I should try this tactic on.
After beating out a co-worker for an award, Swanson offered his condolences. “Be proud of yourself. You deserve an award. Not this one, obviously. This one belongs to me. But some other one. Some other lesser award.” In some ways, coming from him this is a compliment.
At a meeting: “My name is Ron. You don’t need to know my last name. Whoever wants to talk, go ahead and we’ll be out of here in a tight 15.” As much babble as I hear at government meetings, having a Ron Swanson in charge would be a great thing.
To his ex-wife: “You’ve aged horribly.” There is probably little she could have said to make him feel worse than she felt after hearing that one.
Here’s a compliment to one person, but probably not to everyone else: “I like Andy. I’m surrounded by a lot of women in this department. And that includes the men.”
Here’s another backhanded compliment: “I need to find someone to fill in for April. Now I know I’m not going to find someone who’s both aggressively mean and apathetic. April really is the whole package.”
And this one pretty much sums up Swanson’s philosophy on life: “The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. I’m not interested in caring about people. I once worked with a guy for three years and never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still never talk sometimes.”
While being friends with an unfiltered person like Swanson is something I’d never want – because I’m sure that person would offend me – watching him or her from a distance, with a little admiration, would be fun. I need such a non-friend.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 4, 2011.
Drive-By Truckers show why all concerts should be held at small clubs
I don’t think I’m ever going to go to an arena or stadium again to see a band.
I’ve come to this conclusion after seeing a favorite band of mine, Drive-By Truckers, at a club in Madison on Sunday. Comparing this experience with the arena experiences I’ve had made me realize the more intimate setting is the only good way to see a band.
Drive-By Truckers, an Athens, Ga.-based three-guitar rock band, have been together for more than 20 years, although they’ve never gone mainstream because they’ve never had a big hit or a million-selling album. After a long string of solid albums, I’ve placed them in my top five bands of all-time, a list that also includes Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, U2, Pearl Jam and The Replacements.
I discovered the Truckers about 10 years ago when magazine reviews compared them to some of these bands, prompting me to purchase an album. I really liked the album, and as I often do with bands I like, I purchased their entire discography.
Now I’m to the point where I’m at Radio KAOS on the day they are released so I can listen to them as soon as possible. When I walk in, Randy, Radio KAOS’ owner, knows exactly what I’m looking for. “New Truckers album today,” he’ll say as a statement as to why I’m there. Such knowledge about the customer is the No. 1 reason people should shop locally whenever possible.
The band’s latest album, “Go-Go Boots,” is their second strongest album, right behind their masterpiece, “Southern Rock Opera,” a two-disc concept album that uses the plane crash that killed members of the group Lynryd Skynyrd as one of its central focus points.
While the Truckers might not be a household name, they’ve got some big fans, including David Letterman who has said the band is one of his favorites. When they played on his show this past summer, he made them do an encore performance of “Everybody Needs Love,” a song that now serves as my phone ringtone.
When they announced the current leg of their tour, which included stops in Milwaukee and Madison, I bought tickets for the Madison show at The Majestic immediately. I assumed it was a larger venue, so I was surprised when we arrived and it was just a small club with a capacity of 500 people.
All the bands I’ve seen in the past have either been at the Bradley Center or Marcus Amphitheater in Milwaukee, or at festivals throughout the state, where thousands of other people were also there. Even the bands playing at Riverfront Rendezvous in Stevens Point have thousands of spectators.
I’ve had some good experiences – namely Bruce Springsteen at the Bradley Center in 1999 where I had seats in the upper level right next to the stage. But often I’m so far away I have to watch the teleprompters, which is like watching a bad television viewing of the concert. Also, the sound is often terrible or too loud, which defeats the entire purpose of watching a live show.
But at The Majestic, the setting was intimate enough that I could get right up near the stage if I wanted to and the sound was great because the acoustics of the facility.
It helped the band put on a high-energy rock show in which members engaged the audience as though every person there mattered. My wife, who wasn’t familiar with the band at all, even found herself getting into their groove, coming away a fan.
That’s good rock and roll – when nonfans can become converted. I’ll give the club a lot of credit in helping with that, though.
Maybe I’ll have to see my least favorite band of all-time, Nickelback, in a club. And then I could understand why millions of people like them. Then again, maybe I’d rather see someone I like just a little bit in an arena. That’s probably the better choice.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 28, 2011.
I’ve come to this conclusion after seeing a favorite band of mine, Drive-By Truckers, at a club in Madison on Sunday. Comparing this experience with the arena experiences I’ve had made me realize the more intimate setting is the only good way to see a band.
Drive-By Truckers, an Athens, Ga.-based three-guitar rock band, have been together for more than 20 years, although they’ve never gone mainstream because they’ve never had a big hit or a million-selling album. After a long string of solid albums, I’ve placed them in my top five bands of all-time, a list that also includes Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, U2, Pearl Jam and The Replacements.
I discovered the Truckers about 10 years ago when magazine reviews compared them to some of these bands, prompting me to purchase an album. I really liked the album, and as I often do with bands I like, I purchased their entire discography.
Now I’m to the point where I’m at Radio KAOS on the day they are released so I can listen to them as soon as possible. When I walk in, Randy, Radio KAOS’ owner, knows exactly what I’m looking for. “New Truckers album today,” he’ll say as a statement as to why I’m there. Such knowledge about the customer is the No. 1 reason people should shop locally whenever possible.
The band’s latest album, “Go-Go Boots,” is their second strongest album, right behind their masterpiece, “Southern Rock Opera,” a two-disc concept album that uses the plane crash that killed members of the group Lynryd Skynyrd as one of its central focus points.
While the Truckers might not be a household name, they’ve got some big fans, including David Letterman who has said the band is one of his favorites. When they played on his show this past summer, he made them do an encore performance of “Everybody Needs Love,” a song that now serves as my phone ringtone.
When they announced the current leg of their tour, which included stops in Milwaukee and Madison, I bought tickets for the Madison show at The Majestic immediately. I assumed it was a larger venue, so I was surprised when we arrived and it was just a small club with a capacity of 500 people.
All the bands I’ve seen in the past have either been at the Bradley Center or Marcus Amphitheater in Milwaukee, or at festivals throughout the state, where thousands of other people were also there. Even the bands playing at Riverfront Rendezvous in Stevens Point have thousands of spectators.
I’ve had some good experiences – namely Bruce Springsteen at the Bradley Center in 1999 where I had seats in the upper level right next to the stage. But often I’m so far away I have to watch the teleprompters, which is like watching a bad television viewing of the concert. Also, the sound is often terrible or too loud, which defeats the entire purpose of watching a live show.
But at The Majestic, the setting was intimate enough that I could get right up near the stage if I wanted to and the sound was great because the acoustics of the facility.
It helped the band put on a high-energy rock show in which members engaged the audience as though every person there mattered. My wife, who wasn’t familiar with the band at all, even found herself getting into their groove, coming away a fan.
That’s good rock and roll – when nonfans can become converted. I’ll give the club a lot of credit in helping with that, though.
Maybe I’ll have to see my least favorite band of all-time, Nickelback, in a club. And then I could understand why millions of people like them. Then again, maybe I’d rather see someone I like just a little bit in an arena. That’s probably the better choice.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 28, 2011.
Godparenthood could be good for putting together basketball team
I’m collecting godchildren like a paleontologist collects bones.
I added a third one to my collection on Sunday, my wife’s sister’s son whom I call Silvio. His name is actually Steven, but everybody calls him Little Stevie, since his father’s name is also Steven. Taking it several steps further, I started calling him Little Steven, which is Steven Van Zandt’s nickname as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band, but changed my nickname to Silvio, the name of the character Little Steven played on HBO’s “The Sopranos.” It’s a complicated nickname, but complicated ones should come from a godfather.
I became a godfather for the first time in the late 1990s to a newborn cousin, Alex. It was an exciting moment for me, as I was still a fairly young, single man who knew children were not anywhere in my near future. For all I knew, I thought I might never get married and might never have any kids. It was nice knowing if that were to occur, someone was available to inherit whatever little I made in my chosen career.
Perpetual bachelorhood didn’t happen, though, as I got married in 2003 and had a son in 2005. Instead of accepting a request to become a godparent, I could now select godparents for my son. We chose my wife’s sister and my stepfather, two people we believed could deliver as our son’s religious guides should we be unable to do so. My stepfather was a no-brainer, as he is a religious leader and a catechism teacher at his church. In addition, since he married my mother long after I left the house, we felt this would allow him to have a closer bond with his grandson he might not have felt he could have.
Within a year of having a son, I garnered my second godson, Taylor, the son of my sister and her husband. With two godsons and one son, I felt pretty good. While I’ve never had the privilege of standing up as a best man or groomsmen in a wedding, becoming a father-figure seemed much more special. It’s an honor reserved for the best of the best, and one bestowed upon me twice.
So when my wife’s sister asked us to become the godparents to Silvio, I was ecstatic. Three godchildren and a son; I’m just one godson/son short of putting together a basketball team, which could be a great team if all of the boys inherit their parents’ height.
I know being a godparent comes with specific responsibilities, mainly to be the person my godchildren can talk to when they are older. My godmother, my aunt Connie, is someone I’ve always felt comfortable talking to and seeking advice from, and I hope to be that person for my godchildren. I want to be the parental figure that comes without some of the negative connotations that automatically apply to real parents.
I can’t imagine collecting any more godchildren, but nothing in this world is predictable. Maybe I’ll get that basketball team, or maybe I’ll end up with a football team. In any case, I’ll cherish the ones I have and gladly welcome any more that might come.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 21, 2011.
I added a third one to my collection on Sunday, my wife’s sister’s son whom I call Silvio. His name is actually Steven, but everybody calls him Little Stevie, since his father’s name is also Steven. Taking it several steps further, I started calling him Little Steven, which is Steven Van Zandt’s nickname as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band, but changed my nickname to Silvio, the name of the character Little Steven played on HBO’s “The Sopranos.” It’s a complicated nickname, but complicated ones should come from a godfather.
I became a godfather for the first time in the late 1990s to a newborn cousin, Alex. It was an exciting moment for me, as I was still a fairly young, single man who knew children were not anywhere in my near future. For all I knew, I thought I might never get married and might never have any kids. It was nice knowing if that were to occur, someone was available to inherit whatever little I made in my chosen career.
Perpetual bachelorhood didn’t happen, though, as I got married in 2003 and had a son in 2005. Instead of accepting a request to become a godparent, I could now select godparents for my son. We chose my wife’s sister and my stepfather, two people we believed could deliver as our son’s religious guides should we be unable to do so. My stepfather was a no-brainer, as he is a religious leader and a catechism teacher at his church. In addition, since he married my mother long after I left the house, we felt this would allow him to have a closer bond with his grandson he might not have felt he could have.
Within a year of having a son, I garnered my second godson, Taylor, the son of my sister and her husband. With two godsons and one son, I felt pretty good. While I’ve never had the privilege of standing up as a best man or groomsmen in a wedding, becoming a father-figure seemed much more special. It’s an honor reserved for the best of the best, and one bestowed upon me twice.
So when my wife’s sister asked us to become the godparents to Silvio, I was ecstatic. Three godchildren and a son; I’m just one godson/son short of putting together a basketball team, which could be a great team if all of the boys inherit their parents’ height.
I know being a godparent comes with specific responsibilities, mainly to be the person my godchildren can talk to when they are older. My godmother, my aunt Connie, is someone I’ve always felt comfortable talking to and seeking advice from, and I hope to be that person for my godchildren. I want to be the parental figure that comes without some of the negative connotations that automatically apply to real parents.
I can’t imagine collecting any more godchildren, but nothing in this world is predictable. Maybe I’ll get that basketball team, or maybe I’ll end up with a football team. In any case, I’ll cherish the ones I have and gladly welcome any more that might come.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 21, 2011.
Service becomes officially slow at 20 minutes or more
What’s an appropriate time to wait at a restaurant for service before leaving? My wife and I determined it’s 20 minutes. We came to this conclusion after waiting that long at a favorite restaurant of ours recently.
We were seated immediately upon our arrival at the restaurant, noticing it wasn’t as busy as usual because it was a weekday. Upon getting seated, we talked a little about what we wanted to order, but both of us are set in our ways enough there that we didn’t even need to open our menus.
Our server came to our table about 10 minutes later, filling our glasses of water. He asked if we wanted anything else to drink, leaving immediately after taking our drink orders without telling us about the specials. We never talked to him again.
We watched as he went to his other tables multiple times, delivering food and bills, or simply to talk with the patrons. We watched as he talked with the chefs, giving them specific instructions about how the food should be prepared. We watched as he chatted with other servers.
What we didn’t see was him deliver our drink orders, return to our table to take our order or even acknowledge us in any way. It was as though he forgot he was our server.
We tried to catch his eye, hoping it would spark an “oh yeah, that’s my table” moment. We didn’t have any luck.
