THIS is why we have weekends…

Warning: This is a LONG post. Get comfortable. Bring a sack lunch. Stay a while.

Good news, readers: my weekend kicked an absolutely unreasonable amount of ass. February 6 and 7 reminded me why we stop working once every five days and take a little break.

Plans for this weekend began months ago, when I realized that Justin Townes Earle was going to play the Mucky Duck in Houston on Friday night. I’ve seen JTE twice before, and as you may recall, I’m a bit of a fan. I firmly believe that this guy is one of the best singer-songwriters working today, and I can’t understand why everyone isn’t rushing out to buy every song he’s ever recorded. If you’re unfamiliar with his work, grab a couple of songs from the download box on the right side of your screen right now.

Midweek, when The Usual Suspects decided to make a weekend of this trip, I got on hotwire.com to look for a hotel room in Houston. If you’ve ever used hotwire, you know that the prices are GREAT, but you can’t see which hotel you’ve actually selected until after you pay. You get to choose the city, obviously (or a part of the city, in the case of a major metropolis like Houston), but where you actually stay is kind of a crapshoot. I selected the section of Houston surrounding the Mucky Duck, which includes areas as far as ten to twelve miles and several nasty freeway interchanges away. After I selected a price and paid, the website kindly informed me that we would be staying at a hotel .42 miles from the Mucky Duck. That’s right: our hotel was less than half a mile from the concert. I took this to be a very positive sign.

The problem with going to see JTE at the Mucky Duck is that the Mucky Duck doesn’t sell tickets online. They also don’t sell tickets via credit card. Since I don’t live in Houston, I had no way to buy tickets in advance. When I called the Mucky Duck on Friday afternoon, the employee who answered the phone informed me that the show was sold out. This could have been a damper on our trip, but Big T, WrongFoot, and I already had a hotel room and plans to see the show, so we set off with every intention of buying tickets off some shady-looking sidewalk scalper. Even if we didn’t get in, the worst case scenario was that we’d spend a night out on the town in Houston. It was a risk we were willing to take.

We arrived at the Mucky Duck early. Very early. We left town immediately after school on Friday and cruised through traffic as if my truck were parting the Red Sea. I’ve never reached Houston so effortlessly. We even stopped at Waller County Line Barbecue and picked up a link of hot smoked boudin to munch on while we drove. Upon arriving at the Mucky Duck a couple hours early, I realized that there would be no scalpers. The place is tiny. When we stepped inside, a guy with a guest list asked for our names. Since we weren’t on the list, the lady who seemed to be in charge encouraged us to step out onto the patio and have a drink. She said she’d let us know if there was standing room available once the show started. We were slightly bummed, but tried to remain hopeful. Big T exited to the patio while WrongFoot and I headed for the restroom.

By the time we returned from the men’s room, Big T was standing between the guest list guy and the in-charge lady, handing over some cash. Apparently, just a moment after Big T stepped outside, the in-charge lady stepped out onto the patio and asked, “Where are my three guys?” It turned out that some of the people inside had reserved two tables, one for themselves and one for friends who were flying in from Nashville for the show. The friends’ plane was delayed, and they weren’t going to make it for JTE. After informing us that having a table meant ordering dinner and a “fancy bottle of wine,” the very friendly lady showed us to our seats.  We not only got in, friends; we got a TABLE with a SPECTACULAR view of the stage. You never saw three guys with bigger grins on their faces.

Upon being presented with menus, I realized that the Mucky Duck takes the culinary aspects of their business very seriously. Being health-conscious eaters, we decided that three appetizers and three entrees would be an appropriate amount of food to order. Big T ordered baked brie, which was served with sliced apples, a raspberry sauce on top, and french bread upon which to arrange the whole menagerie. WrongFoot opted for a steak and mushroom cheese fondue, served with toasted pita bread for dipping. I settled upon Scotch eggs. I’d never heard of them before, much less eaten them, but I couldn’t resist the description. Scotch eggs are hard-boiled eggs, wrapped in a layer of sausage, then breaded and deep fried. They’re about the size of a baseball, and they’re served cut in half, accompanied by brown curry mustard for dipping. I can’t begin to describe how wonderful this dish tasted. It was like taking a big bite of happiness.

Scotch Eggs: We had partially eaten a couple of them before we realized they were a gift from God and deserved a picture...

After conquering the appetizers and a few glasses of beer, we enjoyed our entrees. BigT chose shepherd’s pie, while WrongFoot opted for fish tacos and I had a steak and mushroom pie. All three were good, but the appetizers seriously outshined the main dishes. On the bright side, we had plenty of curry brown mustard left, and we ate it on EVERYTHING. I kind of wanted to order about a quart to go.

