Looking out the back window over my computer I have to wonder, who took the color out of the world? It’s a gray day in the Twin Towns.

This is my last work day of the week. I’m taking Thursday and Friday off so Beck and I can practice being retired empty nesters. I’m hoping to get a project done, like having sex in every room in the house. Or something like that.
We went to see the Gophers move to the Sweet 16 last night. Our seats are in the second row of the upper level, right behind press row. Patrick Reusse, the columnist for the StarTribune, in the opinion of some the best sports writer in town, was sitting right in front of us. It was fascinating to watch him write his story as the game progressed. One thing I know is that he’s the fastest two finger typist I’ve ever seen. The game started late, so I’m sure that he had to get it in right after. I’m going to go read it now.

Saturday night we were invited over to one of the YaYa’s house for dinner. When we arrived they announced that they were taking us out instead. They were the ones (she was, he might have been able to give us good directions) that gave us the bad directions to the Indian market. It turns out the Indian market was not even the store they were talking about. It’s an Arab market and it’s down the street a mile or so. Every bit as cool as the Indian place, it had all kinds of imported food, including a big assortment of European chocolate and cookies. There were shelves full of things in cans with no English subtitles. I bought some hazelnut cream filled chocolate wafers and a container of what looked like assorted home made Arabic confections. I say confection instead of candy because although these were very sugary, they were primarily made from dates. A few slabs of what appeared to be nuggat filled with pistachios, otherwise dates. Dates stuffed with pistachios and rolled in sesame seeds, dates stuffed with pistachios with coatings of nuggat….

Hold the phone. I decided I was throwing that last word around without any knoweldge of what it meant other than from Milky Way commercials so I looked it up:

So I guess they were nougats

…and some with dried apricots thrown in for a little extra color and flavor. These things have the density of an ex wrestler former MN gov. They’re the original energy bar. Next time I go hiking or fishing I’m bringing a pocketfull of these sugar bombs for an instant pickup.

Next it was on to the restaurant, Jerusalem. I’m not sure why the name because I’m pretty sure this was an Egyptian place. At least they had what looked like Egyptian temple art on the walls. I was reminded of the novel Palace Walk by Mafuz because of the Men’s club atmosphere. There were guys in one corner smoking these huge hookahs, I guess it was tobacco. Men playing cards. Pretty much men. There was one very western looking couple with a little girl. The woman was looking around and our eyes kept meeting. After reading Palace Walk I kept thinking her huge husband and the hookah guys were going to drag me out and make shwarma out of me. We asked the waitress what the special was and she replied, “I couldn’t pronounce it if I tried, so I’m not going to try.”
“Well what’s in it?”
“I’ll ask my uncle.”
It was baked chicken with onions and it was soooo, good.
I love a good cross cultural experience, but considering the current international situation, I felt a certain tension at both places. Maybe it was just me.

It’s four something in the morning. We’re taking the human hormone bombs to the airport so they can fly to Phoenix and torment their grandmother for a week. It will be nice to walk around the house naked again.

Breakfast of Champions

1. Pentasa. For Crohn’s Disease. I’m supposed to take four of these four times a day, but I usually don’t remember to. Really saves on the underwear.
2. Calcium. To help prevent bone loss from all the Prednisone I’ve taken over the years for Crohn’s. I’m still getting more bow-legged by the minute.
3. Ibuprophen. Optional for my aching knees, required on tennis days and days after tennis.
4. Glucosomine. In an attempt to stave off inevitable artificial knees.
5. Prilosec. The little purple pill. For GERD, which is heartburn squared.
6. Multi Vitamin.
7. Vitamin B. Not sure why I take this one.

And do you know what? I can swallow them all at once.

I take the anti-depressant at night.

SPORTS SECTION
I played tennis with Q, the fifteen year old yesterday. She doesn’t have L’s all around game yet, isn’t as aggressive or accurate as the elegant murderer that L has become, but doggies, she can hit the ball hard. She has a big looping stroke from both sides. I love that sound, when someone hits a tennis ball on the sweet spot. It almost sounds like a gunshot. We played a set. She served first and won. I didn’t want to demoralize her with my big serve so I wasn’t really trying to bring it on my first serve. As old and slow as I am, I still try to come in behind my serve. I saw a lot of balls whizzing past me and landing a few inches in. She was hitting everything hard and deep, forcing me to either retreat or hurry my stroke. She went up three one and I decided I wasn’t going to let her beat me. I started trying to blow her away with my serves. Although I aced her a few times and won most of my service games, some of my best rips were coming back at me. I couldn’t break her serve and ended up losing 6-3. It’s not the first time she’s beaten me, but the first time I thought it was a fluke. This was no fluke. I may never be able to beat her again. I was having a bad knee day though. Maybe…..

Dang I had half this written and some pop up action from the CBS sports page that was open was causing the computer to momentarily freeze so I went window killing and closed the Xanga window…..ARRRGGGHHH.