Our 6-year-old son almost helped our cause with his whining. “What’s taking so long?” he asked loudly. Others heard him, but not our server. Normally, we’d tell him to be patient, and it’s rude to ask such a question, but in this case we were thinking the same thing.
After 15 minutes, my wife got her phone out. “If he doesn’t come to our table within five minutes, we’re out of here,” she said. I agreed.
By this point, we were done with trying to catch his eye. It had gotten to the point of amusement for us. How much longer could he possibly avoid our table?
The five minutes went by quickly as we watched him. He made contact with one table three times during that span, even joking with the patrons. We were glad at least one table was getting good service.
At the end of the five minutes, we got up. My wife quietly told another server why we were leaving. The server offered a small apology and said the server was fairly new, but she did not try to convince us to stay.
A frozen pizza awaited us at home. It wasn’t what we really wanted, but at least we controlled the time in which we could receive our food.
Fortunately for the restaurant’s sake, we know that’s not the normal type of service we receive. I was back the next night, picking up food to go. The perfect service.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 14, 2011.
We were seated immediately upon our arrival at the restaurant, noticing it wasn’t as busy as usual because it was a weekday. Upon getting seated, we talked a little about what we wanted to order, but both of us are set in our ways enough there that we didn’t even need to open our menus.
Our server came to our table about 10 minutes later, filling our glasses of water. He asked if we wanted anything else to drink, leaving immediately after taking our drink orders without telling us about the specials. We never talked to him again.
We watched as he went to his other tables multiple times, delivering food and bills, or simply to talk with the patrons. We watched as he talked with the chefs, giving them specific instructions about how the food should be prepared. We watched as he chatted with other servers.
What we didn’t see was him deliver our drink orders, return to our table to take our order or even acknowledge us in any way. It was as though he forgot he was our server.
We tried to catch his eye, hoping it would spark an “oh yeah, that’s my table” moment. We didn’t have any luck.
Our 6-year-old son almost helped our cause with his whining. “What’s taking so long?” he asked loudly. Others heard him, but not our server. Normally, we’d tell him to be patient, and it’s rude to ask such a question, but in this case we were thinking the same thing.
After 15 minutes, my wife got her phone out. “If he doesn’t come to our table within five minutes, we’re out of here,” she said. I agreed.
By this point, we were done with trying to catch his eye. It had gotten to the point of amusement for us. How much longer could he possibly avoid our table?
The five minutes went by quickly as we watched him. He made contact with one table three times during that span, even joking with the patrons. We were glad at least one table was getting good service.
At the end of the five minutes, we got up. My wife quietly told another server why we were leaving. The server offered a small apology and said the server was fairly new, but she did not try to convince us to stay.
A frozen pizza awaited us at home. It wasn’t what we really wanted, but at least we controlled the time in which we could receive our food.
Fortunately for the restaurant’s sake, we know that’s not the normal type of service we receive. I was back the next night, picking up food to go. The perfect service.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 14, 2011.
Vehicle shopping is process that’s difficult to like or not like
I still can’t decide if I like shopping for a new vehicle, and I don’t know if I ever will.
In my lifetime, I’ve purchased eight vehicles, starting with a 1979 Pontiac Sunbird I purchased as my first car 20 years ago, through the 2008 Ford Escape I purchased last week.
The Sunbird was a clunker. I bought it from my boss who somehow convinced me it would be the perfect starter vehicle. Maybe it could have been, if it had actually started on most of the days I owned it. It sat in our driveway an entire winter, unable to start.
When it finally did start in the spring, my dad told me to take it to the gas station and put some new gas in it. That was almost its final voyage, as a drunk driver coming into the city of Berlin at speeds nearing 100 miles an hour somehow weaved around my 25 m.p.h. moving turtle right into the rear end of a vehicle ahead of me. Fortunately, none of the people in either vehicle were seriously injured, although I was on the witness list for possible litigation but was never called to testify.
I retired the Sunbird a few months later, purchasing a Chevrolet Z24 right before going off to college. That sports vehicle was a mistake, as the insurance cost more than my car payments. I sold it a year later and got a much more practical four-door Chevrolet car. It was so boring I can’t remember its year or model, but it was reliable enough that it got me through my remaining years of college.
I traded it in for a 1994 Mercury Sable in 1997. I’m not sure what possessed me to purchase it, because I never really liked it. It was what my friends called an “old person’s car.” It was a bigger vehicle more suited for a family of four than a bachelor with a limited gas budget, even at a time when gas was inexpensive.
During this time, I met my future wife, Jennifer, who was driving a beater she had gotten years ago from her grandparents. I’m pretty sure neither of us was attracted to the other for our vehicles.
Shortly before we got married, she traded in her beater for a 2000 Plymouth Neon. We traded in the Mercury for a 2003 Buick Rendezvous a few years later, and apparently just in time, too. When we returned from the dealer after bringing in the Mercury, we noticed a big chunk of the car in our driveway. I’m not even sure what the part was, but I’m happy it wasn’t needed to make the journey to the dealership.
The Rendezvous was a good vehicle, but it died of the fate that should have happened to the Sunbird: a drunk driver rear-ended it when Jennifer was attempting to pick me up from work. Fortunately the drunk driver wasn’t speeding, but the damage was enough to total the car.
Losing the Rendezvous meant we had to replace it. We bought an older vehicle, a 1999 Honda CRV, but it only had 60,000 miles on it and it was like new.
For the last four years we’ve been racking up miles on the Neon and Honda. The Neon was up to 194,000 miles and the Honda has 174,000 miles. Knowing it’s not wise to have two 200,000-mile vehicles, we started shopping for a new vehicle about a month ago.
For the first time ever, we went to multiple dealers. In the past, we usually bought the first vehicle we liked in our price range at the first dealer we stopped at. This strategy has usually worked out, but there have been times we’ve questioned if we could have gotten a better vehicle.
We may have gone to more dealers this time because of something new we’ve noticed at some of the dealers: the car salesman gets in the car with you for a test drive, after you fill out a mini-application to go on a test drive. I understand why they do it – I wouldn’t want anybody running off with a vehicle either – but it intrudes on some of the time couples spend talking with each other about the vehicle, time often used to decide “yes” on buying it. Without that time in some cases, we left the dealership undecided, realizing shortly later we should just look at some more vehicles.
We’re happy with the Ford Escape, so right now I’d say I like car shopping. But if I have to do this again any time soon, my opinion might change.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 7, 2011.
In my lifetime, I’ve purchased eight vehicles, starting with a 1979 Pontiac Sunbird I purchased as my first car 20 years ago, through the 2008 Ford Escape I purchased last week.
The Sunbird was a clunker. I bought it from my boss who somehow convinced me it would be the perfect starter vehicle. Maybe it could have been, if it had actually started on most of the days I owned it. It sat in our driveway an entire winter, unable to start.
When it finally did start in the spring, my dad told me to take it to the gas station and put some new gas in it. That was almost its final voyage, as a drunk driver coming into the city of Berlin at speeds nearing 100 miles an hour somehow weaved around my 25 m.p.h. moving turtle right into the rear end of a vehicle ahead of me. Fortunately, none of the people in either vehicle were seriously injured, although I was on the witness list for possible litigation but was never called to testify.
I retired the Sunbird a few months later, purchasing a Chevrolet Z24 right before going off to college. That sports vehicle was a mistake, as the insurance cost more than my car payments. I sold it a year later and got a much more practical four-door Chevrolet car. It was so boring I can’t remember its year or model, but it was reliable enough that it got me through my remaining years of college.
I traded it in for a 1994 Mercury Sable in 1997. I’m not sure what possessed me to purchase it, because I never really liked it. It was what my friends called an “old person’s car.” It was a bigger vehicle more suited for a family of four than a bachelor with a limited gas budget, even at a time when gas was inexpensive.
During this time, I met my future wife, Jennifer, who was driving a beater she had gotten years ago from her grandparents. I’m pretty sure neither of us was attracted to the other for our vehicles.
Shortly before we got married, she traded in her beater for a 2000 Plymouth Neon. We traded in the Mercury for a 2003 Buick Rendezvous a few years later, and apparently just in time, too. When we returned from the dealer after bringing in the Mercury, we noticed a big chunk of the car in our driveway. I’m not even sure what the part was, but I’m happy it wasn’t needed to make the journey to the dealership.
The Rendezvous was a good vehicle, but it died of the fate that should have happened to the Sunbird: a drunk driver rear-ended it when Jennifer was attempting to pick me up from work. Fortunately the drunk driver wasn’t speeding, but the damage was enough to total the car.
Losing the Rendezvous meant we had to replace it. We bought an older vehicle, a 1999 Honda CRV, but it only had 60,000 miles on it and it was like new.
For the last four years we’ve been racking up miles on the Neon and Honda. The Neon was up to 194,000 miles and the Honda has 174,000 miles. Knowing it’s not wise to have two 200,000-mile vehicles, we started shopping for a new vehicle about a month ago.
For the first time ever, we went to multiple dealers. In the past, we usually bought the first vehicle we liked in our price range at the first dealer we stopped at. This strategy has usually worked out, but there have been times we’ve questioned if we could have gotten a better vehicle.
We may have gone to more dealers this time because of something new we’ve noticed at some of the dealers: the car salesman gets in the car with you for a test drive, after you fill out a mini-application to go on a test drive. I understand why they do it – I wouldn’t want anybody running off with a vehicle either – but it intrudes on some of the time couples spend talking with each other about the vehicle, time often used to decide “yes” on buying it. Without that time in some cases, we left the dealership undecided, realizing shortly later we should just look at some more vehicles.
We’re happy with the Ford Escape, so right now I’d say I like car shopping. But if I have to do this again any time soon, my opinion might change.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 7, 2011.
2011 marks 20th anniversary of landmark ‘Nevermind’
This week marks the 20th anniversary of Nirvana’s “Nevermind” album. And to celebrate it, the surviving band members released a deluxe remastered reissue of the landmark album, complete with b-sides, rarities, live tracks and demos.
Bands do this all the time, mainly to squeeze out additional bucks from their fans, and often it’s not worth it. Who really needs to hear reissues of Def Leppard albums not titled “Pyromania” and “Hysteria,” after all?
But “Nevermind” is a different story. For many, like me, the album is the soundtrack for our youth. I was a junior in high school when it was released, 16 years old and about to turn 17. An awkward nonathlete with plenty of acne, I spent hours each day listening to my favorite rock albums, as the music allowed me to escape from the crappiness of the world.
Before “Nevermind,” many of my favorite bands and artists were those I saw on MTV, back when it actually played music (a bit of a cliché phrase now, but there’s a lot of truth in it). This meant I listened to a lot of Guns N’ Roses, Skid Row, AC/DC, Poison and Aerosmith – all bands I still like to this day, but all of which often focused their attention on drugs, money and girls.
I remember spending the entire summer waiting for Guns N’ Roses to release “Use Your Illusion 1” and “Use Your Illusion 2,” two long-delayed albums I figured would be the release of the decade. They finally came out on Sept. 17, 1991, and seemed every bit as good as I hoped them to be.
One week later, Nirvana released “Nevermind,” to little fanfare. This three-piece Seattle, Wash., band wasn’t known to a mass national audience, as its first album, “Bleach,” was more of an underground punk album on an independent label, Sub Pop. I knew nothing about the band and the album upon its release.
At the time of its release, though, MTV started playing a video from the album, which was released by Geffen Records, the same label that had just released Guns N’ Roses’ two new albums. The video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was murky, dark and fairly simple. The band, led by Kurt Cobain, performed the song in a high school gym for a younger audience on a set of bleachers.
Something about the video, and the song, struck a chord with viewers, as it slowly became one of the station’s most requested videos. I remember watching it a few times, barely able to interpret the lyrics, and thinking this was different. After a few more times, I went out and bought the album.
The rest of the album was much like the first single. The lyrics were often incomprehensible, but there was something about each song that was memorable. It was as though someone had managed to make The Beatles a punk rock band with John Bonham at the drums. The songs were instantly catching, but at the same time completely distant. They all begged for repeated listens.
And so I listened, many and many times over again. Within a couple of weeks, I wrote a review for my high school newspaper, long before much of the national media had even realized Nirvana was the next big thing. I don’t have a copy of my review, but I remember praising the heck out of it and telling fellow classmates they needed to get it.
By January, the album made it to the top of the charts, kicking Michael Jackson’s new album off its perch, much to the surprise of everyone. Thirty million worldwide album sales later, it’s become a classic generation-defining album that still influences music today.
Kurt Cobain couldn’t handle the success, and sadly took his own life in 1994 after releasing just one more album, “In Utero.” Some say his suicide has helped the legacy of the band, although I would disagree. The music speaks for itself.
People who disagree should take a look at another band still making music, U2, which will also release a 20th anniversary deluxe edition of one of their landmark albums, “Actung Baby,” next month. This album came out more than a decade after the band’s first album, and after releasing other great albums. The original lineup is still intact, and tragedy has not helped make the band a legend. A decade later the band would release another great album, “All that You Can’t Leave Behind,” proving Nirvana could have had the potential to be beyond great.