Just as we were finishing dinner, the opening act took the stage. I never heard of Dawn Landes before, but I’m always hopeful about opening bands. You may recall that I first heard JTE when he opened for Old Crow Medicine Show. Dawn Landes is a gorgeous young woman who writes and plays a variety of songs I can best describe as Americana. Accompanied by a bass player who sometimes switches to electric guitar and a drummer who also plays a hands-free harmonica (beast mode!), Landes performs songs ranging from country to folk to a kind of experimental drum-driven world beat sound. She played a relatively short set, maybe a dozen songs, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I picked up her latest album on vinyl from the merchandise table, and she was kind enough to sign it for me after the show.

Love? I'll bet she say that to all the boys.

After a brief intermission that involved a bottle of muscato d’asti, which is my one of my new wine obsessions, JTE took the stage, flanked by a bearded fiddler and a feisty-looking woman who carried her stand-up bass to the stage over her head. The first time I saw JTE, he was accompanied by one guy who alternated between bass, mandolin, and banjo. The second time, JTE flew solo. I was surprised to see him with two other people on stage. Apparently, he can perform with any kind of sidekicks or none at all.

I don’t know what to say about JTE’s performance except that he’s a genius. For the second time in four posts, I have to say “I’m not resorting to melodrama, here.” Justin Townes Earle is amazing. Very rarely do I see an artist in concert who sounds even better on stage than on CD, but that’s exactly the case with JTE. “Halfway To Jackson” alone was worth the price of admission. During the course of the set, the band treated us to several songs which will be included on an upcoming album (which I’m looking forward to in a big way), and Dawn Landes even joined JTE on stage to perform a duet of Dolly Parton’s “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind.” (Interesting side note: WrongFoot was mighty fond of Dawn Landes. During JTE’s set, knowing that she was about to be called up on stage for the duet, she came out into the audience area and hunkered down near the back to wait. Seeing her there, WrongFoot scooted back in the booth and offered her the seat next to him, which she gladly accepted for the remainder of the song before her duet. WrongFoot was a very happy fellow.)

The Duet, although my cell phone camera doesn't really do it justice...

The merchandise table also had JTE’s newest album available on vinyl, so I grabbed it (along with a pretty badass t-shirt), and he signed it for me after the show. I left the Mucky Duck with two signed LPs, a spiffy new shirt, a fantastic meal in my belly, and an amazing listening experience added to my memories of the musical world. Yet, the night was young.

You can bet that this bad boy is going to end up framed.

The Aforementioned Shirt: front view and inside back, where the tag would usually be. Notice that it's a limited edition, 1 of 200. Ooh. Fancy.

From the Mucky Duck, we ventured to several nearby pubs. I don’t recall the exact order, but we definitely hit Under The Volcano, famous for its frozen screwdrivers and named after a fantastic novel by Malcolm Lowry, which is one of the finest novels of the last 100 years and which WAY more people should have read. I found the combination of the literary name and the tasty frozen screwdrivers very pleasing, indeed. We also checked out the Kelvin Arms, “Houston’s Only Scottish Pub,” which is located in what used to be a bank. In fact, you can take your drink into the vault, where they have arranged lots of lounge-style furniture and pleasant ambient lighting. Finally, we hit the Marquis Part Deux, a place WrongFoot frequented during his college years. The building used to be a strip joint called the Marquis, and the new owners didn’t feel compelled to change the name too much when they bought it. This bar is a dive. The carpet is probably hosting seventeen strains of deadly or at least severely disgusting bacteria and mold. That said, the drinks are potent and cheap, and the chairs are REALLY comfortable. While we enjoyed a Long Island, some random guy told me that I look like stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan. I’ve never been told that before, but I can see his point.

See the resemblance?

After a couple of drinks, a cheap pepperoni pizza, and a SERIOUS hand-washing, we departed the Marquis Part Deux for the Extended Stay America hotel, just a few blocks away. Our room contained a queen-sized bed as well as a chair and ottoman. Because both Big T and I exceed 6 foot 2 (Big T isn’t just a clever name. Nor is Big Red Poet.), WrongFoot was nominated to sleep on the chair-ottoman combination. I didn’t envy him, but he seemed not to mind, and passed out as soon as he was horizontal.

