Much is being made today about the fact that Al Franken, who is running to be the Democratic Party's nominee to challenge Norm Coleman in Minnesota's Senate race this fall, recently discovered he owes $70,000 in 17 states.
I can relate: this can be an honest mistake.
In 1994, I was serving as the St. Paul Saints' radio announcer. We opened the season in Winnipeg and then went to Sioux City for a series. In between, we had a rare day off on the road. In Iowa, most of the casinos are on boats. So it was here -- there was a casino on a boat basically across the street from our hotel.
There isn't a lot to do in Sioux City on a day off. So I went over to the boat and played around a bit. I ran across a game called Caribbean Stud Poker. On my second hand, I was dealt a straight flush (3-4-5-6-7 of diamonds). That earns you 10 per cent of whatever the total pot is. In this case, that meant I had won $5,300. (I would have won another $500 if the dealer had A-K or better. But who wants to be greedy?)
When this happens, the casino and the state take its cut immediately. So, after taxes, the final amount of the check was something like $3,500.
I never thought anything more of it until I was doing my taxes the next spring and my tax man told me that I had to file an Iowa state tax return. Seemed I had been overcharged and I was eligible for a $75 state refund from Iowa. Coincidentally, my tax man (my ex-tax man now) charged me $75 to fill out the form.
If Franken was really letting his accountant do the work -- and the guy was incompetent or simply lazy -- it is very possible he really didn't know he owed New Jersey $53 and Arizona $67.
It's a little late but Mr. Franken has learned a valuable lesson. The people who pay you for speeches or appearances probably aren't as thorough as casinos.
And what does that say about business in general?
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Life on Double Secret Probation is risky business
Anybody who is a pet owner (I mean a real pet here -- not something that lives in a fishbowl or a small wire cage) knows there is the chance the animal will get into mischief.
For the most part, we accept this as part of the deal. When Pete, the happy dog, decided to rip up half the kitchen floor as a form of protest for being penned in there, we took it as a hint he would like to have the run of the house. And, yes, it also meant we needed a new kitchen floor. My wife was annoyed but understanding when, in his puppy days, Pete ripped up one of her bathing suits and later did a number on a pair of her flipflops.
Polar Bear, a big white cat whose residency predates Pete, recently committed crimes that are being considered differently. For many years, he was reasonably well-behaved. With a rare exception when he first arrived, he went in his litter. In his dotage, he has been having some kidney issues and started the nasty habit of barfing in various spots. It's annoying but he is an elderly and this can be cleaned up. It has been a little puzzling to discover we might have the first known case of bulimia in a cat after watching him devour breakfast and then bring it back up minutes later. But some Petromalt and another syrupy type drug has proved helpful.
There have been other medications, including a trip to the kitty dentist that ran into the several hundred dollars.
We don't exactly know Polar Bear's age but the vet thinks he is around 15. After his actions yesterday, he will be very lucky to see 16.
Last Friday, we had new carpet installed in the basement. It is part of a lengthy project and everything seemed to go quite well. Two days later, we were down admiring our carpet when Polar Bear wandered in, did some sniffing around and dropped off a liquid deposit. At that point, I showed speed I hadn't used in years, grabbing by the scruff of his neck and escorting him to his litter box. He jumped out quickly only to be returned with vigor. We were hoping he would get the idea this was not acceptable behavior. This morning, we awoke to discover he had upchucked on the carpet.
Suffice it to say that Polar Bear is now on Double Secret Probation.
A quick phone call to the vet wasn't very helpful. Oh, we could have his urine tested (again). But even the vet didn't sound like he was expecting to learn much.
Simply put, the cat is getting old, his kidneys aren't what they used to be and he is probably ticked off there is a carpet over what used to be a floor he could walk on. For all I know, he is also annoyed over the Twins getting hammered by the Rangers, 10-0, the other day and is sick of all the political coverage on TV.
The reasons don't matter. When you have spent nearly two grand on new carpet, you are generally not in the mood to be understanding when it is soiled. In this regard, I am in total agreement with the Lady Of the House. (I know. How Republican of us. Sorry.)