We’ll never know, but at least we have “Nevermind” to enjoy. Deluxe version and all.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 30, 2011.
Bands do this all the time, mainly to squeeze out additional bucks from their fans, and often it’s not worth it. Who really needs to hear reissues of Def Leppard albums not titled “Pyromania” and “Hysteria,” after all?
But “Nevermind” is a different story. For many, like me, the album is the soundtrack for our youth. I was a junior in high school when it was released, 16 years old and about to turn 17. An awkward nonathlete with plenty of acne, I spent hours each day listening to my favorite rock albums, as the music allowed me to escape from the crappiness of the world.
Before “Nevermind,” many of my favorite bands and artists were those I saw on MTV, back when it actually played music (a bit of a cliché phrase now, but there’s a lot of truth in it). This meant I listened to a lot of Guns N’ Roses, Skid Row, AC/DC, Poison and Aerosmith – all bands I still like to this day, but all of which often focused their attention on drugs, money and girls.
I remember spending the entire summer waiting for Guns N’ Roses to release “Use Your Illusion 1” and “Use Your Illusion 2,” two long-delayed albums I figured would be the release of the decade. They finally came out on Sept. 17, 1991, and seemed every bit as good as I hoped them to be.
One week later, Nirvana released “Nevermind,” to little fanfare. This three-piece Seattle, Wash., band wasn’t known to a mass national audience, as its first album, “Bleach,” was more of an underground punk album on an independent label, Sub Pop. I knew nothing about the band and the album upon its release.
At the time of its release, though, MTV started playing a video from the album, which was released by Geffen Records, the same label that had just released Guns N’ Roses’ two new albums. The video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was murky, dark and fairly simple. The band, led by Kurt Cobain, performed the song in a high school gym for a younger audience on a set of bleachers.
Something about the video, and the song, struck a chord with viewers, as it slowly became one of the station’s most requested videos. I remember watching it a few times, barely able to interpret the lyrics, and thinking this was different. After a few more times, I went out and bought the album.
The rest of the album was much like the first single. The lyrics were often incomprehensible, but there was something about each song that was memorable. It was as though someone had managed to make The Beatles a punk rock band with John Bonham at the drums. The songs were instantly catching, but at the same time completely distant. They all begged for repeated listens.
And so I listened, many and many times over again. Within a couple of weeks, I wrote a review for my high school newspaper, long before much of the national media had even realized Nirvana was the next big thing. I don’t have a copy of my review, but I remember praising the heck out of it and telling fellow classmates they needed to get it.
By January, the album made it to the top of the charts, kicking Michael Jackson’s new album off its perch, much to the surprise of everyone. Thirty million worldwide album sales later, it’s become a classic generation-defining album that still influences music today.
Kurt Cobain couldn’t handle the success, and sadly took his own life in 1994 after releasing just one more album, “In Utero.” Some say his suicide has helped the legacy of the band, although I would disagree. The music speaks for itself.
People who disagree should take a look at another band still making music, U2, which will also release a 20th anniversary deluxe edition of one of their landmark albums, “Actung Baby,” next month. This album came out more than a decade after the band’s first album, and after releasing other great albums. The original lineup is still intact, and tragedy has not helped make the band a legend. A decade later the band would release another great album, “All that You Can’t Leave Behind,” proving Nirvana could have had the potential to be beyond great.
We’ll never know, but at least we have “Nevermind” to enjoy. Deluxe version and all.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 30, 2011.
Amazon.com could make an entire generation less skeptical
I can now officially proclaim my love for Amazon.com. I liked it well enough before, but after becoming a college student again, I realize my like had become love.
Prior to enrolling in graduate school at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, I used Amazon mainly to order items I couldn’t find elsewhere. Items like an Indiana Jones outfit for my son or a hard to find book for myself. I also took advantage of some of the site’s daily deals no store could ever beat. For example, on Black Friday last year I ordered a couple of Playstation 3 video games for less than $8 each, whereas in the store they were each more than $30.
But I wasn’t an Amazon junkie, unlike some other people I know. I’m not a fan of waiting for items to arrive in the mail, even if it only takes a week or so.
This probably stems from the days of my youth when I had to wait four to six weeks for anything ordered by mail to arrive. I remember ordering an Emperor Palpatine “Return of the Jedi” figure after collecting the necessary UPC codes to get it free, and then checking the mail every day for literally two months for it to arrive. And don’t get my started on the Columbia House cassette (yes cassettes, and not CDs) club and the wait involved with that. I prefer getting something I want from a store where it’s essentially same-day delivery.
As I’ve gotten older, though, my patience has increased, right along with delivery times. So ordering something by mail isn’t the horrible thing it once was to me. And now it’s gotten to the point of love.
That’s because I saved a whole lot of money ordering one of the textbooks I needed for one of my classes through Amazon.com. When I went to the university bookstore to get the text, my mouth dropped when I saw the price – $90. Fourteen years during my undergraduate studies, textbooks at most were $60.
Knowing another option existed, I went home and fired up Amazon. The book I needed was available, at an even more mind-numbing cost of $120. But looking closely, I noticed that was the price for a new book. Used copies were available for as low as $14.
That couldn’t be right, I thought. Just $14. No way. Life can’t be that easy. There must be some sort of catch.
There wasn’t. I hesitantly put in my order for the book, and received confirmation I would receive the book sometime between Sept. 22 and Oct. 1, which was later than I hoped, but much better than paying $90.
Fortunately, Amazon’s predicted shipping date was wrong, as I received it on Sept. 8, one day after my first class and in time to use it for the next week.
I would have probably finished my undergraduate degree debt free if Amazon.com had been around back then. I remember paying $300 to $500 a semester for books, some of which it seemed as though the professors didn’t bother to have us read.
Even more upsetting was the pittance of money I got back when selling them back to the bookstore. “This edition won’t be used next semester, so we’re only paying $3 for it,” the bookstore person would say about a $50 book. For poor college students, this was a huge scam that allowed us to see how the real world operated. It’s probably the biggest reason my entire generation is so skeptical.
Hopefully kids in the current generation won’t be so skeptical. They don’t have to pay high textbook fees if they don’t want. Although they might still have to deal with professors who make them buy books they’ll never need to touch.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 23, 2011.
Prior to enrolling in graduate school at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, I used Amazon mainly to order items I couldn’t find elsewhere. Items like an Indiana Jones outfit for my son or a hard to find book for myself. I also took advantage of some of the site’s daily deals no store could ever beat. For example, on Black Friday last year I ordered a couple of Playstation 3 video games for less than $8 each, whereas in the store they were each more than $30.
But I wasn’t an Amazon junkie, unlike some other people I know. I’m not a fan of waiting for items to arrive in the mail, even if it only takes a week or so.
This probably stems from the days of my youth when I had to wait four to six weeks for anything ordered by mail to arrive. I remember ordering an Emperor Palpatine “Return of the Jedi” figure after collecting the necessary UPC codes to get it free, and then checking the mail every day for literally two months for it to arrive. And don’t get my started on the Columbia House cassette (yes cassettes, and not CDs) club and the wait involved with that. I prefer getting something I want from a store where it’s essentially same-day delivery.
As I’ve gotten older, though, my patience has increased, right along with delivery times. So ordering something by mail isn’t the horrible thing it once was to me. And now it’s gotten to the point of love.
That’s because I saved a whole lot of money ordering one of the textbooks I needed for one of my classes through Amazon.com. When I went to the university bookstore to get the text, my mouth dropped when I saw the price – $90. Fourteen years during my undergraduate studies, textbooks at most were $60.
Knowing another option existed, I went home and fired up Amazon. The book I needed was available, at an even more mind-numbing cost of $120. But looking closely, I noticed that was the price for a new book. Used copies were available for as low as $14.
That couldn’t be right, I thought. Just $14. No way. Life can’t be that easy. There must be some sort of catch.
There wasn’t. I hesitantly put in my order for the book, and received confirmation I would receive the book sometime between Sept. 22 and Oct. 1, which was later than I hoped, but much better than paying $90.
Fortunately, Amazon’s predicted shipping date was wrong, as I received it on Sept. 8, one day after my first class and in time to use it for the next week.
I would have probably finished my undergraduate degree debt free if Amazon.com had been around back then. I remember paying $300 to $500 a semester for books, some of which it seemed as though the professors didn’t bother to have us read.
Even more upsetting was the pittance of money I got back when selling them back to the bookstore. “This edition won’t be used next semester, so we’re only paying $3 for it,” the bookstore person would say about a $50 book. For poor college students, this was a huge scam that allowed us to see how the real world operated. It’s probably the biggest reason my entire generation is so skeptical.
Hopefully kids in the current generation won’t be so skeptical. They don’t have to pay high textbook fees if they don’t want. Although they might still have to deal with professors who make them buy books they’ll never need to touch.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 23, 2011.
Newspaper isn’t dying, contrary to what some might say
The word on the street for many years has been that the newspaper industry is dead. A steady stream of news stories has indicated newspapers are struggling, causing many of them to close or lay off people.
Those stories have always baffled the staff at The Gazette, because we haven’t had to close shop or lay off staff – and in fact we moved to a better location last year in an effort to become a bigger presence in the community. And in talking with others at weekly newspapers throughout the state, most of them are doing well, with some even thriving.
So reading an editorial titled “Where newspapers thrive” by Judy Muller in the Sept. 13, 2011, issue of the Los Angeles Times was particularly pleasing, because it confirmed what many of us already knew: “At a time when doomsayers are predicting the death of traditional journalism, thousands of small-town weeklies are doing just fine, thank you.”
She said the U.S. has 8,000 weekly papers, and their success is not being measured in conversations about the newspaper industry. Instead, the woes of big corporate daily newspapers are dominating the conversation because their profits keep declining and they haven’t figured out how to cope with a changing economy and what they claim is the changing attitudes of newspaper readers.
In reality, this attitude has remained the same over more than 200 years of newspaper readership: namely that people want to read about what affects them. At The Gazette, we concentrate on anything local, because if it’s local, there’s a good chance it’s going to affect the reader. This includes local government, local events, local obituaries, local sports, local features and local people.
Muller agrees with this assessment. “It’s more than a little ironic that small-town papers have been thriving by practicing what the mainstream media are now preaching,” she writes. “‘Hyper-localism,’ ‘citizen journalism,’ ‘advocacy journalism’ – these are some of the latest buzzwords of the profession. But the concepts, without the fancy names, have been around for ages in small-town newspapers.”
To prove her point, she cites some statistics from a National Newspaper Association survey that said more than three-quarters of respondents said they read most or all of a local newspaper every week, and a full 94 percent said they paid for their papers.
Based on feedback we receive from readers, we know they are looking at everything, including the crossword puzzle on the classified page, as some have said it’s too difficult.
And we’ll continue to focus on local news. I’ve said many times before our biggest problem is finding enough room for the content we do have. Because our page numbers are based on the amount of ads we sell each week, we often have to hold news items until later weeks. For most of the summer, I’ve had to hold “College Capsules,” because other items have taken more precedence.
Having said that, again I’ll reiterate the more ads people purchase, the more local news we can print. And judging by this confirmation that readers love their weekly newspapers, advertisers should be inclined to purchase space to promote their products and services because more than likely readers will notice it, unlike some other sources they may purchase advertising from.
Muller also mentions weekly newspapers are less inclined to put content on the Internet because they know it makes readers less likely to purchase a paper. Take a look at our website. We don’t put much on it, because we know this to be true.
Just as we already knew the newspaper industry wasn’t dying.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 16, 2011.
Those stories have always baffled the staff at The Gazette, because we haven’t had to close shop or lay off staff – and in fact we moved to a better location last year in an effort to become a bigger presence in the community. And in talking with others at weekly newspapers throughout the state, most of them are doing well, with some even thriving.
So reading an editorial titled “Where newspapers thrive” by Judy Muller in the Sept. 13, 2011, issue of the Los Angeles Times was particularly pleasing, because it confirmed what many of us already knew: “At a time when doomsayers are predicting the death of traditional journalism, thousands of small-town weeklies are doing just fine, thank you.”
She said the U.S. has 8,000 weekly papers, and their success is not being measured in conversations about the newspaper industry. Instead, the woes of big corporate daily newspapers are dominating the conversation because their profits keep declining and they haven’t figured out how to cope with a changing economy and what they claim is the changing attitudes of newspaper readers.
In reality, this attitude has remained the same over more than 200 years of newspaper readership: namely that people want to read about what affects them. At The Gazette, we concentrate on anything local, because if it’s local, there’s a good chance it’s going to affect the reader. This includes local government, local events, local obituaries, local sports, local features and local people.
Muller agrees with this assessment. “It’s more than a little ironic that small-town papers have been thriving by practicing what the mainstream media are now preaching,” she writes. “‘Hyper-localism,’ ‘citizen journalism,’ ‘advocacy journalism’ – these are some of the latest buzzwords of the profession. But the concepts, without the fancy names, have been around for ages in small-town newspapers.”