Saturday was an unexpectedly beautiful day. For the past few weeks, we’ve had nothing but gray skies, drizzle, and general ickyness, but when we awoke on Saturday, we were greeted by sunshine, a light breeze, and a temperature that was perfect for walking around outside in a polo shirt, which was convenient since a polo shirt was exactly what I’d brought to wear. We headed over toward Rice Village, where we had lunch at Mi Luna, a tapas restaurant. If you’ve never had tapas, let me tell you: It’s amazing. Basically, tapas style dining involves ordering several small entrees instead of one big one. Generally, everyone at the table shares a little of every dish. Each little plate costs between 3 and 10 dollars, and the food is amazing. The dishes we ordered included smelt in olive oil, beef skewers, zucchini with gorgonzola, b’stilla (a puff pastry filled with chicken, egg, and pine nuts and topped with cinnamon), spicy shrimp with garlic, and scallops served over a tomato-based sauce. There may have been others, but my memory fails. This was my third trip to Mi Luna, and I have yet to order anything I haven’t enjoyed.

After tapas, we headed for the two-story used bookstore just down the block. We didn’t quite get there, though. We got distracted by a place called The Chocolate Bar, which makes all manner of wonderful home-made sweets. We perused cakes, cookies, chocolates, ice cream, chocolate covered fruit, fudge, and lord knows what else before deciding on our desserts. I had a three-scoop serving of ice cream, which I carried with me to the book store.

If Big T and WrongFoot had let me, I might have stayed at the book store all day. Since we had places to go, though, I tried to move quickly. I checked all the usual suspects (Cormac McCarthy, Jeffrey Lent, Leif Enger, and the like) for first editions, signed copies, etc, but I didn’t find anything very interesting. I was just about to call it quits when I remembered a novel that Pre and I saw at Barnes & Noble on a random late-night bookstore trip a few days before. (Remember the trip to Target, then to a bookstore, then to get a quesadilla? That’s the one. It all comes together.) Daniel Choan’s Await Your Reply has only been on the shelf since August of this year, and it’s still selling for regular price at Barnes & Noble and Hastings. I didn’t really expect to find a used copy, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to check. As it turns out, I found a copy. I then found another copy. They were both first printings of the first edition…and they were both signed. If I hadn’t been so full of tapas and ice cream, I might have jumped for joy. I quickly snatched up both of them and ran down to the cash register before anybody realized I was about to ROB THE PLACE BLIND. Seriously. I can’t believe I scored two signed first editions of what promises to be an amazing novel (Go read the description at the link…) for $12.50 each. The book is still $25 at the bookstore. Score.

I win.

After Rice Village, we headed toward Montrose. On the way, though, we got waylayed on a little section of street that had several interesting-looking antique shops and a couple of cafes. Upon exploring the antique shops, I perused a selection of furniture unlike any I’ve ever seen in my life. These people must go to every estate sale in Houston and buy all the gorgeous old furnishings that come out of those mansions that the deceased leave behind. Left to my own devices, I could easily have spent several thousand dollars on desks, book cases, etc. By far the most tempting piece of furniture I saw was a 1930s globe/bar. I’ve wanted one of these ever since I first saw one, and this antique was in absolutely fantastic condition. The decanters inside are French crystal, and all the wooden parts as well as the globe are original from the 1930. I swear if I wasn’t planning to go to Austria, I would have bought it. What’s $1600 compared to something like this?

Oh, to be rich. *sigh*

After dragging myself away from the globe (which still makes me kind of sad), we stepped into a place called Domy Books, which is seriously the strangest store I’ve ever been visited in my life. Remember, I lived in California for about five years, so that’s SAYING something. I looked around this bookstore for twenty minutes or so, and the only familiar titles I saw were concentrated on one small shelf of American subversives (Kerouac, Palanhiuk, etc) that was stashed in a back corner. Beyond that, the place was filled with the most bizarre array of books, leaflets, tracts, and magazines I have ever seen. Every underground, special-interest, risque, local, self-published, unknown, and generally just very weird kind of book was available for sale, but I couldn’t find a single thing that didn’t frighten or confuse me at least a little. Behind the store was a little courtyard, and it was full of people sitting at tables eating lunch. Oddly, though, there was no place in the courtyard to buy food. I have no idea where this crowd of freaks came from or why they saw fit to eat their lunches behind Domy Books while people in the store wandered around wondering what the hell was going on. By the time we left, Big T looked like he’d been whacked in the side of the head with a rubber mallet. An hour later, he was still muttering “What the hell?”