Thus an edict has been issued to Polar Bear: He needs to clean up his act pronto or he will be returned to sender. I'm not very happy about this solution but I can live with it.
If it was me doing the same acts, I suspect I would be on my way, too.
For the most part, we accept this as part of the deal. When Pete, the happy dog, decided to rip up half the kitchen floor as a form of protest for being penned in there, we took it as a hint he would like to have the run of the house. And, yes, it also meant we needed a new kitchen floor. My wife was annoyed but understanding when, in his puppy days, Pete ripped up one of her bathing suits and later did a number on a pair of her flipflops.
Polar Bear, a big white cat whose residency predates Pete, recently committed crimes that are being considered differently. For many years, he was reasonably well-behaved. With a rare exception when he first arrived, he went in his litter. In his dotage, he has been having some kidney issues and started the nasty habit of barfing in various spots. It's annoying but he is an elderly and this can be cleaned up. It has been a little puzzling to discover we might have the first known case of bulimia in a cat after watching him devour breakfast and then bring it back up minutes later. But some Petromalt and another syrupy type drug has proved helpful.
There have been other medications, including a trip to the kitty dentist that ran into the several hundred dollars.
We don't exactly know Polar Bear's age but the vet thinks he is around 15. After his actions yesterday, he will be very lucky to see 16.
Last Friday, we had new carpet installed in the basement. It is part of a lengthy project and everything seemed to go quite well. Two days later, we were down admiring our carpet when Polar Bear wandered in, did some sniffing around and dropped off a liquid deposit. At that point, I showed speed I hadn't used in years, grabbing by the scruff of his neck and escorting him to his litter box. He jumped out quickly only to be returned with vigor. We were hoping he would get the idea this was not acceptable behavior. This morning, we awoke to discover he had upchucked on the carpet.
Suffice it to say that Polar Bear is now on Double Secret Probation.
A quick phone call to the vet wasn't very helpful. Oh, we could have his urine tested (again). But even the vet didn't sound like he was expecting to learn much.
Simply put, the cat is getting old, his kidneys aren't what they used to be and he is probably ticked off there is a carpet over what used to be a floor he could walk on. For all I know, he is also annoyed over the Twins getting hammered by the Rangers, 10-0, the other day and is sick of all the political coverage on TV.
The reasons don't matter. When you have spent nearly two grand on new carpet, you are generally not in the mood to be understanding when it is soiled. In this regard, I am in total agreement with the Lady Of the House. (I know. How Republican of us. Sorry.)
Thus an edict has been issued to Polar Bear: He needs to clean up his act pronto or he will be returned to sender. I'm not very happy about this solution but I can live with it.
If it was me doing the same acts, I suspect I would be on my way, too.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Thoughts on an Iowa highway
As I was fighting my way through the rain from Des Moines to beautiful Cedar Rapids, I found myself thinking about the presidential candidates.
Just how do they do it?
I don't mean the daily speeches and interviews. That is what they are trained for and they can do those in their sleep. (Some of the time it looks that way, too.)
No, my question: how do they manage to get comfortable when night after night they are packing and moving from hotel to hotel?
This morning, I finished up some work for the website, had a good breakfast and started packing for the two hour drive to Cedar Rapids. I thought I had done a good job putting dirty stuff in one bag and clean (and semiclean) stuff in the other.
I moved them to the care and came back to make a last-second check of the room. All I had missed was two shirts on hangars, a T-shirt and two pair of shorts I had left on top of the TV.
When you go to seven cities in five days and spend five nights in different hotels, you can start to go goofy. Try as they might, hotel beds aren't as nice as your own. As amenable as most front desk people are, you still end up looking for something that isn't where you thought it was. You almost have to call down to the desk with a question about the TV or how to hook up to the internet. No two shower handles operate the same way. Want to sit and take a hot bath? Not in the bathrooms on my budget?
