There is a limit to my Minnesota boosterism.  No longer able to scoff at the snowbirds who flee for warmer climes, Laura and I went to Fort Myers for a long weekend.  It wasn’t so much the brutal cold or the piles of snow over our heads (really, I’m not exaggerating); for me, it was the ice.

I was out running the other day.  Knowing I had time to cross a street in front of a car (that also had a stop sign) I sprinted onto a slight decline. My feet flew out in front of me and I went sprawling – the cartoon-like fall, where your legs fly up in the air, your back and head hit the pavement, and you get up seeing those circles of stars.  And I went skidding on my back about 20 feet.  It was the kind of fall where passersby stop to make sure you are ok.  I was – only my pride and backside were a bit sore.  Fortunately, it was so cold I was well padded.

Then it happened to my car.  Stopped at an intersection, the driver behind me didn’t allow sufficient stopping distance – completely smashing my rear bumper.  I was unhurt, but annoyed – more by the inconvenience than with the person who hit me.  Oh, and it was about 10 degrees below zero as we were standing by the side of the street exchanging insurance information.

So, we went to Florida.  This was our first time in Fort Myers and I have to say, I’m a fan.  We played on the beach, played in the water, went for boat rides, and went to see the Twins play spring training baseball.  And we went paddle boarding.

Having never paddle boarded before, Laura and I went with a guided tour through the mangrove swamps.  It was great, and we were pretty good at it.  So good, in fact, that our guide decided we were ready for the open water.  We carried our boards from the swamps to the Gulf and tried our luck over the waves.  No problem – as I learned later, I intuitively understood the trick – don’t look down, look forward.  Or, as it was presented as advice from a surfer to a friend in Hawaii:  “dude, look straight ahead.”  Thank you zen-master surfer dude.

The real test came when a large boat went by.  I rode out the wakes no problem, but, cocky with my success, when the sea calmed again, I lost my balance and tumbled into the water.  Not in a graceful, gymnastic sort of a way – more in a “hit every body part on the paddle board on the way down” sort of way.

That was how, having avoided bruises in two Minnesota ice-related incidents, I returned from sunny, ice-free Florida, not tan, but black and blue.

So it’s been a while since I have written anything here.  I also have not attended to my website.  At the moment I have 2,654 pending comments that I need to attend to.  What that really means is that I have 2,654 pending comments that I need to move to trash.

My website is a spam comment magnet.  I have no idea whether an average of 20 computer generated spam comments each week is a lot or not, but if you let them go for a while, it is a lot of work moving them to trash one at a time.

The spam is in all forms – much of it is in Asian or Middle Eastern characters.  Many are several hundred words, much of which is nonsense.  Each normally seems to contain one or more links where one could procure some good or service – frankly, I haven’t had the guts to click on any of them for fear of where I might end up or what it might do to my computer.  Here is what one looks like:

From of old, items for women range. To meet different need of women, fashion handbag designers rock their brains to design コーチ F48166 コーチバッグ新作 コーチ アウトレット 専門店,セリーヌ バッグ 新作 2014 セリーヌバッグ新作 2014 セリーヌ バッグ 新作 2014,アニエスベー 財布 新作 イルビゾンテ財布アウトレット イルビゾンテ 財布 アウトレット,イルビゾンテ セール 2014 イルビゾンテセール 2014 イルビゾンテ バッグ,ブルガリ 財布 ブルガリ財布 ブルガリ 財布 handbags of countless types in aims of receiving the heart of adult females of different tastes. Women handbags, ranging from casual luggage of bright colors to be able to elegant handbags of high qualities, are available on real estate markets. Women are fond of selecting fashion handbags intended for various occasions. Apart from styles, designers try to end up being uniquely decorate handbags by using fashion elements, such as metal latches, padlocks, chain straps and so on. if categorized according to approach to carry, handbags can be with コーチ F48167 コーチアウトレット専門店 コーチ アウトレット 専門店,ツモリチサト 財布 新作 イルビゾンテセール イルビゾンテ セール,コーチ アウトレット アニエスベー財布新作 コーチ アウトレット,イルビゾンテ バッグ イルビゾンテバッグ イルビゾンテ バッグ,Bvlgari 財布 Bvlgari 財布 ブルガリ 財布 tote ones, travel ones and neck bags etc.. If categorized according to occasions to utilize, handbags can be of beach bags, sport bags, evening bags and purchasing bags, etc.. If categorized according to be able to manufacture craft, handbags can be associated with mirror works, sequin works and etc. Therefore, If work more painstakingly, there can be additional categorizations.As you can observe, there are so plenty of knowledge concerning handbags. Fashion handbag designers consider inspiration of handbag pattern from traditional culture コーチ バッグ 新作 コーチ F48166 コーチ バッグ 新作,イルビゾンテ セール ツモリチサト財布新作 イルビゾンテ セール,イルビゾンテ 財布 アウトレット コーチアウトレット イルビゾンテ 財布 アウトレット,イルビゾンテ セール 2016 イルビゾンテ財布 イルビゾンテ セール 2016,ブルガリ 長財布 ブルガリ長財布 ブルガリ 長財布 to modern ones, aiming at projecting the change of time. The need to organize one’s belongings is very easy, thus handbags exist within differing forms in cultures world wide. People have been quite clever in thinking of ways to use the materials accessible to create their hand bags. Then the great fashion items come out.

I’m sure that professional bloggers and commercial sites have some better way of dealing with this than my method of reviewing individually and moving each one to trash.  But I do not want to do any sort of “delete all” for fear that I will miss the one legitimate comment hiding amidst the spam.  Or I might miss out on an offer that is simply too good to pass up.

In addition to the occasional person trying to pound through our back door at 3:00 a.m. (see previous post), our urban environment is filled with a number of other interesting creatures.

To begin with, we live in an old house and are not entirely rodent-tight.  We also are not above poisoning the little critters.  Because of this, once every two or three years in the fall, we will go into the basement or open a closet door and be hit with the telltale smell of bad sauerkraut, indicative of a decomposing rodent.  There is nothing to do about this except let the smell play itself out since the corpse is likely in the walls or floorboards.  We’ve observed that it takes a remarkably long time for something with such little body mass to decompose.

We also recently experienced our first winged rodent.  I had just returned home on a late flight from a full day of travel and had settled into bed to read.  It was after midnight, Laura was already asleep, and I heard a sort of thump, thump, thump sound.  We were in the middle of some remodeling (and by some I mean pretty much replacing the roofing, siding, eaves, and soffits on our house).  So I thought I was hearing some sort of construction material blowing in the breeze and hitting the side of the house.  However, for exterior flapping, the sound seemed remarkably close – as in a few feet away.  I sat up abruptly, looking in the direction of the sound and waking Laura up in the process.  Just as I did so, the bat flew out from behind a dresser and proceeded to swoop and dive around our bedroom – paying special attention to our bed.  Laura, half awake, was still trying to sort out what was going on, but near as I could tell, it was my fault.

Or at least it was my problem to solve.  Leaving Laura and the bat to their own devices, I threw on some pants, ran downstairs and out to the garage for the trusty tennis racket.  By the time I returned, Laura had decided that she could be of no assistance and was buried under her pillows.  Figuring I only had one good shot, I waited for the bat to zoom by me and gave it my best spike.  The bat careened off our bathroom vanity (yes, our bathroom and bedroom are part of one large room) and conveniently came to rest in the sink.  I’m not sure it was dead, but it was clearly immobilized.  Enough so that I was able to gather it up and bring it downstairs.  If I hadn’t sounded the “all clear” upon my return, I think Laura would still be under her pillows.

Our sincere hope is that the bat was a one-time construction-related event.

Most of the rest of our wildlife is outside.  We have three raccoons that regularly visit our yard at night.  No problem unless we are arriving late and have to walk from the garage to the house.  We’ve never actually been attacked, but have been hissed at, as the raccoons apparently feel some ownership over that nighttime real estate.  I honestly couldn’t tell you if they were present to witness my running to the garage and returning with a tennis racket.