After our surreal visit to Domy Books, we crossed the street to Agora, which turned out to be the most amazing coffeehouse/cafe/bar I’ve ever visited in my life. Perhaps it was the fantastic mood of the day overtaking my judgment, but I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed my first visit to any establishment as much as I enjoyed Agora. It’s in an old house near the corner of Kirby and Westheimer, and as soon as I walked in I was ensconced by the smell of coffee, lots of dark wood and leather furniture, and the low hum of friendly chatter. The bar offered a full coffeehouse selection of caffeinated beverages as well as beers and a great selection of wines. I opted for a glass of port (my other new wine obsession), and we headed for the deck upstairs, which overlooks the foot traffic through the whole neighborhood we had just explored. As we sat on that deck with the sun shining down, a hint of a breeze, and the beginnings of a buzz, all three of us simultaneously realized what a fantastic weekend we’d been experiencing. We drank a toast to good friends and good times. As I looked around the patio, I was pleasantly surprised to see several genuinely beautiful women enjoying their cups of coffee or glasses of wine. It was nice to be surrounded by a crowd of people my own age, rather than the 21-23 year old crowd usually found in our local bars.

By the time we left Houston proper, I had two signed LPs, two signed books, a belly full of amazing food, and a wicked new JTE t-shirt. Things were going well. Luckily, though, the weekend wasn’t over. We still had to stop at Choo Choo Sushi. Big T and WrongFoot found this place a while back when they were in Houston for a conference. Since they know I love sushi, they insisted I had to try it. I didn’t argue. Choo Choo Sushi is named after the method of service the restaurant employs. Basically, when you step inside, you’re seated at a long bar that weaves its way throughout the restaurant. Atop the bar is a moving conveyor belt (not unlike a train…get it?) upon which individual plates of sushi ride around the dining room. When you see one you want, you just grab it. The plates are color coded, and your bill is tabulated by simply counting up the plates in front of you when you’re finished. The cheapest plates were $1.50, and the most expensive were $4.00, which is a hell of a deal for sushi. The three of us sampled many different cuts of sushi, sharing them amongst ourselves as we had at Mi Luna. (Starting to see the pattern? We feed like pack animals.) The most interesting cut I tried was octopus sashimi. Honestly, I grabbed it mostly out of curiosity, but it turned out to be very, very tasty. It has a subtle flavor that’s meatier than I expected and a consistency more similar to pork than fish. I’d definitely get it again.

I've always suspected octopi of being delicious. My theory is now proven.

After our visit to Choo Choo Sushi, we headed back home. Our drive was uneventful, with WrongFoot dozing off and on in the back seat of my truck while Big T and I sang along with my mixed CDs. We had to make decent time, too, because I was scheduled to chaperon the high school’s Sadie Hawkins dance from 10:00 to midnight. I dropped off The Usual Suspects at their respective houses and hurried home to take a quick shower and get dressed for Sadie. (I’m not counting my half-hour at home as “the end of the trip.” I didn’t even sit down. Sadie Hawkins is still part of the road trip.) I checked in to the dance at 9:57 like it had been just another Saturday. The dance proceeded about as expected, with lots of horrifying hip-hop music I’ve never heard before, several administrative admonitions against “grinding,” the occasional slow song, one fistfight, and an epic remix of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

After the dance, a few of my fellow chaperons (Little T, B-Rob, E-Rob, EggRoll, and Safarrah, for those of you keeping score at home) and I headed over to the Texas Hall of Fame for a nightcap. This place is a genuine Texas honky-tonk, but there was no band on Saturday, so the crowd was small. We commandeered a small table and spent an hour or so laughing and unwinding. Several people commented, “We don’t do this often enough,” referring to just getting together for a beer and some BS. I concur.

Since the Hall is less than a mile from my house, about five minutes passed between my last goodbye of the evening and my assuming a position of horizontal repose. Thank god. I don’t think I could have stayed awake for another moment.

Damn! I just realized that I forgot to mention our visit to Nan’s Games & Comics and our stop at Griff’s Irish Pub. At this point, I can’t recall when we visited each of those places, so I don’t know where to fit them into the above chronology. You’ll just have to trust that I was there and that it was awesome.

This entire trip was literally one of the best weekends of my life. I am reminded of the wonder of discovering new places, the joy of eating and drinking previously unknown foods and beverages,  the glory of live music, and the comfort of having amazing buddies to share it with.

I’m sure we’ll attempt another epic voyage soon. You should join us.

Holy crap. I’m going to Austria.

Yesterday, the choir director here at the high school sent out an email to the faculty which informed us that he is taking a group of his choir students on one of those guided tours over spring break. The group will spend the week in Austria. He also wrote that he had two seats left in the group, if anyone wanted to travel with the group as a tourist. Here I am, 28 hours after receiving that email, with the completed paperwork on my desk. I’ll return it to him this afternoon. I. Am. Going. To. Austria.

I’ve never traveled overseas before. In fact, in 32 years, the only foreign soil I’ve ever trod upon is in Canada. This trip is a little expensive, considering my recent acquisition of a mortgage, but I guess I’ll just have to cut into my first time homebuyer’s credit a bit. After all, it’s far less expensive to travel with this tour group than it would be to travel independently. I’m also not likely to just randomly make plans to visit Europe, so this invitation is the impetus I needed to spur me to action.