Then there is the matter of following directions (kudos here for Mapquest. With one small exception, the directions around this state this week have been superb.), dodging in and out of traffic on Iowa's various highways. (One really odd thing that doesn't happen in Minnesota. The state highways will lower the speed limit from 70 to 65 for brief stretches for no apparent reason except the road might dip at one point. Generally speaking, us out of staters slow down. Guys in Iowa plates just keep on trucking.)
All in all, this traveling thinh is one tiring gig. And I am only doing this for five days, not the two years that most of the remaining campaigners have been doing.
Granted, Hillary, Barack and John have people who take care of things like luggage and the hotel bill. Still, you need clean clothes every day when you move from town to town. I have been watching Mrs. Clinton closely and I swear the woman never wears the same suit two days in a row ... or even in the same week. How in the hell does she travel with all those clothes to say nothing of the other stuff women bring with them on the road? The fashion police are everywhere these days and I suspect there are people assigned to check on this very issue.
In that one area, us men get off easier than women. You can wear the same shirt and pants two days in a row. This is particularlt true when you are driving from one town where nobody knows your name to another.
I also found myself wondering what these guys do for fun at night. When my duty is over at the arena or the ballpark, I wil head towards my room but usually stop at a bistro/slaoon on the way or, if I am lucky, at the hotel bar. (Comfort Inns, by the way, are very nice. They would be even nicer if they had a small bar in the lobby instead of a coffee machine.) Like John Steinbeck used to do in "Travels with Charley", I find myself thinking about where I had just been and what I liked or disliked about the arena/stadium. But what do Hilary, Barack and John do when they report to their hotel room? Check the next speech? Find out who the mayor is of the towns they are visiting the next day? Instead of watching ESPN, do they watch CNN or Fox instead? And what do they do when the local newspaper doesn't carry the comic strip you are used to reading every day at home? Do they go on line (as I did) to see what they missed?
These are the thoughts that rumble through a fellow's head as he drives by himself on an Iowa highway.
While I have been gone this week, new carpet and light fixtures were installed in the basement of our house. Will I even recognize the place? At least I can remember how to get there. I wonder if any of the current presidential candidates could tell you the nearest side street to their house.
One more night. One more ballpark. I'm anxious to see my wife, the dog, the carpet and light fixtures and even the cat who spends most of his time asleep but wakes up occasionally to barf on the floor. I'm ready to return to my favorite pub to have a drink with people I know.
Home, sweet home never sounded so good.
Just how do they do it?
I don't mean the daily speeches and interviews. That is what they are trained for and they can do those in their sleep. (Some of the time it looks that way, too.)
No, my question: how do they manage to get comfortable when night after night they are packing and moving from hotel to hotel?
This morning, I finished up some work for the website, had a good breakfast and started packing for the two hour drive to Cedar Rapids. I thought I had done a good job putting dirty stuff in one bag and clean (and semiclean) stuff in the other.
I moved them to the care and came back to make a last-second check of the room. All I had missed was two shirts on hangars, a T-shirt and two pair of shorts I had left on top of the TV.
When you go to seven cities in five days and spend five nights in different hotels, you can start to go goofy. Try as they might, hotel beds aren't as nice as your own. As amenable as most front desk people are, you still end up looking for something that isn't where you thought it was. You almost have to call down to the desk with a question about the TV or how to hook up to the internet. No two shower handles operate the same way. Want to sit and take a hot bath? Not in the bathrooms on my budget?
Then there is the matter of following directions (kudos here for Mapquest. With one small exception, the directions around this state this week have been superb.), dodging in and out of traffic on Iowa's various highways. (One really odd thing that doesn't happen in Minnesota. The state highways will lower the speed limit from 70 to 65 for brief stretches for no apparent reason except the road might dip at one point. Generally speaking, us out of staters slow down. Guys in Iowa plates just keep on trucking.)
All in all, this traveling thinh is one tiring gig. And I am only doing this for five days, not the two years that most of the remaining campaigners have been doing.
Granted, Hillary, Barack and John have people who take care of things like luggage and the hotel bill. Still, you need clean clothes every day when you move from town to town. I have been watching Mrs. Clinton closely and I swear the woman never wears the same suit two days in a row ... or even in the same week. How in the hell does she travel with all those clothes to say nothing of the other stuff women bring with them on the road? The fashion police are everywhere these days and I suspect there are people assigned to check on this very issue.