To prove her point, she cites some statistics from a National Newspaper Association survey that said more than three-quarters of respondents said they read most or all of a local newspaper every week, and a full 94 percent said they paid for their papers.
Based on feedback we receive from readers, we know they are looking at everything, including the crossword puzzle on the classified page, as some have said it’s too difficult.
And we’ll continue to focus on local news. I’ve said many times before our biggest problem is finding enough room for the content we do have. Because our page numbers are based on the amount of ads we sell each week, we often have to hold news items until later weeks. For most of the summer, I’ve had to hold “College Capsules,” because other items have taken more precedence.
Having said that, again I’ll reiterate the more ads people purchase, the more local news we can print. And judging by this confirmation that readers love their weekly newspapers, advertisers should be inclined to purchase space to promote their products and services because more than likely readers will notice it, unlike some other sources they may purchase advertising from.
Muller also mentions weekly newspapers are less inclined to put content on the Internet because they know it makes readers less likely to purchase a paper. Take a look at our website. We don’t put much on it, because we know this to be true.
Just as we already knew the newspaper industry wasn’t dying.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 16, 2011.
Back to school isn’t just for school-aged children
Call me Rodney Dangerfield, because I’m going “Back to School.”
After years of toying around with the notion of getting a master’s degree, and hoping my schedule would open up for me to do so easily, I came to the realization that would never happen and I should just go for it.
Inspired by my wife, Jennifer, who made it work for her over the past two years in getting a master of education degree from the University of Wisconsin-Stout (UW-Stout), despite a busy schedule, I submitted my application to the Department of Communications at UW-Stevens Point (UW-SP) just two weeks ago. Working with impressive speed, officials from UW-SP notified me just one week later that I was in. Registering for classes just days before they began, I was still asking co-workers where certain buildings at the university were located. Call it orientation via co-worker.
It happened so quickly that I haven’t even had a chance to tell my mother. She’s going to read about my new endeavor when she opens the paper Friday, and I’m sure she’ll call asking why I hadn’t told her. Here’s the answer: I wanted to make sure I got in and registered before telling anybody. It would be too embarrassing to tell people and then get a rejection letter.
Because everything happened so quickly, I’ve run into a few snafus that the brilliant staff at UW-SP has easily handled.
The first occurred when I paid my $100 registration fee. I didn’t know it at the time, but my payment was registered to someone else – another Scott Steuck who is taking classes at UW-SP. Although I’ve never met this Scott Steuck, I’ve written about him before, as I had an issue in registering for a library card downtown. And now he was unknowingly taking my money.
But when registering for classes, I noticed the student ID number on my registration receipt did not match the one on my class schedule. I pointed this out to the registration person, and she discovered the error and immediately had it corrected.
The other snafu occurred when I tried to register for my second class and the computer told me “undergraduate” students were not allowed to take it. It’s been 14 years since I’ve been an undergraduate, so that was a little confusing to me. When I checked with registration, I learned I was a first-semester freshman, and not a graduate student. While I’d love the opportunity to go back to 1993 and relive my undergraduate days, especially knowing all I know now, that wasn’t something I was willing to do. Again, though, the registration person immediately corrected the issue.
Now the only issues I have to deal with are balancing a full-time work schedule with a part-time school schedule, and a more than full-time family schedule. The last schedule takes precedence over the other two, but both Jennifer and my 6-year-old son, Braden, know I’m going to have to sacrifice some of my free time I usually spent with them on school.
I told Braden that I hopefully won’t forget about him. He said if I do, he’ll slap my face and wave his hand in front of my eyes. Baffled, I asked why. “Because that’s what you do when someone can’t remember something.”
He’s right, making me feel a little foolish that I’m learning something from a young boy when I’m supposed to be learning bigger things at school.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 9, 2011.
After years of toying around with the notion of getting a master’s degree, and hoping my schedule would open up for me to do so easily, I came to the realization that would never happen and I should just go for it.
Inspired by my wife, Jennifer, who made it work for her over the past two years in getting a master of education degree from the University of Wisconsin-Stout (UW-Stout), despite a busy schedule, I submitted my application to the Department of Communications at UW-Stevens Point (UW-SP) just two weeks ago. Working with impressive speed, officials from UW-SP notified me just one week later that I was in. Registering for classes just days before they began, I was still asking co-workers where certain buildings at the university were located. Call it orientation via co-worker.
It happened so quickly that I haven’t even had a chance to tell my mother. She’s going to read about my new endeavor when she opens the paper Friday, and I’m sure she’ll call asking why I hadn’t told her. Here’s the answer: I wanted to make sure I got in and registered before telling anybody. It would be too embarrassing to tell people and then get a rejection letter.
Because everything happened so quickly, I’ve run into a few snafus that the brilliant staff at UW-SP has easily handled.
The first occurred when I paid my $100 registration fee. I didn’t know it at the time, but my payment was registered to someone else – another Scott Steuck who is taking classes at UW-SP. Although I’ve never met this Scott Steuck, I’ve written about him before, as I had an issue in registering for a library card downtown. And now he was unknowingly taking my money.
But when registering for classes, I noticed the student ID number on my registration receipt did not match the one on my class schedule. I pointed this out to the registration person, and she discovered the error and immediately had it corrected.
The other snafu occurred when I tried to register for my second class and the computer told me “undergraduate” students were not allowed to take it. It’s been 14 years since I’ve been an undergraduate, so that was a little confusing to me. When I checked with registration, I learned I was a first-semester freshman, and not a graduate student. While I’d love the opportunity to go back to 1993 and relive my undergraduate days, especially knowing all I know now, that wasn’t something I was willing to do. Again, though, the registration person immediately corrected the issue.
Now the only issues I have to deal with are balancing a full-time work schedule with a part-time school schedule, and a more than full-time family schedule. The last schedule takes precedence over the other two, but both Jennifer and my 6-year-old son, Braden, know I’m going to have to sacrifice some of my free time I usually spent with them on school.
I told Braden that I hopefully won’t forget about him. He said if I do, he’ll slap my face and wave his hand in front of my eyes. Baffled, I asked why. “Because that’s what you do when someone can’t remember something.”
He’s right, making me feel a little foolish that I’m learning something from a young boy when I’m supposed to be learning bigger things at school.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 9, 2011.
Larry David may be world’s best ‘social assassin’
The best comedy currently on television is “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” an HBO show written and starring Larry David, the co-creator of “Seinfeld.”
The premise of the show is simple. David, who plays a funnier and looser version of himself, interacts with people in his life, many of them celebrities, and often gets in trouble because he has a habit of saying and doing the wrong thing.
Although fictional, it’s often hard to tell because of the high number of real people involved with it, the fact David is essentially playing himself and the improvisational comedy that is used for nearly all of the dialogue. Each script for the show is only four to eight pages long – essentially just an outline of what needs to happen – and the actors improvise their own dialogue, most of which is funny and some of which is amusingly awkward.
Nearing the end of its eighth season, “Curb” is firing all of its cylinders and easily having its best season. I say that because each episode has been funnier than anything else that’s been on TV this year. But I could have said that after seeing just the third episode of the season in which David’s manager, Jeff Greene (played by Jeff Garlin), coined the phrase “social assassin” to describe David.
“Seinfeld” was well known for coining popular catchphrases: “Soup Nazi,” “shrinkage,” “re-gifter,” “master of your domain,” “spongeworthy,” “yada, yada, yada,” “close talker” and “not that there’s anything wrong with that,” to name just a few of the most popular ones.
“Social assassin” may be my favorite one, though, and it singlehandedly makes this season excellent.
Greene calls Larry a social assassin after another character said he likes how Larry “says what everyone’s thinking.”
“You know what you are?” Greene said to David upon hearing this description of David. “You’re a social assassin.”
It’s a phrase that soon leads to some of his friends hiring him to tell people they love the things they’re afraid to say themselves to these people. One guy hires him to tell his wife saying “LOL” (acronym for “laugh out loud”) instead of just laughing is not funny, and Greene’s daughter hires him to tell her mother, the loud and obnoxious Susie Greene (the hilarious Susie Essman), that nobody can stand it when she says “ahhhh” after every sip she takes of a beverage.
David completes his assassin missions, but as usual, he says or does the wrong thing again and makes a complete mess of the situation, making himself worse off than he was beforehand.
Despite the mishaps, I’d still hire him for a social assassin mission or two. I know a few people with annoying habits I’d like to tell them to stop, but I’m too nice to actually tell them. Having somebody else – somebody not so nice like David – would be a convenient way to maybe put an end to those habits.
For example, I know someone who doesn’t turn off the bright lights of his vehicle for oncoming traffic. I’ve tried a few times, but it doesn’t seem to register, and getting too bold about it is something I’m not comfortable doing. But I’m sure David would have no problem with it. “Hey man, you should put your dim lights on for oncoming traffic. It’s not only the polite thing to do, but it’s the safe thing, as you could cause an accident if you blind the other driver,” he would probably say, most likely following it up with something so rude the driver would keep the bright lights on just out of spite.
If I’m there to stop David from saying the rude thing, then the mission may be accomplished.
I’ve thought about becoming a social assassin myself, but I don’t have that gene in me that would allow me to say something without feeling bad about how the other person feels. For now, I’ll just have to watch David do it for a few more weeks on his brilliant show.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 2, 2011.
The premise of the show is simple. David, who plays a funnier and looser version of himself, interacts with people in his life, many of them celebrities, and often gets in trouble because he has a habit of saying and doing the wrong thing.
Although fictional, it’s often hard to tell because of the high number of real people involved with it, the fact David is essentially playing himself and the improvisational comedy that is used for nearly all of the dialogue. Each script for the show is only four to eight pages long – essentially just an outline of what needs to happen – and the actors improvise their own dialogue, most of which is funny and some of which is amusingly awkward.
Nearing the end of its eighth season, “Curb” is firing all of its cylinders and easily having its best season. I say that because each episode has been funnier than anything else that’s been on TV this year. But I could have said that after seeing just the third episode of the season in which David’s manager, Jeff Greene (played by Jeff Garlin), coined the phrase “social assassin” to describe David.
“Seinfeld” was well known for coining popular catchphrases: “Soup Nazi,” “shrinkage,” “re-gifter,” “master of your domain,” “spongeworthy,” “yada, yada, yada,” “close talker” and “not that there’s anything wrong with that,” to name just a few of the most popular ones.
“Social assassin” may be my favorite one, though, and it singlehandedly makes this season excellent.
Greene calls Larry a social assassin after another character said he likes how Larry “says what everyone’s thinking.”
“You know what you are?” Greene said to David upon hearing this description of David. “You’re a social assassin.”
It’s a phrase that soon leads to some of his friends hiring him to tell people they love the things they’re afraid to say themselves to these people. One guy hires him to tell his wife saying “LOL” (acronym for “laugh out loud”) instead of just laughing is not funny, and Greene’s daughter hires him to tell her mother, the loud and obnoxious Susie Greene (the hilarious Susie Essman), that nobody can stand it when she says “ahhhh” after every sip she takes of a beverage.
David completes his assassin missions, but as usual, he says or does the wrong thing again and makes a complete mess of the situation, making himself worse off than he was beforehand.
Despite the mishaps, I’d still hire him for a social assassin mission or two. I know a few people with annoying habits I’d like to tell them to stop, but I’m too nice to actually tell them. Having somebody else – somebody not so nice like David – would be a convenient way to maybe put an end to those habits.
For example, I know someone who doesn’t turn off the bright lights of his vehicle for oncoming traffic. I’ve tried a few times, but it doesn’t seem to register, and getting too bold about it is something I’m not comfortable doing. But I’m sure David would have no problem with it. “Hey man, you should put your dim lights on for oncoming traffic. It’s not only the polite thing to do, but it’s the safe thing, as you could cause an accident if you blind the other driver,” he would probably say, most likely following it up with something so rude the driver would keep the bright lights on just out of spite.
If I’m there to stop David from saying the rude thing, then the mission may be accomplished.
I’ve thought about becoming a social assassin myself, but I don’t have that gene in me that would allow me to say something without feeling bad about how the other person feels. For now, I’ll just have to watch David do it for a few more weeks on his brilliant show.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Sept. 2, 2011.
Impartial journalists need to vent once in awhile
As a journalist, I’m often required to stay impartial on many subjects. The only way to write a fair and balanced story about something in which people may have opposing viewpoints on is to simply not have an opinion about the matter, and see it from the viewpoint of both sides.
For the most part, this isn’t difficult. Oftentimes, the matter doesn’t affect me personally, so I have no reason to choose a side. When it does affect me, I do my best to keep an open mind, which has always worked for me.
I know it works, because on some of the most controversial topics in which people choose sides – usually something involving politics – I’ve received calls from people on both sides of the issue complaining my writing was more biased toward the other side. When neither side is happy, then I know I’m doing my job in a fair and balanced manner.