The group will fly to Germany, spend one night in Munich, and then travel to Salzburg and Vienna over the course of the next week or so. You may be wondering, “Why would you want to go to Austria, of all places, BRP?”

First, I speak (or spoke, in past years) pretty decent German. I took two years in high school and three years in college. Time to start brushing up, I guess.

Second, my family is of mostly German heritage. While Austria isn’t Germany, exactly, it’s right next door…and I’ll have that one night in Munich to breathe the air of my forebears.

Third, this is in Salzburg:

Yes, I believe I'd like to go there.

Fourth, this is in Vienna:

It's the fountain of Pallas Athena at the Austrian parliament building. I believe I'd like to go there, too.

So. From March 8-11, don’t expect to hear from me. I’ll be otherwise engaged.

I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Promise.

Tinkle Experiment: FAILED

Apparently, my cats’ waste products are more powerful than modern technology. When I came home from work yesterday, the LitterMaid Elite, which I bought just over a week ago, was dead. The unmistakable odor of fried electronics hung in the air. The rake stood immobile in what the user’s manual calls the “dump position.” The $100 kitty toilet lasted from January 26 to February 3. Rest in peace, LitterMaid Elite.

Wait. Scratch that.

Rage against the dying of the light, LME! RAGE, I say!

For a hundred dollars, I am not about to just whip this glorified turd rake into the trash. Luckily, I had the foresight (and the distrust of modern technology, large chain retailers, and humanity in general) to save both the receipt and the packaging when I first assembled the LME in late January.

Last night, I disassembled my LitterMaid (which I had been considering naming Benjamin, in honor of the hundred bucks it cost me…but not any more; the LME will not earn a nickname until it proves that it can effectively deal with cat poop) and threw it back into the box, unwashed. I gathered the manual, the warranty card, the power cord, and everything else that was in the original box, sealed it all in a big ziploc, cursing all the while, and tossed that in the box, too. I drove back to Target, marched up to the customer service counter, pushed the box toward the college kid on the other side, and said…

“Excuse me. I bought this a few days ago, and it seems to be defective. I have the receipt, the original packaging, and all the original parts. I’d like to exchange it for a new one.”

What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m a nice person. I can’t help it.

While driving home, I noticed that my new Littermaid Elite is packaged in an updated box. Either my first one had been on the shelf for a while or the company changed the box between January 26 and February 3. Either way, I noticed an interesting feature on the new box as it rode in my passenger seat. In the top corner, there’s a graphic of a little orange cat. Inside the silhouette are the words “Single Cat Under 15 Pounds.” Huh. This might have been useful information a couple weeks ago. I have not one but two cats, and one of them weighs WELL in excess of 15 pounds. Oh, well. You’re already in the truck, new litterbox, so prepare to exceed expectations…or die in a cloud of fried electronic fumes like your predecessor.

So. I now have a brand new LitterMaid Elite sitting sealed in the box at my house. I didn’t have the energy to assemble it last night. After Target, I got sidetracked by a text from Pre…and a bookstore…and a quesadilla. By the time I got home, midnight had come and gone. Assembling the new LME (which may be called Benjamin one day, if it behaves itself) would have taken half an hour or more, and I needed sleep, so I promptly spent a couple hours reading. This is how my life works.

Goodbye, J.D. Salinger

On January 27, J.D. Salinger, author of Catcher In The Rye, died at 91 years of age.

Salinger didn't care for media attention, and this is one of only a small handful of pictures of him publicly available.

When I spoke to my colleagues about Salinger’s death, I noticed a marked divide in reactions. Generally, the men were shocked and saddened (except NewGuy, who’s too young to know any beter), while the women were basically unmoved. I guess I never realized before how specifically Catcher speaks to young men.

I first read the novel when I was sixteen or seventeen years old, and I’ve probably read it half-a-dozen times since then. My first encounter with Catcher changed my life. I’m not resorting to melodrama, here; I’m dead serious. Holden Caulfield was the first character I ever read in whom I saw reflections of myself. I think almost all young men share a similar experience. After all, who among us didn’t feel at some point in our teenage years that the world misunderstood us completely, adults were phoneys, and the course our parents expected us to travel wasn’t leading in a direction we found satisfying? Honestly, Catcher was the first novel I ever read and thought “Man, Mom and Dad would be pissed if they knew I was reading this.” It was subversive. In that moment, I realized that books have the power to change the way we think, change the way we see the world, and in fact change the world. I changed from a kid who read books to a reader. It was a watershed.