In that one area, us men get off easier than women. You can wear the same shirt and pants two days in a row. This is particularlt true when you are driving from one town where nobody knows your name to another.
I also found myself wondering what these guys do for fun at night. When my duty is over at the arena or the ballpark, I wil head towards my room but usually stop at a bistro/slaoon on the way or, if I am lucky, at the hotel bar. (Comfort Inns, by the way, are very nice. They would be even nicer if they had a small bar in the lobby instead of a coffee machine.) Like John Steinbeck used to do in "Travels with Charley", I find myself thinking about where I had just been and what I liked or disliked about the arena/stadium. But what do Hilary, Barack and John do when they report to their hotel room? Check the next speech? Find out who the mayor is of the towns they are visiting the next day? Instead of watching ESPN, do they watch CNN or Fox instead? And what do they do when the local newspaper doesn't carry the comic strip you are used to reading every day at home? Do they go on line (as I did) to see what they missed?
These are the thoughts that rumble through a fellow's head as he drives by himself on an Iowa highway.
While I have been gone this week, new carpet and light fixtures were installed in the basement of our house. Will I even recognize the place? At least I can remember how to get there. I wonder if any of the current presidential candidates could tell you the nearest side street to their house.
One more night. One more ballpark. I'm anxious to see my wife, the dog, the carpet and light fixtures and even the cat who spends most of his time asleep but wakes up occasionally to barf on the floor. I'm ready to return to my favorite pub to have a drink with people I know.
Home, sweet home never sounded so good.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Iowa sojourn part 2
So I am driving down Iowa 61 this morning and it is raining like crazy.In the distance I see a figure on the right. Can this really be? It is, indeed, a hitchhiker - a desolate figure looking to go god knows where. When I was young, I hitchhiked to work often. But I hadn't seen one for years. I didn't stop and pick him up. One hears stories, you know. Still, I wonder where he was going and how he ended up on a rainy highway in Iowa. Kinda creepy.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Whatever happened to AM radio?
So the boss sends me to Iowa for a funfilled week of ballparks and arenas. First stop: Dubuque. It's a 5-hour journey but no problem -- I have a good car radio.
One problem: You can't find an AM station south of Rochester that comes in without a fistful of static. Oh, there were plenty of FMers, full of country twanging and gospel music. But AMers? Few and far between. At least my radio couldn't find them. Granted, there are some back roads in this fine state but still, you would have thought I could have found something.
Whatever happened to AM radio anyway?
One problem: You can't find an AM station south of Rochester that comes in without a fistful of static. Oh, there were plenty of FMers, full of country twanging and gospel music. But AMers? Few and far between. At least my radio couldn't find them. Granted, there are some back roads in this fine state but still, you would have thought I could have found something.
Whatever happened to AM radio anyway?
Monday, April 14, 2008
If this isn't a recession, then what is it?
Forepaughs and the Parkview Cafe are two of my favorite St. Paul restaurants even though they are about as different as can be.
Lynne and I got married at Forepaughs, which is a converted Victorian house in a nice area of St. Paul. It is a very nice restaurant where dinner and a couple of drinks will run you about $100. But the food is always good and the service impeccable. It is the kind of place where you always feel respected and respectable at the same time.
The owner, Ed Christy, is a terrific fellow who can make the routine of days seem special. In the case of the wedding, it could not have gone off better if we had spent $10,000 for a wedding planner. With the price tag being what it is, we only visit a couple of times a year. But it is always worth trip.
Now Ed is selling the place. The new owners haven't said what they are going to do do with it but they did say they are going to change the menu. Why does somebody sell a place like that? Because the market won't bear it.