But one issue in Stevens Point is bugging me, and I’m going to voice an opinion. It’s an issue I’m not aware of anyone complaining about, and I’m sure it’s not one the Stevens Point Common Council or any of the appropriate committees is discussing. It has nothing to do with the Downtown Square, CenterPoint MarketPlace, school funding or local municipal budgets.
It has everything to do with traffic lights in this city.
In my opinion, the traffic lights aren’t timed right. It seems like I hit red lights more often than green lights, and a continuous drive is nearly impossible.
Maybe it’s the routes I take from home to work and back. From home, I get onto Division Street from North Point Drive, and then take Division to Main Street, where I encounter every red light along the way. I take Main Street to Clark Street where I park, once again hitting every red light.
Going home, I travel down Clark to Division, and from Division I go to North Point Drive, once again hitting every red light.
I wouldn’t complain if this was all I knew, but until three months ago, I was living in Plover where I encountered a whole different batch of traffic lights. The lights in Stevens Point frustrated me, but not to the extent the ones on my current route annoy me now, but once I got to Whiting and Plover, it was smooth sailing. That’s probably because those municipalities use sensors to control their lights, allowing for the more traveled roads – such as Post Road – to have a more continuous flow. I never appreciated this until moving to Stevens Point.
I know this is a petty thing to complain about, and most people will probably tell me I should just be more patient. They will say other issues are more pressing.
And I’ll agree with them. It’s likely the city has done studies on this, and the timed traffic lights are perfectly suited to get the best traffic flow. It’s possible if I was traveling straight from Interstate 39 onto Division that I would hit every light perfectly.
I’d probably be less likely to complain, too, if it didn’t seem as though every vehicle I was following was a Ford Focus in which the driver took his or her time slowly accelerating from every red light like a Sunday driver with no care in the world.
Maybe I need to take that attitude, too. After all, why should I be in a hurry to go to work? It’s just a job, and getting there two minutes earlier won’t result in me getting a lot more done during the day.
I could get my morning coffee a few minutes earlier, though. Nothing wrong with some caffeine that will make me more impatient on the ride home at lunch.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 26, 2011.
For the most part, this isn’t difficult. Oftentimes, the matter doesn’t affect me personally, so I have no reason to choose a side. When it does affect me, I do my best to keep an open mind, which has always worked for me.
I know it works, because on some of the most controversial topics in which people choose sides – usually something involving politics – I’ve received calls from people on both sides of the issue complaining my writing was more biased toward the other side. When neither side is happy, then I know I’m doing my job in a fair and balanced manner.
But one issue in Stevens Point is bugging me, and I’m going to voice an opinion. It’s an issue I’m not aware of anyone complaining about, and I’m sure it’s not one the Stevens Point Common Council or any of the appropriate committees is discussing. It has nothing to do with the Downtown Square, CenterPoint MarketPlace, school funding or local municipal budgets.
It has everything to do with traffic lights in this city.
In my opinion, the traffic lights aren’t timed right. It seems like I hit red lights more often than green lights, and a continuous drive is nearly impossible.
Maybe it’s the routes I take from home to work and back. From home, I get onto Division Street from North Point Drive, and then take Division to Main Street, where I encounter every red light along the way. I take Main Street to Clark Street where I park, once again hitting every red light.
Going home, I travel down Clark to Division, and from Division I go to North Point Drive, once again hitting every red light.
I wouldn’t complain if this was all I knew, but until three months ago, I was living in Plover where I encountered a whole different batch of traffic lights. The lights in Stevens Point frustrated me, but not to the extent the ones on my current route annoy me now, but once I got to Whiting and Plover, it was smooth sailing. That’s probably because those municipalities use sensors to control their lights, allowing for the more traveled roads – such as Post Road – to have a more continuous flow. I never appreciated this until moving to Stevens Point.
I know this is a petty thing to complain about, and most people will probably tell me I should just be more patient. They will say other issues are more pressing.
And I’ll agree with them. It’s likely the city has done studies on this, and the timed traffic lights are perfectly suited to get the best traffic flow. It’s possible if I was traveling straight from Interstate 39 onto Division that I would hit every light perfectly.
I’d probably be less likely to complain, too, if it didn’t seem as though every vehicle I was following was a Ford Focus in which the driver took his or her time slowly accelerating from every red light like a Sunday driver with no care in the world.
Maybe I need to take that attitude, too. After all, why should I be in a hurry to go to work? It’s just a job, and getting there two minutes earlier won’t result in me getting a lot more done during the day.
I could get my morning coffee a few minutes earlier, though. Nothing wrong with some caffeine that will make me more impatient on the ride home at lunch.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 26, 2011.
Video game inspires late start to golfing leisure pursuit
Although golfing has always had a spot in the corner of my eye, it’s something I’ve never really pursued. Until now, thanks to a Playstation 3 game and a friend who’s been itching to go golfing again.
The video game, “Tiger Woods PGA Tour 12: The Masters,” utilizes Playstation Move controls for a realistic golfing experience. Players swing and putt just like they would on a real golf course, with the Move Eye camera registering every nuance of every move a golfer makes.
It’s realistic because I pretty much double bogeyed and tripled bogeyed every hole I played for the first few rounds of golf. And actually, I’d probably do worse on a real golf course.
The more I play the game, though, the better I get. As I learn to focus on the fake ball at my feet, my drives have become straighter, often landing on fairways 250 yards away, and my putts are improving to the point where sometimes it only takes two or three to get the ball in the hole.
I’ve gotten to the point where I’m actually parring, and occasionally birdieing, most holes. In fact, I won an amateur tournament in Arizona with a score of five over par, which was much better than the second-place golfer who had a score of 10 over.
Granted, it wasn’t a real tournament, but anything to boost one’s ego is always great. That’s probably why video games are so popular, because they offer an unlimited amount of such ego boosts.
When I screw up, I get angry at the Playstation Move controller, as well as my television. I’ve managed to curb the swear words, but that doesn’t stop me from huffing out some steam. I imagine on a real golf course, some of that steam will come in the form of a few swear words, as much as I hate to admit that.
My real life golf experience consists mainly of hitting balls at a driving range. In college, my friends and I often visited the driving range, because swinging at balls was a great way to forget about the stress of school. We would have golfed, but all of us were too poor to afford that experience.
I’ve only golfed one round in my entire life. A friend of mine from Wautoma took me out about seven years ago to learn the game. It was fun, and frustrating, but for some reason I never returned to the links.
I wasn’t sure I ever would, but the Playstation 3 game has inspired me. I knew my friend Brian liked to golf, but he hasn’t really been able to because none of his friends here do. So I sent him an email, asking if he would like to go golfing sometime, and serve as a teacher to me.
He was more than happy to oblige, and now we’re trying to arrange our schedules to hit one of this area’s many beautiful courses. I live just a quarter-mile away from SentryWorld, so we’ll probably start there. It’ll be like playing in my front yard.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 19, 2011.
The video game, “Tiger Woods PGA Tour 12: The Masters,” utilizes Playstation Move controls for a realistic golfing experience. Players swing and putt just like they would on a real golf course, with the Move Eye camera registering every nuance of every move a golfer makes.
It’s realistic because I pretty much double bogeyed and tripled bogeyed every hole I played for the first few rounds of golf. And actually, I’d probably do worse on a real golf course.
The more I play the game, though, the better I get. As I learn to focus on the fake ball at my feet, my drives have become straighter, often landing on fairways 250 yards away, and my putts are improving to the point where sometimes it only takes two or three to get the ball in the hole.
I’ve gotten to the point where I’m actually parring, and occasionally birdieing, most holes. In fact, I won an amateur tournament in Arizona with a score of five over par, which was much better than the second-place golfer who had a score of 10 over.
Granted, it wasn’t a real tournament, but anything to boost one’s ego is always great. That’s probably why video games are so popular, because they offer an unlimited amount of such ego boosts.
When I screw up, I get angry at the Playstation Move controller, as well as my television. I’ve managed to curb the swear words, but that doesn’t stop me from huffing out some steam. I imagine on a real golf course, some of that steam will come in the form of a few swear words, as much as I hate to admit that.
My real life golf experience consists mainly of hitting balls at a driving range. In college, my friends and I often visited the driving range, because swinging at balls was a great way to forget about the stress of school. We would have golfed, but all of us were too poor to afford that experience.
I’ve only golfed one round in my entire life. A friend of mine from Wautoma took me out about seven years ago to learn the game. It was fun, and frustrating, but for some reason I never returned to the links.
I wasn’t sure I ever would, but the Playstation 3 game has inspired me. I knew my friend Brian liked to golf, but he hasn’t really been able to because none of his friends here do. So I sent him an email, asking if he would like to go golfing sometime, and serve as a teacher to me.
He was more than happy to oblige, and now we’re trying to arrange our schedules to hit one of this area’s many beautiful courses. I live just a quarter-mile away from SentryWorld, so we’ll probably start there. It’ll be like playing in my front yard.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 19, 2011.
Some kids nowadays may be less bored in summer
As a kid, I remember spending most of my summers whining to my mother, “I’m bored. There’s nothing to do around here. Can we please do something?”
To which she replied, “Go outside and find something to do.”
“Ugghhh. You always say that. Outside is boring, too,” I would reply.
My boredom stemmed from the fact that we lived in the country, miles away from any people my own age, and playing with my younger sister was torture. And since we didn’t have rattlesnakes, bears, mountain cliffs and raging rapids where we lived, outside was, frankly, kind of boring.
Going to a friend’s house or having one over was bliss, for a little while at least until that got boring, too, as it always did. For some reason, we’d eventually get bored with everything we were doing, and then our collective boredom was more boring than our individual boredom. This massive boredom usually led to fighting, which made things less boring, but the hostility was worse than the boredom, so a world of summer fun became even more distant.
Although I occasionally hear the same whining now from my 6-year-old son, Braden, it’s not as prevalent because his summer has been full of fun activities.
Most of these fun activities take place at his daycare, Canaland Christian Day Care in Stevens Point, through its “Camp Summer Fun” program. Designed for children entering first grade and up, Camp Summer Fun has been loaded with field trips, physical and brain activities, and the opportunity for kids to interact with each other.
Field trips have been taken to the Mead Wildlife Center, the Appleton Children’s Museum, a zoo in Madison, Noah’s Ark in Wisconsin Dells, the Rudolph Cheese Factory and plenty of other places throughout the state.
Twice a week they go swimming, which is a priority for most children, as it was for me growing up. We lived a half mile from the White River near Neshkoro, and we’d spend hours every day in it, alleviating some of our boredom. Jumping off the bridge into the shallow waters is something I would never allow Braden to do today, at any age, but what my parents didn’t know back then never worried them.
The kids have so much fun at Camp Summer Fun, Braden often expresses disappointment when it’s a weekend day and he has to stay home. “Home is so boring. I want to go to Camp Summer Fun.”
“Well, go outside and do something,” I’ll tell him.
“Ugghhh. You always say that. Outside is so boring.”
What goes around, comes around, I guess.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 12, 2011.
To which she replied, “Go outside and find something to do.”
“Ugghhh. You always say that. Outside is boring, too,” I would reply.
My boredom stemmed from the fact that we lived in the country, miles away from any people my own age, and playing with my younger sister was torture. And since we didn’t have rattlesnakes, bears, mountain cliffs and raging rapids where we lived, outside was, frankly, kind of boring.
Going to a friend’s house or having one over was bliss, for a little while at least until that got boring, too, as it always did. For some reason, we’d eventually get bored with everything we were doing, and then our collective boredom was more boring than our individual boredom. This massive boredom usually led to fighting, which made things less boring, but the hostility was worse than the boredom, so a world of summer fun became even more distant.
Although I occasionally hear the same whining now from my 6-year-old son, Braden, it’s not as prevalent because his summer has been full of fun activities.
Most of these fun activities take place at his daycare, Canaland Christian Day Care in Stevens Point, through its “Camp Summer Fun” program. Designed for children entering first grade and up, Camp Summer Fun has been loaded with field trips, physical and brain activities, and the opportunity for kids to interact with each other.
Field trips have been taken to the Mead Wildlife Center, the Appleton Children’s Museum, a zoo in Madison, Noah’s Ark in Wisconsin Dells, the Rudolph Cheese Factory and plenty of other places throughout the state.
Twice a week they go swimming, which is a priority for most children, as it was for me growing up. We lived a half mile from the White River near Neshkoro, and we’d spend hours every day in it, alleviating some of our boredom. Jumping off the bridge into the shallow waters is something I would never allow Braden to do today, at any age, but what my parents didn’t know back then never worried them.
The kids have so much fun at Camp Summer Fun, Braden often expresses disappointment when it’s a weekend day and he has to stay home. “Home is so boring. I want to go to Camp Summer Fun.”
“Well, go outside and do something,” I’ll tell him.
“Ugghhh. You always say that. Outside is so boring.”
What goes around, comes around, I guess.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 12, 2011.
Dean Ziegler is one Stevens Point resident people should know
Who is Dean Ziegler? And why should we care?