Now, sixteen years after I first met Holden, I’m a high school English teacher. Books, especially those that would piss off people who think they’re authority figures (politicians, pastors, traditionalists, hard-core conservatives, hard-core liberals, upper-class corporate slaves, etc.), are one of the cornerstones of my existence. My love of books has made me a thinking person, and although I can’t teach most of the edgy texts I really like in a public high school, I’m finding ways every day to show my students that books literally overflow with ideas if readers are willing to accept them…and ideas change the world.

So. Even though some of my students will never read Catcher In The Rye, at least a few of them will owe their lifelong love of books and ideas and maybe even subversive ideas to me, and, by association to J.D. Salinger. For that, I thank him.

The Great Tinkle Experiment

Notice: This blog post is about poop. You have been warned.

Yesterday, I paid $99.98 for a litterbox. That’s right, friends. My cats no will no longer be forced to do their business in old-fashioned facilities. From this day forward, Tiger and Emmie will tinkle in the comfort of the Littermaid Elite.

It's the Taj Mahal of cat bathrooms.

This litterbox is bionic. There’s a motion sensor inside, and when the cat uses the litterbox, it waits ten minutes for the clumping cat litter to live up to its name and then the rake slides forward through the litter and deposits the kitty turds and such into a waste container located beneath the ramp. There is NEVER dirty litter visible in the cat box. It’s a miracle!

This is particularly useful for several reasons:

• Emmie generates the most nuclear cat turds in the universe. When she uses the traditional litterbox, the smell will linger as far away as the living room for fifteen or twenty minutes. This problem is now solved.
• Emmie is REALLY not fond of dirty litter. Until the arrival of Littermaid Elite in our house, I often found her little poops on the rug next to the litterbox because she wouldn’t go inside more than one or two previous doodies were still present.
• Because it’s constantly cleaned, my two cats can now use one litterbox. This is a vast improvement as far as space in their bedroom is concerned. (Yes. The cats have their own bedroom. I wanted to make it into a library, but they insisted.)

For a hundred dollars (litterbox), plus a twenty dollars (disposable waste receptacles), plus eight dollars (a big box of clumping cat litter), this thing had better work like a damned charm.

Tiger is old and set in his ways, though, so we’ll see…

So…The Vikings Lost

So. That’s it, friends. The Vikings fell to the mighty Saints in overtime last night. Contrary to many people’s expectations, I am not crushed. In fact, I’m entirely satisfied with the way the Vikings’ night (and season) ended.

I can hear my fellow Purple People screaming as they read this: “What are you SAYING? Favre was gonna take us ALL THE WAY!”

I agree that Favre could have lead the Vikings to the Super Bowl, but the truth of the matter is that he didn’t. Neither he nor the rest of the offense played well enough last night to earn a win. No team that gives up three lost fumbles (and two more luckily recovered by the Vikings) and two interceptions can reasonably expect to beat an opponent of any skill. The only reason the game was even close enough to go into overtime is that the Vikings’ defense is absolutely beastly (which should be news to nobody).

On the whole, the Vikings’ loss to the Saints is a microcosm for their whole season. They performed better than anyone thought they could. They were competitive right down to the end. Their defense was amazing. Adrian Peterson fumbled too much. Brett Favre was a brilliant quarterback with a tendency to make risky throws in pressure situations. As painful as the truth may be, it’s still the truth: the game (and season) ended as they should have.

Vikings fans will whine about the questionable Robert Meachem catch on the final drive, the questionable airborne Pierre Thomas first-down run, the officials, the crowd, and various other imagined scapegoats. While I agree that the catch was actually a trap against the ground and the airborne run involved a loss of possession, neither of those plays lost the Vikings the game. The Vikings lost the game when AP and Bernard Berrian committed multiple fumbles (along with one by Percy Harvin) and Brett Favre threw two interceptions, most notably the back-breaker with a few seconds to go in regulation.

This sort of thing is a real problem.

So. The Vikings, as I said earlier, just didn’t play well enough to win. The Saints did. As such, I’m okay with the results. I’m also happy for the Saints, who are a great team and are headed to their first-ever Super Bowl.

In the wake of this loss, a few questions immediately spring to mind. Most notably, I wonder whether Favre will be back. If I had to guess, I’d say no. I know they signed him to a two-year deal. I know he had one of the best years of his career. On the other hand, did you SEE him last night? He got his ass handed to him again and again by the Saints’ defense, and he got up off the turf S-L-O-W-L-Y several times. His wife looked completely distraught, and let’s face it: wives have some influence over their husbands’ decisions. He had a hell of a run and proved that he’s still the man. I can’t believe he’ll come back and put his body through all this again just for the chance to hold the Lombardi trophy over his head one more time.