The Parkview was located in the neighborhood where my wife grew up. It wasn't fancy but it had been there for five decades. The food was always prepared the way you like it and you never came out of there hungry. (It had a special place in my stomach because you could get a bottle of Vernors Ginger Ale -- nectar of the gods -- there.)The Parkview was a simple place. It closed at 2 p.m. every day. But it was usually busy and the people who worked there always smiled. The owners lost their lease and are said to be looking elsewhere. There is probably more we don't know but the bottom line is this: another neighborhood place is out of business.
We keep hearing from high-priced fellows in Washington we are not in a recession. Perhaps. But all I know is this: our choices for just about everything (gas stations, theaters, restaurants) are diminishing almost daily. And new ones aren't popping up.
So, if this isn't a recession we are in, what the hell do we call it?
Lynne and I got married at Forepaughs, which is a converted Victorian house in a nice area of St. Paul. It is a very nice restaurant where dinner and a couple of drinks will run you about $100. But the food is always good and the service impeccable. It is the kind of place where you always feel respected and respectable at the same time.
The owner, Ed Christy, is a terrific fellow who can make the routine of days seem special. In the case of the wedding, it could not have gone off better if we had spent $10,000 for a wedding planner. With the price tag being what it is, we only visit a couple of times a year. But it is always worth trip.
Now Ed is selling the place. The new owners haven't said what they are going to do do with it but they did say they are going to change the menu. Why does somebody sell a place like that? Because the market won't bear it.
The Parkview was located in the neighborhood where my wife grew up. It wasn't fancy but it had been there for five decades. The food was always prepared the way you like it and you never came out of there hungry. (It had a special place in my stomach because you could get a bottle of Vernors Ginger Ale -- nectar of the gods -- there.)The Parkview was a simple place. It closed at 2 p.m. every day. But it was usually busy and the people who worked there always smiled. The owners lost their lease and are said to be looking elsewhere. There is probably more we don't know but the bottom line is this: another neighborhood place is out of business.
We keep hearing from high-priced fellows in Washington we are not in a recession. Perhaps. But all I know is this: our choices for just about everything (gas stations, theaters, restaurants) are diminishing almost daily. And new ones aren't popping up.
So, if this isn't a recession we are in, what the hell do we call it?
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Why I feel bad about Denny McLain
Denny McLain is in trouble again. He was arrested yesterday, posted bail and is out until he has to appear in court. Much against my better judgment, I find myself sad about this.
40 years ago, McLain was the toast of all of baseball. He had a season pitchers only dream of, winning 31 and helping the Tigers to their first AL title in 23 years. In the World Series, he won one game as Detroit rallied from a 3-1 deficit for a thrilling win. I was 15 at the time and can remember every game I saw in person that year.
After that season, McLain had one more good year before falling flat on his face. His misdeeds are too many to recount here. Let's just say he fell out of grace damn near as fast as he rose to the limelight. Eventually, he screwed up enough to earn a couple of prison sentences and now weighs almostr twice as much as he did in his heyday.
From all reports, it was all his fault. He made bad choices, was way too impressed with himself and got what he deserved.
So why do I feel bad about all this? McLain had a great skill. Not only was he a terrific pitcher for 3-4 years and he seemed to respect his opponents, too. He was also a good showman. On days when he was not the starting pitcher, he used to hit fungoes to outfielders before the game. A couple of these flies would always end up in the lower deck in left field where us kids would scramble over each other to try to get a ball. (Eventually, he did this so much the cheap Tigers used to charge him for each ball that went into the stands. McLain said he was happy to pay the bill, probably a buck or two oer ball. We loved him even more for that but of insurgency.)
McLain was like a very good performer who didn't take his work seriously. No matter what your field is, your ornate skill will start to fail you. At that point, it is how you adjust to the situation that will make the difference if you stay employed. And it doesn't matter what field you're in. If you don't adjust, you'll eventually get left behind. And that's what happened to McLain.
But it didn't have to be. McLain could have adjusted and had a long career. He could have been Frank Tanana -- a bullet thrower who hurt his arm and resurrected his career as a junkball artist, finishing with 240 career wins. (McLain ended with 131.)
The local, modern version of this, by the way, is Livan Hernandez. There are high school kids who throw harder than him. But Hernandez spots his pitches well, stays out of danger zones and is now 3-0 for the Twins.