Now I realize that a good portion of my valued subscribers have given me relentless shit about expressed a disinterest in and even distain for sports but they can go fuck themselves there are times when I just don’t give a rat’s ass simply feel compelled to write about the only thing that really matters the excitement and drama and human interest of sports. So having belligerently blown off half my readers said that, I give you whether you like it or not assholes:

The Sports Section
Last night I went to the 4A (big schools) Section Finals for high school boys basketball. My daughter’s school, Armstrong, a mostly white, affluent suburban school was playing Patrick Henry an inner-city school whose team was all African American. Armstong’s team has three Afro American players including there star, a 6’5″ 240 pounder who has great low post moves and likely will be playing defensive end at Minnesota next year. I mention the ethnic balance of the teams to help you understand the rivalry. This team includes some of the best athletes from the soccer team that won state this year and the football team that made it to state and won the Classic Lake Conference. They are all seniors and most have played together forever. They have depth and quickness and can shoot the three. Henry is a perennial power, they’ve gone to state every year since 1995 and won the last three consecutive 3A tournaments and at times have been the best team in the state, beating 4A powers regularly in during the season. This year they moved up. They are big, tough, athletic and can also hit from behind the arch. In other words, a great match up.
The game was played in Rogers, part of the sprawl that’s exploding along the I94 corridor between Minneapolis and St. Cloud. It’s about 15 miles from home on busy freeway. I driving L and one of her male friends and we had planned to leave at 7:15 to get to the game at 8. At 7 we found out that the game was starting at 7! We jumped in the car, I told the kids not to follow the example of driving I was about to set and we managed to get there before half time. I had to park about a quarter of a mile away from the exit though.
Armstrong was up by six or eight when we got there and seemed to be threatening to blow the game out, but the Patriots hung in and kept the lead under ten. The Falcons built the lead to twelve late in the third quarter and then Henry came storming back. Their pressing defense caused turnovers and steals, they hit some threes and suddenly it was a very tight ball game with four minutes left. The lead went back and forth between three and one until Henry scored with 20 seconds left to take their first lead of the night. Armstrong ran the clock down to 12.5 seconds and called a timeout. They inbounded the ball from the side at half court. While play was stopped through two time outs both sides were chanting “Let’s go Falcons” and “Let’s go Henry” everyone was on their feet and the atmosphere was electric. Grant Hargett, the Falcons superb point guard was being gaurded by a very small player and the play was to isolate him in the low post. It worked like a charm and we took a one point lead with five seconds left. We had two fouls to give so we fouled the guy bringing the ball up the court and then Peter Koska took a charge as time ran out.
Now for the human interest angle. One of the coaches for Henry was Jerry “Buggy” Williams who, twenty five years ago played basketball on my driveway in North Minneapolis before I moved to the burbs. They lived around the corner and across the street from us. He and his buddies always had a game going on until a seedier crowd started hanging out and I decided I had to take the hoop down. I don’t think he ever forgave me for that. I wanted to say hi to him so I fought my way through the crowd that was moving in the opposite direction until I got right behind their bench. They had already recieved their second place medals and were watching the Falcons get their championship awards. The little guard, who I think might be his son, was very upset, kicking chairs over and walking around like he wanted to punch someone. Jerry has grown up nicely. He’s a handsome and massively muscled young man. I waited for an opportunity and went over and introduced myself. We talked for a few minutes and then he dismissed me by going back to what he was doing. He was very gracious, but I felt kind of guilty for intruding on what had to be an extremely emotional moment for him.
I love March.

I had a mystical experience last night. Driving home from playing tennis, I was stopped by a train. I had an Afro-Cuban jazz CD playing and as soon as I came to a stop, a song came on that was a percussive immitation of the rythm of a train, including some instrument doing a damn good train whistle. Very strange. Then when I got home and downloaded the photo, I noticed that it was image number 0666. OK, I’m sure that there’s an explanation for this, but it gets even wierder, I can’t seem to locate that cut from the CD.

A certain local ad exec was known for his womanizing. Some years back when he was on his second wife, he bought a $150,000 Porsche convertible. He was preparing to make a business trip and he told his wife, “Don’t drive the Porsche, it’s too much car for you.” While he was gone his wife found out that his secretary was out in New York with him, not for business but for monkey business. Enraged the wife called the local garden store and ordered 500 pounds of sheep manure. When they arrived to deliver it they asked where to put it. She told them to put it in the garage. “But lady, you’ll have to move the car.”
“No, you don’t understand, put it IN the car.”
She moved out leaving a note that said, “I didn’t drive the Porsche.”
It was summer and he didn’t return for quite awhile.
Revenge is sweet.

Once again it’s time for March Madness. No not the tournament, the fact that I actually plop down ten dollars to get into a tournament pool. In the last two years I’ve finished last and second to last. Now I figure I’m pretty knowledgeable about hoops. I’ve played, coached and reffed. I just don’t take the time to pour over the sports page all year and watch it on TV during the season. And I just did my picks in about 10 minutes without consulting any references. Why don’t I just take a ten and burn it? I guess it’s because I enjoy taking abuse from my co-workers for being so clueless.
A time honored Minnesota tradition is to have a blizzard during the State Basketball tournament. It came last night. This time for the girls tourney. I don’t know if you’d really call it a blizzard, more of a pain in the ass three inches. That’s what one of my old girlfriends used to say about me.