Then again, he IS Brett Favre.

If he’s NOT coming back, I hope he’ll tell the team soon. Like tomorrow. They will need to start shopping for a quarterback immediately. Let’s be frank: Sage Rosenfels is a fine bench QB, but he’s not an NFL starter, and Tarvaris Jackson is TERRIBLE. Watching him play football literally sucks my will to live. He will never, ever be a successful NFL quarterback.

So. Thanks for a hell of a year, Brett Favre. Thanks for a hell of a year, Adrian Peterson. Thanks for a hell of a year, Vikings defense. Welcome to stardom, Sidney Rice; you’re a beast. Welcome to only slightly less stardom, Percy Harvin; you, too, are a beast. Welcome to the ranks of fantastic NFL tight ends, Visanthe Shiancoe; I drafted you in the twelfth round and never regretted it. If any of you aren’t coming back (I’m talking to YOU, Brett), please let us know ASAP. We’ve got to start preparing for next year’s repeat win of the NFC North.

For another opinion on why this loss isn’t the end of the world, check out this guy’s blog.

Christmas Visit ‘09

I’m back from Minnesota, and the new digital camera I got for Christmas allowed me to bring back a few select photographs of my trip. Arriving on the 23rd created some strange timing, since we traditionally have our family Christmas gathering on Christmas Eve. By the time Mom, Dad, and I ate dinner and drove back to the house from the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, it was time to turn in. A twelve-hour day of driving, passing security, waiting through delays, and sitting next to Snoring Guy in the plane wore me out. When we got to the house, I had just enough energy to chat for a while, drink an old-fashioned, and crash.

That meant Christmas Eve was a busy day. I needed to run in to town and pick up a few last-minute gifts I couldn’t have packed for air travel, wrap everybody’s presents, and be presentable for dinner by about 6 o’clock. There was no time for relaxation, just yet. At dinner time, Chissom and Cameron came out to the house, along with Chissom’s girlfriend, Joey. Cameron’s girlfriend, Mandy, wasn’t able to make it because she was at a family gathering of her own. By the time Mom, Dad, Chissom, Joey, Cameron, Cameron’s dog Tanner, Dad’s dog Maggie, Chissom’s dog Tinkerbell, and I all gathered, the house was chock-full of people, dogs, drinks, and presents.

Mom always hangs the Christmas cards she receives in the archway that leads into the living room. Here's Chissom standing beneath the cards and watching what's happening under the tree.

Most years, the scheduling of my vacation allows me to arrive before the 23rd, which means that I can help Mom decorate the Christmas tree. This year, though, she decorated it before I arrived. Luckily, she kept all of my ornaments aside so I could hang them when I arrived. As usual, the Lindner family tree was a complete menagerie of mismatched ornaments from the last 30-plus years. The tree always looks really full, but each of those ornaments has a story. We can’t leave any in the box.

The 2009 edition of the Totally Random Christmas Tree. That's Great-Grandma Bonack's tree topper.

Once everyone arrived for dinner, Mom served about four or five different appetizers she had made that afternoon and Dad mixed whiskey old-fashioneds. Soon, the turkey was also served, and everyone ate just a little more than they could comfortably hold. We placed the Christ child in the nativity scene, as we do every year, while singing along with Anne Murray’s recording of “Away In A Manger.”

Somebody has to hold the camera, and it's usually Mom. Here's everyone else: Chissom, Joey, Me, Cameron & Tanner, Dad & Maggie. Tinkerbell is outside the frame somewhere.

Every year that I can remember, my family has baked and frosted Christmas cookies together. When my brothers and I were younger, we took turns standing on a footstool so we could reach up onto the kitchen counter and use cookie cutters to make stars, bells, Santas, camels, snowmen, and trees from the dough mom rolled out for us. A few years later, she added gingerbread men to the mix. In recent years, we’ve switched to pre-cut cookies for the sake of convenience and a clean kitchen, but one thing never changes. Mom always makes home-made icing, and we always sit around the kitchen table and frost the cookies by hand.

Mom and Joey frosting cookies. Notice the cups of icing, the shakers full of sprinkles, and the outstandingly artistic designs we created.

Over the course of his Christmas vacation, Cameron embarked on the process of building a fish house. Dad got him a 6′ by 10′ trailer, and Cameron built the fish-house directly on it. The plan is to just haul the house out onto the lake behind his truck, throw it in park, and get to fishing. (That’s right, Texans; we drive on the lakes.) I helped Cameron work on the fish house one afternoon, and it’s a most impressive set-up. This is no simple shelter. Cameron’s house features lights, a ceiling fan, bunks, a 30,000 BTU heater, a propane stove, and a television. In this fish house, you’re relaxing in style.