There are more rabbits than people in the neighborhood, often taking up residence under our porch or chomping our shrubs, leaving plenty of fertilizer behind.  This fall I also saw a fox in the middle of the street munching a dead squirrel.  He refused to move as I drove by – I think I saw him shrug his shoulders as if to say, “yeah, what are you looking at?”

For the last year or so, Laura and I also have heard rooster sounds.  We first noticed them during the winter as we were reading in our living room.  The “cock-a-doodle-doos” seemed far away – maybe down the next block, where some enterprising person was taking up urban farming.

As spring approached and we started to open windows, the sound seemed closer, maybe across the street or a half block away.

Finally, as we got outside and started our spring chores, we realized the rooster was much closer than we thought — in fact as close as our neighbors’ basement.  We have neighbors who are first generation American immigrants from Southeast Asia.  Their notion of urban farming, while a bit surprising, seems entirely logical if you want to keep a rooster alive through the cold, long, Minnesota winter.

The sound has been gone for about a month – I’m assuming the rooster was tasty.   Or maybe it escaped into our rafters, only to meet an untimely and possibly smelly end.

We have a new nickname for me – and by “we” I mean my wife, Laura.  She is calling me Captain Underpants.

Here’s the story:

The other night Laura woke me up to tell me someone was at our back door trying to break in – generally not the way one wants to be awakened.  Given that it was summer, we could hear the gentleman cursing, apparently talking to someone (turned out to be himself or an imaginary friend), and pounding at our porch door.  I sprang to immediate action – wearing what I normally wear to bed.

While Laura called 911 I went downstairs to see if I could deter him somehow.  I first turned on a flood light we have in our back yard – I’m not sure he noticed.  He certainly was not deterred.  I then observed him for a bit.

At this point, it may be helpful to understand the physical layout of our back entry.  We have a screened porch with a locked screen door.  Opposite that, there is a door from the porch into the house, also locked.  We have two windows over our kitchen sink that open onto the porch.   Our porch door is a screen door with four clear panels that can be slid open or closed.

As I continued to assess the situation (and after having turned on the lights to no helpful effect), I observed the gentleman with his hand protruding through the bottom of the screen door.  He had cut through the screen and had pounded in the lowest of the four panels.  He was reaching through and trying to unlock and open the door from the inside.  If he had not been so inebriated or otherwise impaired, I think he would have succeeded.  Nevertheless, I wanted to stop him from making further progress.

At this point in Laura’s telling of the story (as related based on my telling because she was still upstairs) I “confronted” the potential intruder.  In my telling of the story, I cowered behind a barely open kitchen window and tried to engage the gentleman in conversation.

Basically, I said, “You need to stop that.”  He did.  Here was the rest of our conversation:

Him:  “I just need to poop.”

Me:  “You can’t do that here.”

Him:  “Why not.”

Me:  “You wrecked our screen door.”

Him:  “I’ll pay you for that – I’m an honorable man.”

Me:  “Just don’t try again.”

Him:  “I just need to poop.”

Repeat until the police arrive – which, by the way, was remarkably fast – perhaps 3 minutes.

In Laura’s book, this constitutes me taking a substantial risk.  I my book, not only did I have this discussion from a generally cowering position, but, more importantly, it worked.  He stopped trying to get into our house.

The irony is that while Laura purports to consider this a serious situation where I put myself directly in harm’s way, it has not stopped her from making fun of me and my attire at the time.  The main reason I would not have gotten into a direct confrontation is that I had no intention of making my last night on the planet one in which I did something truly stupid in my underpants.

Little known fact:  a generation ago, the month of June used to be twice as long.

Growing up in Cannon Falls, the big summertime event was the Cannon Valley Fair, held July 2 – 4.  I would save my money all year in anticipation of wasting it on crappy food, rigged carnival games, and portable thrill rides slapped together by largely disreputable, itinerant purveyors of fun (and drugs).  This meant that the period from the end of the school year until the start of the fair was the longest on the calendar.  It’s hard for me to believe that, as a kid, I used to wish for time to speed up.