At the time when he should have been remembered fondly, most people just shake their head sadly when McLain's name is mentioned.
In my private memory bank, McLain will always be the slim guy with the great arm who once caught a Boog Powell line drive and turned it into a triple play. In that bank, he will be the guy served up the memorable home run to Mickey Mantle on his last at-bat at Tiger Stadium. (But only after his team had a 6-1 lead. He wasn't that philanthropic. Sentiment has its limits) There are several other entries as well.
However, those joyous remembrances are offset by the sad reality of what McLain became. Guys with that kind of skill who are now 64 years old should be celebrated, not bemoaned. Damn him for wasting that talent.
40 years ago, McLain was the toast of all of baseball. He had a season pitchers only dream of, winning 31 and helping the Tigers to their first AL title in 23 years. In the World Series, he won one game as Detroit rallied from a 3-1 deficit for a thrilling win. I was 15 at the time and can remember every game I saw in person that year.
After that season, McLain had one more good year before falling flat on his face. His misdeeds are too many to recount here. Let's just say he fell out of grace damn near as fast as he rose to the limelight. Eventually, he screwed up enough to earn a couple of prison sentences and now weighs almostr twice as much as he did in his heyday.
From all reports, it was all his fault. He made bad choices, was way too impressed with himself and got what he deserved.
So why do I feel bad about all this? McLain had a great skill. Not only was he a terrific pitcher for 3-4 years and he seemed to respect his opponents, too. He was also a good showman. On days when he was not the starting pitcher, he used to hit fungoes to outfielders before the game. A couple of these flies would always end up in the lower deck in left field where us kids would scramble over each other to try to get a ball. (Eventually, he did this so much the cheap Tigers used to charge him for each ball that went into the stands. McLain said he was happy to pay the bill, probably a buck or two oer ball. We loved him even more for that but of insurgency.)
McLain was like a very good performer who didn't take his work seriously. No matter what your field is, your ornate skill will start to fail you. At that point, it is how you adjust to the situation that will make the difference if you stay employed. And it doesn't matter what field you're in. If you don't adjust, you'll eventually get left behind. And that's what happened to McLain.
But it didn't have to be. McLain could have adjusted and had a long career. He could have been Frank Tanana -- a bullet thrower who hurt his arm and resurrected his career as a junkball artist, finishing with 240 career wins. (McLain ended with 131.)
The local, modern version of this, by the way, is Livan Hernandez. There are high school kids who throw harder than him. But Hernandez spots his pitches well, stays out of danger zones and is now 3-0 for the Twins.
At the time when he should have been remembered fondly, most people just shake their head sadly when McLain's name is mentioned.
In my private memory bank, McLain will always be the slim guy with the great arm who once caught a Boog Powell line drive and turned it into a triple play. In that bank, he will be the guy served up the memorable home run to Mickey Mantle on his last at-bat at Tiger Stadium. (But only after his team had a 6-1 lead. He wasn't that philanthropic. Sentiment has its limits) There are several other entries as well.
However, those joyous remembrances are offset by the sad reality of what McLain became. Guys with that kind of skill who are now 64 years old should be celebrated, not bemoaned. Damn him for wasting that talent.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The joy of the Cup
The Stanley Cup playoffs started last night. Here, the local Wild lost a helluva game, 3-2 in sudden death overtime to Colorado.
Minnesota came out flying in front of a big home crowd but the Colorado goalie held tough. As the game went on, the Avs got their feet straightened out and took a 2-0 lead after two periods. Then, Minnesota had a quick outburst, scored twice and the joint was alive.
With the game tied 2-2 late, a Minnesota guy fell on the puck in the crease. That's a penalty shot, the rarest of plays at most times. It's almost unheard of to see one with two minutes to go in a tie game.
A penalty shot is the simplest of plays -- it's one guy against the goalie on a breakaway. In theory, this should favor the shooter but the stats say just the opposite. 19,000 people held their breath and didn't exhale until the Minnesota goalie made the save.