Dean Ziegler is an insurance salesman who likes to party and have fun, but deep down he’s got a sad heart because his wife just left him.
We should care because he’s from Stevens Point and he’s a major character in an excellent new film, “Cedar Rapids.”
Perfectly played by John C. Reilly, Ziegler is the guy Tim Lippe (played by Ed Helms), another insurance salesman, is told to avoid at a regional conference in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It’s clear why Lippe is given this advice, as Ziegler is the only one there who doesn’t suck up to Orin Helgesson (Kurtwood Smith), the president of the insurance accreditation firm in charge of awarding the coveted “Two Diamonds” award at the conference.
Ziegler moons Helgesson, tells him he’s a hypocrite and drives him crazy every chance he gets. At first it embarrasses the high-strung Lippe, but the more he gets to know Ziegler, the more he realizes Ziegler is the most real person at the conference.
And being real is something Lippe comes to realize is more important than any award could ever mean.
The only references to Stevens Point in the film are the two times characters point out that Ziegler is from Stevens Point. It makes sense, especially given the number of insurance salesmen and people involved in the insurance industry that live here.
And Ziegler doesn’t seem out of place being from Stevens Point. He’s got a perfect Wisconsin accent (John C. Reilly is a Chicago native), and his party-hard ways would seem normal in many local taverns on a Friday or Saturday night.
More importantly, he’s got a big heart, even if it’s really sad. The people he likes, he cares for immensely. He knows Lippe is high-strung, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to get him to open up and live life a little.
Although we never learn why his wife left him within the last year, viewers will probably pick up quite easily that his carefree ways probably contributed to the end of the relationship. He’s sad about it, though, as evidenced by a scene in which he stares in bed one night at a photo of the two together.
If Ziegler were a real person who did live in Stevens Point, my guess is he would live in a downtown apartment after his divorce, mainly so he could have easy access to the bars at night. A big fan of chicken wings, I would assume he’d spend a lot of time at Graffiti’s, which does offer excellent boneless wings, although I could be wrong because he does seem like someone who might like bones in his wings.
He probably would play softball in a Thursday night league, and he’d have a YMCA membership that he rarely uses.
His friends are probably mostly married, so he doesn’t hang out with many of them and instead latches onto the people he does know when he’s out. They don’t mind, though, because he’s kind of fun and always makes the evening more interesting.
At work, he probably gets a number of disagreements with the boss, but they keep him around because he’s a hard worker and makes a lot of sales. He’ll never move up at work, but he doesn’t care.
If he has kids, he cares for them deeply but he’s not the best dad. He can’t relate to them, so he lets them do whatever they want, which is another reason his wife left him.
Ziegler is a complicated character, making it appropriate he’s from Stevens Point. We may seem like simple folk here, but we’re anything but. And maybe that’s one great reason to live here.
“Cedar Rapids” is available on DVD, following a limited theatrical release earlier this year.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 5, 2011.
Dean Ziegler is an insurance salesman who likes to party and have fun, but deep down he’s got a sad heart because his wife just left him.
We should care because he’s from Stevens Point and he’s a major character in an excellent new film, “Cedar Rapids.”
Perfectly played by John C. Reilly, Ziegler is the guy Tim Lippe (played by Ed Helms), another insurance salesman, is told to avoid at a regional conference in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It’s clear why Lippe is given this advice, as Ziegler is the only one there who doesn’t suck up to Orin Helgesson (Kurtwood Smith), the president of the insurance accreditation firm in charge of awarding the coveted “Two Diamonds” award at the conference.
Ziegler moons Helgesson, tells him he’s a hypocrite and drives him crazy every chance he gets. At first it embarrasses the high-strung Lippe, but the more he gets to know Ziegler, the more he realizes Ziegler is the most real person at the conference.
And being real is something Lippe comes to realize is more important than any award could ever mean.
The only references to Stevens Point in the film are the two times characters point out that Ziegler is from Stevens Point. It makes sense, especially given the number of insurance salesmen and people involved in the insurance industry that live here.
And Ziegler doesn’t seem out of place being from Stevens Point. He’s got a perfect Wisconsin accent (John C. Reilly is a Chicago native), and his party-hard ways would seem normal in many local taverns on a Friday or Saturday night.
More importantly, he’s got a big heart, even if it’s really sad. The people he likes, he cares for immensely. He knows Lippe is high-strung, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to get him to open up and live life a little.
Although we never learn why his wife left him within the last year, viewers will probably pick up quite easily that his carefree ways probably contributed to the end of the relationship. He’s sad about it, though, as evidenced by a scene in which he stares in bed one night at a photo of the two together.
If Ziegler were a real person who did live in Stevens Point, my guess is he would live in a downtown apartment after his divorce, mainly so he could have easy access to the bars at night. A big fan of chicken wings, I would assume he’d spend a lot of time at Graffiti’s, which does offer excellent boneless wings, although I could be wrong because he does seem like someone who might like bones in his wings.
He probably would play softball in a Thursday night league, and he’d have a YMCA membership that he rarely uses.
His friends are probably mostly married, so he doesn’t hang out with many of them and instead latches onto the people he does know when he’s out. They don’t mind, though, because he’s kind of fun and always makes the evening more interesting.
At work, he probably gets a number of disagreements with the boss, but they keep him around because he’s a hard worker and makes a lot of sales. He’ll never move up at work, but he doesn’t care.
If he has kids, he cares for them deeply but he’s not the best dad. He can’t relate to them, so he lets them do whatever they want, which is another reason his wife left him.
Ziegler is a complicated character, making it appropriate he’s from Stevens Point. We may seem like simple folk here, but we’re anything but. And maybe that’s one great reason to live here.
“Cedar Rapids” is available on DVD, following a limited theatrical release earlier this year.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Aug. 5, 2011.
Colonoscopies are no laughing matter
I prefer to keep this column light-hearted, but this week I’m addressing a serious topic in which I want to avoid being funny, despite the fact the subject matter often opens itself to bathroom humor, literally.
The subject: colonoscopies.
I had one two weeks ago, several days after some blood issues prompted me to visit Urgent Care at Ministry St. Michael’s Hospital in Stevens Point.
My father-in-law died one month ago, at the still young age of 57, following a two-year battle with colon cancer. Despite the fact he had a family history of colon cancer – his father dying from it in 2003 – he refused to get one once he reached his 50s. I’m not sure why he refused to do so, but I know it was his biggest regret in life, and in his final years he told many others to make sure they get a colonoscopy once they reach the right age.
I’m still 14 years away from 50, but because of the blood issues the examining doctor didn’t have an answer for, I was scheduled for one later in the week. Although nervous about it, my father-in-law’s experience left no doubt as to what I needed to do.
The day before the procedure, I had to drink a number of laxative-type drinks that emptied my system. It was not a pleasant experience, but far more people go through worse ones than I did sitting on a toilet most of the evening.
The only difficulty I had the day of the procedure was producing a ripe vein for the nurses to give me an IV. They tried for 40 minutes until they found one, during a time in which I nearly fainted once. They said men often do, as they don’t like the thought of needles.
After being wheeled into the procedure room, the doctor explained a little about what he was going to do. I’ll admit the only thing I really cared to listen about was the fact that I was going to be given medication that would put me out for the procedure. After being given the medication, the next thing I remember was being told I could get dressed.
With my clothes back on, the doctor told me he removed several polyps from my colon, but the cause of my blood issues was a colon infection. Colon infections occur when hard-to-digest food in the stomach and colon can’t break down and it remains there. I’m not sure what I ate to cause it, but I’m sure it wasn’t that good going down.
The doctor said the polyps will be tested for cancer and I will be notified a week later with the results.
One week later, I received a letter stating the polyps were noncancerous adenomatous polyps. These polyps grow slowly over three to 10 years, and they can become cancerous. Because I now have a history of them, I’m required to return for another colonoscopy in five years and then again in another five years, which means I will have three of them before turning 50.
Although the polyps only had a possibility of becoming cancerous, a big part of me believes my father-in-law may have saved my life in the future by sending a colon infection my way to force me to get a colonoscopy. Without it, I would have gone 14 years before my first one, which may have been too late.
Nothing like getting a probe from above to maybe save my life. Alright, I had to throw at least one colonoscopy joke in there to be at least a little funny. But seriously, if you’re 50 or older and haven’t had one, do so now. And if you suspect something may be wrong, don’t hesitate. I knew someone who would have very much liked me giving this advice.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 29, 2011.
The subject: colonoscopies.
I had one two weeks ago, several days after some blood issues prompted me to visit Urgent Care at Ministry St. Michael’s Hospital in Stevens Point.
My father-in-law died one month ago, at the still young age of 57, following a two-year battle with colon cancer. Despite the fact he had a family history of colon cancer – his father dying from it in 2003 – he refused to get one once he reached his 50s. I’m not sure why he refused to do so, but I know it was his biggest regret in life, and in his final years he told many others to make sure they get a colonoscopy once they reach the right age.
I’m still 14 years away from 50, but because of the blood issues the examining doctor didn’t have an answer for, I was scheduled for one later in the week. Although nervous about it, my father-in-law’s experience left no doubt as to what I needed to do.
The day before the procedure, I had to drink a number of laxative-type drinks that emptied my system. It was not a pleasant experience, but far more people go through worse ones than I did sitting on a toilet most of the evening.
The only difficulty I had the day of the procedure was producing a ripe vein for the nurses to give me an IV. They tried for 40 minutes until they found one, during a time in which I nearly fainted once. They said men often do, as they don’t like the thought of needles.
After being wheeled into the procedure room, the doctor explained a little about what he was going to do. I’ll admit the only thing I really cared to listen about was the fact that I was going to be given medication that would put me out for the procedure. After being given the medication, the next thing I remember was being told I could get dressed.
With my clothes back on, the doctor told me he removed several polyps from my colon, but the cause of my blood issues was a colon infection. Colon infections occur when hard-to-digest food in the stomach and colon can’t break down and it remains there. I’m not sure what I ate to cause it, but I’m sure it wasn’t that good going down.
The doctor said the polyps will be tested for cancer and I will be notified a week later with the results.
One week later, I received a letter stating the polyps were noncancerous adenomatous polyps. These polyps grow slowly over three to 10 years, and they can become cancerous. Because I now have a history of them, I’m required to return for another colonoscopy in five years and then again in another five years, which means I will have three of them before turning 50.
Although the polyps only had a possibility of becoming cancerous, a big part of me believes my father-in-law may have saved my life in the future by sending a colon infection my way to force me to get a colonoscopy. Without it, I would have gone 14 years before my first one, which may have been too late.
Nothing like getting a probe from above to maybe save my life. Alright, I had to throw at least one colonoscopy joke in there to be at least a little funny. But seriously, if you’re 50 or older and haven’t had one, do so now. And if you suspect something may be wrong, don’t hesitate. I knew someone who would have very much liked me giving this advice.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 29, 2011.
Groundhogs, snakes, birds and toads – oh my
Saturday was wildlife day at the Steuck household, as it was full of snakes, birds, toads and groundhogs.
Since moving in more than a month ago, I’ve been waiting for the wildlife. Although the house is in the city, it’s on the edge of town and is surrounded by plenty of natural landscape. Several years ago, before we built the house, neighbors spotted a bear on our property, and I have heard from others that cougars and wolves have been spotted in the area. But, other than a whole slew of birds who like to wake me up too early in the morning, the wildlife has been quiet.
That is until Saturday when all the animals decided they wanted to live in our yard, and in one case, in our house.
It started with the groundhog. While putting dishes away, my wife, Jenny, looked out the kitchen window and spotted a small brown animal on a rock ledge behind the house. Our son, Braden, and I looked out and spotted it, too. My wife initially thought it was a beaver, but I knew right away it was a groundhog, or a woodchuck as it is also commonly known.
I don’t know much about groundhogs, except that my dad used to shoot them when he spotted them on our property. He said they are a nuisance and didn’t want them there. I don’t have a gun, and even if I did, I could never bring myself to shoot it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s fun to watch it from our window. At one point while watching it, we thought we spotted a baby, but neither of us could confirm for sure that’s what we saw.
Later that afternoon, while in the garage, I spotted a bird in the rafters. Finally having a garage now to allow our cars to avoid becoming encased in the byproducts of birds, I wasn’t about to allow it to do so now. I tried shooing it out, and I could tell it wanted to get out, but it didn’t know how. The garage door below the rafters prevented it from seeing its escape route. I tried for five minutes to get it out, even at one point going outside, lying on my stomach and calling it to hopefully see the exit.
At this point, Jenny came out and told me to let the bird rest awhile, as it’s probably getting tired of flying around hopelessly in the garage. As long as we were outside, she said we should walk around the lawn to come up with ideas on landscaping. As we were walking in front of the house, she spotted a grass snake on our front porch with a toad in its mouth. Basically, it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.
She didn’t think so, jumping back about five feet and instructing me to get rid of it.