Dad helps Cameron by sliding a 2x4 over the wall of the fish house. The workspace is a shop that belongs to Cameron's girlfriend's mother's boyfriend, Rod.

I didn’t get to test out the fish house. In fact, I didn’t ice fish at all on this trip, which is a departure from my usual yearly routine. We would have fished, but the house wasn’t quite ready to go when I left. There was some trim left to hang, and the caulk was still curing.

Fish house construction requires catlike balance. Check out the size of those windows! It's a good thing the heater in this bad boy is big enough to heat my entire house.

Mandy and her mom, Kim, invited Cameron, me, Mom, and Dad to join them for dinner after working on the fish house all afternoon. They take their holiday eating, drinking, and card-playing seriously, so we got along just fine. Cameron and I destroyed Mandy and her cousin (Kari? Kara? I can never remember which is which.) at a game of 500 after they casually mentioned that they’ve been playing together for years and never lose. As it turns out, Cameron and I have been playing together for years, too.

Here's Mandy, opening a gift a few days after Christmas.

I’ve often said that my Christmas trip to Minnesota never changes. It did change a bit this year, with a lack of ice fishing and a decision to attend mass on Christmas morning rather than Midnight Mass, but I still had a fantastic trip.

I’m off to MN.

On Wednesday, I’ll be headed to Minnesota to hang out with my parents and brothers for a week. I’m looking forward to baking cookies, trimming the tree, exchanging gifts, going to midnight mass, ice fishing, etc, etc. If you’ve been following my blog for the past couple of years, you know that some parts of the Christmas tradition just aren’t negotiable at the Lindner house. I’ll tell you all about them when I return. I’ll bring pictures, too. Promise.

Meanwhile, I’ve uploaded another song. It’s “The Captain” by Kasey Chambers. This song rips my heart out. It’s so broken and real and beautiful. You may not like what the song says, but you have to admire how well it captures a particular emotion that we all feel at some time or another during one of the weaker moments of our lives. Beautiful.

Enjoy your Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, season, or whatever you choose to call this time spent with family.

New Song Added

I’ve added Kasey Chambers’ “Pony” to the download box at the right. I love this song.

Why aren’t more artists recording songs of this quality instead of shaking their heads like yeah?

Emmie Is Assimilating

A while back, I wrote a post welcoming Emmie to my home, but you may recall that I was worried about whether she’d be happy here or not. At the time, she seemed angry and me, Tiger, and anything else that got close to her. I’m happy to report that except for the fact that she still doesn’t like Tiger, she’s settled down considerably. She now follows me everywhere I go, which is troublesome when I walk down the hall in the dark, since I’m fairly likely to step on her while she weaves between my feet. She also gets up on top of everything. A few nights ago, a strange sound woke me from my sleep. When I woke up and turned on my bedside lamp, this is what I saw on the nightstand:

Apparently, Emmie is a big fan of ice water.

Of course, a few nights later, she tipped over a tall tumbler like this in the middle of the night, and it spilled onto my head while I was sleeping. We had to have a little discussion about that. I can’t live without ice water on my bedside table, though, so I guess I risk the occasional unplanned cold bath.

In addition to my bedside table, Emmie likes to hang out on top of the dryer, on the kitchen counter, and on my bed while I sleep. When I sit at the kitchen table, she jumps up there and joins me. Frankly, she’s got a lot more energy than old Mr. Kitty. Last night, she even helped me grade essays.

She thinks we should give ALL the kids 88s and then eat the pencils.

As you can tell, Emmie and I are getting along just fine. She runs to the door to greet me when I come home, for Pete’s sake. On the other hand, though, she does NOT love Tiger. He’s allowed to get within a few feet of her, and they can even both sleep on my bed, but if he makes any moves in her direction, she proceeds to hiss at him, bop him on the nose with her clawless little mitts, and then bolt. I don’t know if this is likely to end any time soon. I’m not particularly worried about it, since they don’t actually hurt one another, but they do sound like a convoy of drunken demons, which can be embarrassing. If you’re here and suddenly overhear wails of death coming from down the hall, just try to ignore them. It’s just my babies.

On another note, I have decided that since she came to me with a name, I won’t call her something besides Emmie. A cat’s got a right to some stability, ya know. I have decided, though, that Emmie is short for Emmeline Grangerford, which is a reference you’ll understand if you’ve read Huck Finn. Of course, now FlashCap thinks I’m stealing his idea of naming cats after Twain characters. Honestly, though, what other literary name can you associate with Emmie? Besides, he’s got other things to worry about with regard to me. I’m not planning to steal his naming conventions; I’m planning to steal his cat. That cat is AWESOME.