Kind of pretty though.

And now for the obligitory Irish joke:
John O’Reilly hoisted his beer and said, “Here’s to spending the rest of me
life, between the legs of me wife!”

That won him the top prize for the best toast of the night!

He went home and told his wife, Mary, “I won the prize for the best toast of
the night.”

She said, “Aye, what was your toast?”

John said, “Here’s to spending the rest of me life, sitting in church beside
me wife.”

Oh that is very nice indeed, John!” Mary said.

The next day, Mary ran into one of John’s toasting buddies on the street
corner. The man chuckled leeringly and said, “John won the prize, the other
night, with a toast about you, Mary.”

She said, “Aye and I was a bit surprised me self! You know, he’s only been
there twice! Once he fell asleep, and the other time I had to pull him by
the ears to make him come.”

Happy St Patty’s Day

“Did you feed the chickens honey?”
“I thought you did.”
“No goddammit, it’s your day.”
“No, it’s my day to water the plants.”

Beck and I on vacation in 1984. Talk about your bad haircuts!
This was not a great time in our lives. It was between the time that our son Ross was born and then died 23 hours later and when Lucia was born in 1985. Ross had trisomy 13, an extra thirteenth chromosome. Down’s Syndrome is a trisomy, trisomy 13 is much more devestating in it’s effect. Very few trisomy 13 babies live very long, and Ross was not destined to. There was no indication that there was any problem during the pregnancy but when he was born the nurses and doctor rushed him out of the room. Apparently he stopped breathing immediately and they resucitated him. The doctor returned to the delivery room and told us that he had a cleft pallette and some other problems, and that they were evaluating him. We really didn’t think much of it, “Oh well, cleft pallette, we can deal with that.” But then the doctor returned and told us the full story. Most of his systems were really not developed at all. Including his nervous system, including his brain. We were, of course devestated. Beck and I and some family were in her hospital room when the doctor, a really sweet man, came in and asked to talk to us in private. He wanted to know if we wanted them to do any heroic measures to keep him alive. I said that I’d like to talk to Beck alone and he understood and left the room. I knew what I thought; I turned to my wife, her eyes were wide and damp and she was shaking her head no. In a sense that was both the easiest and the hardest decision we’ve had to make. The doctor hadn’t gotten two doors down the hall when I caught him and gave him our decision. He stayed alive through that night and died the next morning.
Things were pretty rough for us over the next years. Becky was dispondent and had a very hard time for a long time. I started drinking more and my temper got worse. People from our social circle, I won’t call them friends, avoided us because they simply didn’t know what to say. For awhile we were afraid to try to have another baby. We had had genetic counseling and they told us that it wasn’t hereditary and that the chances of a recurrence were small, but there is always that nagging fear that it could happen again. Amniocentesis would tell us of any genetic defects, and that’s what eventually gave us the courage to get pregnant again. In 1985 while Beck was pregnant with Lucia, I quit drinking. And then L came into our lives and then Q came into our lives and the recovery began.

Another word about the doc. He was a big Italian guy with a beard, about my age now. He was a tremendous comfort to us during that aweful time. At one point in the highly emotional scene, he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. My mother-in-law was so entertained by that.

This beautiful woman was my Aunt Alice. I found this photo tonight rummaging around in the basement. Alice Peabody. Yes, Peabody! She was actually my great aunt, half sister to my maternal Grandmother. She was a wild woman, married to a handsome man who was a cad, the legend went. She had a good job as a court reporter. I remember her living in a second floor apartment across from a school in St. Paul. Was it on Randolf? We’re going back 45 or more years here, memory dims. I look in awe at the elegant beauty in this photo. Certainly because of the elegance and beauty but even more so for the shocking contrast to the Aunt Alice I remember. She was a shut-in, the apartment was always heated to about 85 degrees by the radiator in front of the window that looked down on the schoolyard where I watched kids playing and wanted to be with them instead of in the sweltering apartment, even though I was informed that they were a pack of ruffians. The building in general and her apartment in particular had a distinctive smell that I haven’t smelled since, but would recognize instantly if I ever did. Alice, oh Alice, where has your elegance gone. She was a wrinkled old prune with a squawking whiskey soaked voice like a chain smoking parrot. In my memory she always was sipping whiskey and smoking Old Golds. She wore a house dress and exposed way more leg than I ever wanted to see. Her hair was like a frightened brillo pad. I dreaded my trips to see her and also looked forward to them. She was so damn funny! She would tell a story and crack herself up and start cackling and then would lapse into paroxysms of coughing. She told hilarious family stories and was tapped into an endless source of political gossip. She sat there in that overheated apartment and enjoyed life. It was emphysema that finally got her I think, but she was well into her 80’s when it did. She was what you call “a pistol.”