My first instinct, though, was to get Braden who was in the house. “Come outside and see something cool,” I told him walking past the snake and into the house. He ran out and agreed with me, immediately wanting to call his grandmother to let her know what he was seeing. It’s kind of torture on his part, because he knows his grandmother is deathly afraid of snakes.
I knew I had to get rid of the snake when it took its prey and started going under our house. Like the unwanted bird, we did not want a slithery unwanted reptilian houseguest. I grabbed it by its tail and held it at arm’s length, knowing it wouldn’t be able to reach me if it tried to bite. It’s first reaction was to let go of the toad and come after me. I couldn’t blame it, as who would want me holding it by its rear.
I went across the street and let it go in some high grass near a neighborhood park. Jenny said I shouldn’t have put it there, but it seemed the only logical place to go if she didn’t want it back on our property.
Maybe the bird was frightened by the snake, too, as it finally left after I put the garage door down halfway in an attempt to let it see the exit.
The toad the snake attempted to eat was probably the same toad I told Braden to release after he caught it when we first moved in. To convince him to let it go, I told him it was our “Guard Toad” and that it would guard our house from any bad things. I guess we better find another toad now.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 22, 2011.
Since moving in more than a month ago, I’ve been waiting for the wildlife. Although the house is in the city, it’s on the edge of town and is surrounded by plenty of natural landscape. Several years ago, before we built the house, neighbors spotted a bear on our property, and I have heard from others that cougars and wolves have been spotted in the area. But, other than a whole slew of birds who like to wake me up too early in the morning, the wildlife has been quiet.
That is until Saturday when all the animals decided they wanted to live in our yard, and in one case, in our house.
It started with the groundhog. While putting dishes away, my wife, Jenny, looked out the kitchen window and spotted a small brown animal on a rock ledge behind the house. Our son, Braden, and I looked out and spotted it, too. My wife initially thought it was a beaver, but I knew right away it was a groundhog, or a woodchuck as it is also commonly known.
I don’t know much about groundhogs, except that my dad used to shoot them when he spotted them on our property. He said they are a nuisance and didn’t want them there. I don’t have a gun, and even if I did, I could never bring myself to shoot it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s fun to watch it from our window. At one point while watching it, we thought we spotted a baby, but neither of us could confirm for sure that’s what we saw.
Later that afternoon, while in the garage, I spotted a bird in the rafters. Finally having a garage now to allow our cars to avoid becoming encased in the byproducts of birds, I wasn’t about to allow it to do so now. I tried shooing it out, and I could tell it wanted to get out, but it didn’t know how. The garage door below the rafters prevented it from seeing its escape route. I tried for five minutes to get it out, even at one point going outside, lying on my stomach and calling it to hopefully see the exit.
At this point, Jenny came out and told me to let the bird rest awhile, as it’s probably getting tired of flying around hopelessly in the garage. As long as we were outside, she said we should walk around the lawn to come up with ideas on landscaping. As we were walking in front of the house, she spotted a grass snake on our front porch with a toad in its mouth. Basically, it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.
She didn’t think so, jumping back about five feet and instructing me to get rid of it.
My first instinct, though, was to get Braden who was in the house. “Come outside and see something cool,” I told him walking past the snake and into the house. He ran out and agreed with me, immediately wanting to call his grandmother to let her know what he was seeing. It’s kind of torture on his part, because he knows his grandmother is deathly afraid of snakes.
I knew I had to get rid of the snake when it took its prey and started going under our house. Like the unwanted bird, we did not want a slithery unwanted reptilian houseguest. I grabbed it by its tail and held it at arm’s length, knowing it wouldn’t be able to reach me if it tried to bite. It’s first reaction was to let go of the toad and come after me. I couldn’t blame it, as who would want me holding it by its rear.
I went across the street and let it go in some high grass near a neighborhood park. Jenny said I shouldn’t have put it there, but it seemed the only logical place to go if she didn’t want it back on our property.
Maybe the bird was frightened by the snake, too, as it finally left after I put the garage door down halfway in an attempt to let it see the exit.
The toad the snake attempted to eat was probably the same toad I told Braden to release after he caught it when we first moved in. To convince him to let it go, I told him it was our “Guard Toad” and that it would guard our house from any bad things. I guess we better find another toad now.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 22, 2011.
Experienced father can offer good advice for new mother
My sister-in-law Abby is a big girl now, or she better be, as she delivered my second nephew, and third godson, Steven Bradley Schleicher, on Friday, July 8.
Named after his father, Steven, and his late grandfather, Bradley, the little guy weighed 8.5 pounds and was 21.5 inches long – small measurements that come with big responsibilities. As the father of a 6-year-old, I have some advice for her in this new endeavor.
Grandmas like to help, so let them. They’ll continually ask if you need any help and after awhile you’ll start feeling guilty that you’re taking advantage of them. Ignore this guilt, because they truly love helping you and spending time with the new grandchild. They’ve learned from all of the mistakes they made in raising their own children, and now want to show you how to properly be a parent.
Learn from their examples, but expect to make plenty of your own mistakes. Human nature practically dictates that we goof things up, even when it’s spelled out clearly and laid out right in front of us in an easy how-to guide that could ensure success.
One example: when your nephew, Braden, was a youngster, your sister and I said we’ll never take him to McDonalds. The food is unhealthy, and we don’t want him growing up to become a fat fast-food junkie. For a long time, we successfully avoided the place. And then one day, against our better judgment, we took him there. And now, every time we drive past some golden arches, we hear “Let’s go to McDonalds.” Ugghhh. I think the Happy Meal toys hooked him.
Enjoy the fact that he’s not mobile and can’t speak while you can, because once he moves and speaks, life will never be quiet again. I remember anxiously waiting for Braden to learn how to crawl and then walk, and waiting for him to say his first words, thinking he’ll be so much cooler to me once he did those things. Little did I know that he’ll never stop moving and he’ll never stop talking once he learns them.
Memories are short, so take lots of photos and videos, but don’t forget to write down the funny things they do. My long-term memory is garbage, so I’m thankful for the hundreds of photos we took as Braden was growing up. We’ve taken some video, but probably should have taken more.
Most people probably don’t think about putting the funny things to paper, but fortunately for your sister and me, and probably unfortunately for Braden, I’ve practically documented everything he’s ever done in this column, or on the “What did you expect…” page on the inside back cover. Reading about my kid has probably annoyed a lot of people over the years, but generally I hear from a lot more people that they like reading about my family because it reminds them of theirs. You’ll be amazed at how some of the seemingly personal occurrences are much more universal than you think.
My last piece of advice is to learn how to hold your ground. Kids, even at infant age, learn quickly that crying and throwing a tantrum is the easiest way to get what they want. It’s tough saying no, especially when you know that it’ll be easier on you if you give in. But it won’t, because the next time he’ll cry harder and throw a bigger tantrum. With Braden, I feel fortunate because we seldom gave in to him, so his tantrums are usually contained quickly. Nonetheless, he still throws them and occasionally we give in out of his sheer tenacity.
Some day, and maybe you can be the one, some parent is going to make it through his or her child’s younger years without giving in, and that child may grow up to be the most thoughtful, unselfish adult that has ever existed. And maybe that child could become a great president who solves many of the growing problems facing the world.
I know it’s wishful thinking, but every parent has hopes their kid will become president someday. I do, and there is no reason you shouldn’t expect it. So maybe that’s my really my last piece of advice: expect your kid to become president.
As a side note, take advantage of aunts and uncles – who miss having babies around – as babysitters. And call your sister for advice. She’s got plenty to give.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 15, 2011.
Named after his father, Steven, and his late grandfather, Bradley, the little guy weighed 8.5 pounds and was 21.5 inches long – small measurements that come with big responsibilities. As the father of a 6-year-old, I have some advice for her in this new endeavor.
Grandmas like to help, so let them. They’ll continually ask if you need any help and after awhile you’ll start feeling guilty that you’re taking advantage of them. Ignore this guilt, because they truly love helping you and spending time with the new grandchild. They’ve learned from all of the mistakes they made in raising their own children, and now want to show you how to properly be a parent.
Learn from their examples, but expect to make plenty of your own mistakes. Human nature practically dictates that we goof things up, even when it’s spelled out clearly and laid out right in front of us in an easy how-to guide that could ensure success.
One example: when your nephew, Braden, was a youngster, your sister and I said we’ll never take him to McDonalds. The food is unhealthy, and we don’t want him growing up to become a fat fast-food junkie. For a long time, we successfully avoided the place. And then one day, against our better judgment, we took him there. And now, every time we drive past some golden arches, we hear “Let’s go to McDonalds.” Ugghhh. I think the Happy Meal toys hooked him.
Enjoy the fact that he’s not mobile and can’t speak while you can, because once he moves and speaks, life will never be quiet again. I remember anxiously waiting for Braden to learn how to crawl and then walk, and waiting for him to say his first words, thinking he’ll be so much cooler to me once he did those things. Little did I know that he’ll never stop moving and he’ll never stop talking once he learns them.
Memories are short, so take lots of photos and videos, but don’t forget to write down the funny things they do. My long-term memory is garbage, so I’m thankful for the hundreds of photos we took as Braden was growing up. We’ve taken some video, but probably should have taken more.
Most people probably don’t think about putting the funny things to paper, but fortunately for your sister and me, and probably unfortunately for Braden, I’ve practically documented everything he’s ever done in this column, or on the “What did you expect…” page on the inside back cover. Reading about my kid has probably annoyed a lot of people over the years, but generally I hear from a lot more people that they like reading about my family because it reminds them of theirs. You’ll be amazed at how some of the seemingly personal occurrences are much more universal than you think.
My last piece of advice is to learn how to hold your ground. Kids, even at infant age, learn quickly that crying and throwing a tantrum is the easiest way to get what they want. It’s tough saying no, especially when you know that it’ll be easier on you if you give in. But it won’t, because the next time he’ll cry harder and throw a bigger tantrum. With Braden, I feel fortunate because we seldom gave in to him, so his tantrums are usually contained quickly. Nonetheless, he still throws them and occasionally we give in out of his sheer tenacity.
Some day, and maybe you can be the one, some parent is going to make it through his or her child’s younger years without giving in, and that child may grow up to be the most thoughtful, unselfish adult that has ever existed. And maybe that child could become a great president who solves many of the growing problems facing the world.
I know it’s wishful thinking, but every parent has hopes their kid will become president someday. I do, and there is no reason you shouldn’t expect it. So maybe that’s my really my last piece of advice: expect your kid to become president.
As a side note, take advantage of aunts and uncles – who miss having babies around – as babysitters. And call your sister for advice. She’s got plenty to give.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 15, 2011.
Stevens Point Fourth of July festivities bring out loads of good, just touch of bad
By JENNIFER STEUCKMy husband, Scott, the usual columnist here, and I were discussing the Fourth of July activities that took place in Stevens Point this past weekend. Those discussions, and perhaps a bit of writer’s block, prompted Scott to ask me to share some of those thoughts with you via his column.
Having lived in the greater Stevens Point area for three years, I’ve only ever attended Riverfront Rendezvous for the Friday night main stage performance. Typically, we travel to our hometown of Wautoma and spend Independence Day there. This year, though, we decided to take in the full extent of the Stevens Point festivities.
On Friday night, we attended Riverfront Rendezvous, mainly because Scott wanted to see Cory Chisel, the opening act. Having never heard him before, I was pleasantly surprised and enjoyed his performance very much. Scott and I often differ on musical tastes, so this was a nice reprieve.
Having only recently begun working in Stevens Point, I was pleased to run into several people I know, including my new co-worker, Cheri, and her friends, Tracy and Jennifer, who demonstrated the fine art of making your way to the stage during the Toad the Wet Sprocket performance. Typically, when I’ve attended local events in the past, my husband runs into several people he knows, while I watch from the sidelines knowing few people locally until recently.
On Sunday night, we attended the fantastic firework display with our friends, Brian and Johanna Sloss, and their children. I’ve always been a fan of fireworks and truly enjoyed the display… with the exception of the trees blocking some of our view from our spot on Water Street. I guess that’s what you get for parking your blanket closer to accessible side-street parking than at Pfiffner Park.
On Monday, we attended the parade downtown. I was pleased to see the attention to detail that the city places on promoting safety at such an event. The rope barricades were a nice touch, and made me feel more secure as a parent with having my fearless 6-year-old running loose. When he was a toddler, I had one of those kid leashes that looked like an animal backpack with a long tail. I admit that I used it. But I always knew where my child was. I really wish I could have one of those now. When he’s a teenager, he’ll probably despise me for the pictures of him on his kid leash.
There were two incidents during the entire weekend that didn’t sit well with me. While at the parade, a local politician’s aides were handing out fliers. Perfectly fine. In fact, I encourage that. However, one of those aides, and I won’t give away any names, handed my son a stack of pamphlets and told him to pass them around. I can assure you, that regardless of my political affiliations – I did vote for this person in the last election – I promptly trashed those items.