There is something about overtime in the Stanley Cup that is absolutely riveting. In basketball, you can have a 5-0 run and still lose the game by a large margin in an overtime period. But in the Stanley Cup, one mistake and you're toast. That's why they call it sudden death.
As this game went into overtime, you would have thought Minnesota would have the momentum. But it didn't look that way. The Wild had one good scoring chance but the Avs had many more and eventually scored 11 minutes into the game. When Joe Sakic scored the goal, the silence was deafening. People simply sighed to themselves and went home.
It was riveting television and great fun to watch ... unless you had an attachment to one of the teams playing.
There's only two months to go. Can't wait for the next game.
Minnesota came out flying in front of a big home crowd but the Colorado goalie held tough. As the game went on, the Avs got their feet straightened out and took a 2-0 lead after two periods. Then, Minnesota had a quick outburst, scored twice and the joint was alive.
With the game tied 2-2 late, a Minnesota guy fell on the puck in the crease. That's a penalty shot, the rarest of plays at most times. It's almost unheard of to see one with two minutes to go in a tie game.
A penalty shot is the simplest of plays -- it's one guy against the goalie on a breakaway. In theory, this should favor the shooter but the stats say just the opposite. 19,000 people held their breath and didn't exhale until the Minnesota goalie made the save.
There is something about overtime in the Stanley Cup that is absolutely riveting. In basketball, you can have a 5-0 run and still lose the game by a large margin in an overtime period. But in the Stanley Cup, one mistake and you're toast. That's why they call it sudden death.
As this game went into overtime, you would have thought Minnesota would have the momentum. But it didn't look that way. The Wild had one good scoring chance but the Avs had many more and eventually scored 11 minutes into the game. When Joe Sakic scored the goal, the silence was deafening. People simply sighed to themselves and went home.
It was riveting television and great fun to watch ... unless you had an attachment to one of the teams playing.
There's only two months to go. Can't wait for the next game.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Why do we stay here?
It was one of the meanest April Fool's jokes here. I woke up this morning and looked outside to a white hell. The only intelligent thought a fellow could have is: How much is a flight to San Diego today?
It started yesterday morning with light flakes dancing off a wide street. Since the temps were in the mid 30s, it seemed like no big deal. But as the day wore on, it got colder and the flakes began to get bigger. By the time I got home last night, there was enough to shovel. We went out and did a few things, running into the sight of squall you expect to see in Bemidji in January. By the time we got home, there was more shoveling what we like to call around here "heart attack snow."
As a rule, the local weathercasters are an incredibly inaccurate bunch whose batting average is below the Nick Punto line. (Ask a Twins fan. They'll explain.) This time, they managed to get it right. As they told us it would, we ended up with a lot of snow on the ground and it sure as hell doesn't look like April today.
So do we stay here? Is it really for that good week of weather we'll get in late June? Is it because the pace of life is really that good? Are our neighbors really that nice? Or is it because we are too damn lazy to move?
Fact is, this was one of the most miserable mornings in the history of the state. On the day after the baseball home opener, we had six inches of snow on the ground. Never mind that it won't last long. This weather stinks.
It started yesterday morning with light flakes dancing off a wide street. Since the temps were in the mid 30s, it seemed like no big deal. But as the day wore on, it got colder and the flakes began to get bigger. By the time I got home last night, there was enough to shovel. We went out and did a few things, running into the sight of squall you expect to see in Bemidji in January. By the time we got home, there was more shoveling what we like to call around here "heart attack snow."
As a rule, the local weathercasters are an incredibly inaccurate bunch whose batting average is below the Nick Punto line. (Ask a Twins fan. They'll explain.) This time, they managed to get it right. As they told us it would, we ended up with a lot of snow on the ground and it sure as hell doesn't look like April today.
So do we stay here? Is it really for that good week of weather we'll get in late June? Is it because the pace of life is really that good? Are our neighbors really that nice? Or is it because we are too damn lazy to move?
Fact is, this was one of the most miserable mornings in the history of the state. On the day after the baseball home opener, we had six inches of snow on the ground. Never mind that it won't last long. This weather stinks.
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