I feel it was rather inappropriate and presumptuous of the aide to request my son to pass them around. At 6, he has no concept of politics, and certainly no affiliations. I would advise any politicians, aides or volunteers who are reading this to reconsider if they are thinking about asking a child to assist them with their political literature.
My second concern took place when two sets of parents sitting to the left of me got into a rather vehement argument over candy. Yes. Parents, arguing over candy. From what I could tell, one set of parents accused the other set of parents of taking candy from their child. The other set of parents responded, using some very inappropriate words in a very loud voice. You can likely imagine what those words were, without me spelling them out.
I’ll admit that I’ve been known to use a curse word or two. And truthfully, I recognize it for the dirty habit it is, and am trying to break that bad habit. As you can imagine, when frustrated, you may hear the words sugar and fudge come out of my mouth in an angry tone…if you happen to be there, please forgive me. I’m trying desperately to replace much worse words.
This parental “exchange” got me to thinking about the holiday, and all that it stands for. How we as Americans are guaranteed the right to speak our minds as a part of the First Amendment. I think this is wonderful. However, I do wish that others would remember when invoking their First Amendment right, that just because they want to say it, doesn’t mean I want to listen to them, and I certainly do not want my child to.
Editor’s note: Jennifer Steuck is the wife of Scott Steuck, the Portage County Gazette managing editor who normally writes this column. He didn’t have much to say, so he thought he’d turn the space over to Jennifer, who always has plenty to say.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 8, 2011.
Having lived in the greater Stevens Point area for three years, I’ve only ever attended Riverfront Rendezvous for the Friday night main stage performance. Typically, we travel to our hometown of Wautoma and spend Independence Day there. This year, though, we decided to take in the full extent of the Stevens Point festivities.
On Friday night, we attended Riverfront Rendezvous, mainly because Scott wanted to see Cory Chisel, the opening act. Having never heard him before, I was pleasantly surprised and enjoyed his performance very much. Scott and I often differ on musical tastes, so this was a nice reprieve.
Having only recently begun working in Stevens Point, I was pleased to run into several people I know, including my new co-worker, Cheri, and her friends, Tracy and Jennifer, who demonstrated the fine art of making your way to the stage during the Toad the Wet Sprocket performance. Typically, when I’ve attended local events in the past, my husband runs into several people he knows, while I watch from the sidelines knowing few people locally until recently.
On Sunday night, we attended the fantastic firework display with our friends, Brian and Johanna Sloss, and their children. I’ve always been a fan of fireworks and truly enjoyed the display… with the exception of the trees blocking some of our view from our spot on Water Street. I guess that’s what you get for parking your blanket closer to accessible side-street parking than at Pfiffner Park.
On Monday, we attended the parade downtown. I was pleased to see the attention to detail that the city places on promoting safety at such an event. The rope barricades were a nice touch, and made me feel more secure as a parent with having my fearless 6-year-old running loose. When he was a toddler, I had one of those kid leashes that looked like an animal backpack with a long tail. I admit that I used it. But I always knew where my child was. I really wish I could have one of those now. When he’s a teenager, he’ll probably despise me for the pictures of him on his kid leash.
There were two incidents during the entire weekend that didn’t sit well with me. While at the parade, a local politician’s aides were handing out fliers. Perfectly fine. In fact, I encourage that. However, one of those aides, and I won’t give away any names, handed my son a stack of pamphlets and told him to pass them around. I can assure you, that regardless of my political affiliations – I did vote for this person in the last election – I promptly trashed those items.
I feel it was rather inappropriate and presumptuous of the aide to request my son to pass them around. At 6, he has no concept of politics, and certainly no affiliations. I would advise any politicians, aides or volunteers who are reading this to reconsider if they are thinking about asking a child to assist them with their political literature.
My second concern took place when two sets of parents sitting to the left of me got into a rather vehement argument over candy. Yes. Parents, arguing over candy. From what I could tell, one set of parents accused the other set of parents of taking candy from their child. The other set of parents responded, using some very inappropriate words in a very loud voice. You can likely imagine what those words were, without me spelling them out.
I’ll admit that I’ve been known to use a curse word or two. And truthfully, I recognize it for the dirty habit it is, and am trying to break that bad habit. As you can imagine, when frustrated, you may hear the words sugar and fudge come out of my mouth in an angry tone…if you happen to be there, please forgive me. I’m trying desperately to replace much worse words.
This parental “exchange” got me to thinking about the holiday, and all that it stands for. How we as Americans are guaranteed the right to speak our minds as a part of the First Amendment. I think this is wonderful. However, I do wish that others would remember when invoking their First Amendment right, that just because they want to say it, doesn’t mean I want to listen to them, and I certainly do not want my child to.
Editor’s note: Jennifer Steuck is the wife of Scott Steuck, the Portage County Gazette managing editor who normally writes this column. He didn’t have much to say, so he thought he’d turn the space over to Jennifer, who always has plenty to say.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 8, 2011.
Festivus will continue in wake of great man’s death
Although we never actually used a Festivus pole and celebrated the fictitious Seinfeld television show holiday, my father-in-law, Bradley Drews, and I always joked around that we would. After all, who wouldn’t want to celebrate a holiday that features the “Airing of Grievances” and “Feats of Strength”?
Festivus can only end when the head of the household is wrestled to the floor and pinned during the “Feats of Strength.” If we had celebrated the holiday, this would have meant wrestling my father-in-law, or Grandpa as we preferred to call him, to the floor and pinning him. If we had tried, though, we would have failed, because Grandpa was a big man, both in physical appearance and in importance. As a result, Festivus would have continued indefinitely.
But Grandpa is no longer with us, as his nearly two-year battle with colon cancer ended this week. His death leaves everyone who knew him sad, because of his larger-than-life status and the joy he brought to them with his dry sense of humor, his help-everyone attitude and his ability to make people feel good about themselves. But making people sad is the last thing he would have wanted, so I’m going to make sure the Festivus holiday we unofficially celebrated just by joking around about it does continue indefinitely.
While accompanying him during his final days, as countless people came to say goodbyes, many stories were shared about him. These stories amazed me, because looking at my own life I have only a few that could be compared to his many – some I have only because he was involved with them.
In one of his stories as a boy, he convinced his younger brother that the boy was Batman. While doing the Batman song, he told his younger brother to jump off the roof of the house and employ his Batman gliding abilities. The boy did so, quickly falling to the ground and breaking his arm.
Many years later, with three girls of his own, he convinced one of their friends – a city girl visiting their country home – that the dinner he was making was going to be good, because the roadkill he was using was fresh. I understand the look of horror on her face was priceless.
Another time, while fishing with his brother-in-law, a man who thought he was the ultimate fisherman, Grandpa quietly taunted him with each big fish he reeled in as his brother-in-law failed to generate even a bite. Grandpa believed this type of teasing was great, but only if it could be backed up with actions and not just words, as he proved over and over again that day.
One of my favorite stories is the time he went through a fast food drive-through and talked as though he was “breaking up,” much like the fast food workers sound through the junky speaker systems they have to use. He and the guy he was with were apparently laughing so hard about this they could hardly place their order.
Plenty of his stories involve my son, his grandson Braden. When Braden dropped a hat light he had gotten him into a river, Grandpa knew he needed to rescue it. On his way down the riverbank, he slid into a pile of mud, messing himself enough that Grandma said he needed to take his clothes off before getting into her vehicle. So, on the way back, he rode in the vehicle wearing nothing but his underwear. The picture she snapped of this spectacle was made even more hilarious by the smirk under his big moustache, a moustache he was never without and that he told his daughters when they were younger he had because he had no upper lip.
At his favorite place, his cottage on Spring Lake near Wautoma, he had a big treasure chest, which he convinced Braden he got after battling pirates on the lake and beating them in a sword battle. Braden loves telling this story to everyone who asks.
Once at the lake, he planted a fake skeleton on the bottom of the lake, proudly boating people over it and telling them to look at it, often causing them to gasp in semi-horror until realizing it wasn’t real.
I could fill this entire newspaper with more stories, as they are truly endless. Before he left us, he said if we need some good stories about him we should just call one of his friends who apparently have many more that will make us laugh for years to come.
But Grandpa wasn’t all funny stories. Simply put, he was the greatest man I’ve ever known. His actions in helping others made him a loud presence, despite his tendency to be quieter than most people. I can’t count the number of times I saw him helping others – even when he wasn’t physically up to it – and making sure their needs were met before his.
When my own father died when I was 21, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I shut down and didn’t talk about it. It wasn’t until I met Jenny, my wife, and he became involved in my life that I opened up again. He knew I needed that father figure, and he quickly became it. As a result, I became the son he didn’t have, although I didn’t have any of the know-how skills he had an abundance of.
There’s an expression that suggests women marry guys just like their fathers. I might disagree with this, and say guys marry women with fathers just like them. I only hope I can be half the man he was.
In the “Airing of Grievances” during Festivus, people are supposed to let it all out and tell others how they’ve disappointed that person over the past year. With Grandpa, though, that’s something we could never have done because disappointing others is something he didn’t do. It’s a model we all hope to live up to as we continue our lives and remember how valuable he was to us.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 1, 2011.
Festivus can only end when the head of the household is wrestled to the floor and pinned during the “Feats of Strength.” If we had celebrated the holiday, this would have meant wrestling my father-in-law, or Grandpa as we preferred to call him, to the floor and pinning him. If we had tried, though, we would have failed, because Grandpa was a big man, both in physical appearance and in importance. As a result, Festivus would have continued indefinitely.
But Grandpa is no longer with us, as his nearly two-year battle with colon cancer ended this week. His death leaves everyone who knew him sad, because of his larger-than-life status and the joy he brought to them with his dry sense of humor, his help-everyone attitude and his ability to make people feel good about themselves. But making people sad is the last thing he would have wanted, so I’m going to make sure the Festivus holiday we unofficially celebrated just by joking around about it does continue indefinitely.
While accompanying him during his final days, as countless people came to say goodbyes, many stories were shared about him. These stories amazed me, because looking at my own life I have only a few that could be compared to his many – some I have only because he was involved with them.
In one of his stories as a boy, he convinced his younger brother that the boy was Batman. While doing the Batman song, he told his younger brother to jump off the roof of the house and employ his Batman gliding abilities. The boy did so, quickly falling to the ground and breaking his arm.
Many years later, with three girls of his own, he convinced one of their friends – a city girl visiting their country home – that the dinner he was making was going to be good, because the roadkill he was using was fresh. I understand the look of horror on her face was priceless.
Another time, while fishing with his brother-in-law, a man who thought he was the ultimate fisherman, Grandpa quietly taunted him with each big fish he reeled in as his brother-in-law failed to generate even a bite. Grandpa believed this type of teasing was great, but only if it could be backed up with actions and not just words, as he proved over and over again that day.
One of my favorite stories is the time he went through a fast food drive-through and talked as though he was “breaking up,” much like the fast food workers sound through the junky speaker systems they have to use. He and the guy he was with were apparently laughing so hard about this they could hardly place their order.
Plenty of his stories involve my son, his grandson Braden. When Braden dropped a hat light he had gotten him into a river, Grandpa knew he needed to rescue it. On his way down the riverbank, he slid into a pile of mud, messing himself enough that Grandma said he needed to take his clothes off before getting into her vehicle. So, on the way back, he rode in the vehicle wearing nothing but his underwear. The picture she snapped of this spectacle was made even more hilarious by the smirk under his big moustache, a moustache he was never without and that he told his daughters when they were younger he had because he had no upper lip.
At his favorite place, his cottage on Spring Lake near Wautoma, he had a big treasure chest, which he convinced Braden he got after battling pirates on the lake and beating them in a sword battle. Braden loves telling this story to everyone who asks.
Once at the lake, he planted a fake skeleton on the bottom of the lake, proudly boating people over it and telling them to look at it, often causing them to gasp in semi-horror until realizing it wasn’t real.
I could fill this entire newspaper with more stories, as they are truly endless. Before he left us, he said if we need some good stories about him we should just call one of his friends who apparently have many more that will make us laugh for years to come.
But Grandpa wasn’t all funny stories. Simply put, he was the greatest man I’ve ever known. His actions in helping others made him a loud presence, despite his tendency to be quieter than most people. I can’t count the number of times I saw him helping others – even when he wasn’t physically up to it – and making sure their needs were met before his.
When my own father died when I was 21, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I shut down and didn’t talk about it. It wasn’t until I met Jenny, my wife, and he became involved in my life that I opened up again. He knew I needed that father figure, and he quickly became it. As a result, I became the son he didn’t have, although I didn’t have any of the know-how skills he had an abundance of.
There’s an expression that suggests women marry guys just like their fathers. I might disagree with this, and say guys marry women with fathers just like them. I only hope I can be half the man he was.
In the “Airing of Grievances” during Festivus, people are supposed to let it all out and tell others how they’ve disappointed that person over the past year. With Grandpa, though, that’s something we could never have done because disappointing others is something he didn’t do. It’s a model we all hope to live up to as we continue our lives and remember how valuable he was to us.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, July 1, 2011.
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