Seriously, a week in June seemed interminable.  It’s not like I was lacking for things to do, but there was very little I had to do on a daily basis.  At the risk of being too nostalgically schmaltzy, I’d like once again to experience a time where the basic challenge of each day is how to make the time pass faster – to have that innocence of simple anticipation – and a willingness to get on a ferris wheel assembled by gentlemen with no teeth.

The other day, I got nostalgic for something I never even liked as a kid.

I’m sure our school lunches were generally no better or worse than most schools, but it also is the case that kids have to complain.  So my standard line even now is “everything served in the Cannon Falls High School lunchroom was horrible.”   But as I recall, there really were only two truly terrible things our high school lunchroom produced:  beef patties on a bun, and chicken a la king.

Notice I expressly did not say “hamburgers.”  They were not hamburgers.  The beef patties were frightening because they were not grilled – I’m not even sure how much beef was in the beef patties.  I suppose it was necessary, but our “chefs” “cooked” them in the ovens, layering frozen patties into large baking pans.  They didn’t so much fry as they did boil.  I don’t know the biochemical reason, but somehow the baking/boiling process transformed mediocre frozen meat patties into appalling, gray, awful-tasting slabs of pseudo meat.  No amount of catsup or mustard or pickles or relish or buns or anything else could overcome the taste of the boiled gray meat.

The other really horrible dish I remember was chicken a la king, and I really don’t know why I thought it was so horrible.  The Cannon Falls High School lunchroom version of the dish was made with a simple gooey chicken gravy over baking powder biscuits.  As an adult, I like baking powder biscuits.  I also really have no problem with gooey chicken gravy (like the kind that is part of a canned chow mein kit – yum).  But, as a kid, the combination made me retch.

So imagine my surprise the other day when I got a whiff of the scent of chicken gravy – the kind they used in Cannon Falls – and, far from retching, I had a pleasant recollection combined with present hunger.  I realize my tastes have changed (not that I am claiming any sort of sophistication relating to baking powder biscuits and gooey – too much corn starch — gravy), but somehow these changed tastes have altered my prior memories.  I know I hated chicken a la king, but I can’t now conjure the actual distaste – unlike my ability to fully conjure the taste of canned school corn on the way back up in a tragic school-related puking incident.

Some people have that rare ability to simultaneously seem rushed or harried while accomplishing less work than others.  Laura and I attend a choreographed exercise class that is a combination of pilates and yoga (yes, I know . . . ).  One of our instructors is often late for class and then can never keep us in sync with the planned music and movements.  One view is that she has this zen-like ability to transcend the normal bounds of time and space.  Another view is that she is just one of those people – particularly as she exhorts people to keep up and keep relaxed and centered.

I write this because I am mindful that I have been absent from my blog for over a month.  I am trying to not to be “that person” as I gently complain about what has quite possibly been the busiest work month of my career.  I’d like to say that I’m back, but this busy-ness may be a thing for a while.

Laura and I have an image for existence in the modern world:  Gerbils on a wheel.  Actually, this image draws on my now quite old economics education.  We all are part of the great machine that is designed to allow us to create things of value to others that allows us to earn money that allows us to buy things of value that are created by others and so the wheel turns.  Macroeconomics in a nutshell.

I hope I have been creating a lot of value in the past month, but I am a lawyer.  At the end of the day, I do not have a nifty widget that I can hold up and say, “see what I’ve made!”  Instead, I have mostly words  — but so far people seem willing to pay for them (thus, valuable by definition).

Regardless, as it relates to keeping a more regular blogging schedule, I shall endeavor to do better .

I’ve been doing a lot of air travel lately.  There once was a time when I considered airplane travel to be glamorous and exotic — mainly before I ever got on an airplane.

As a kid, air travel seemed an unattainable adventure.  We were people of modest means and my dad would sooner walk to a distant locale than fly (ostensibly because of cost, but also, I think, because he was intimidated by the idea).  The images on TV were of luxury travel with service by gorgeous women. Pretty much what has been re-created by Mad Men — what’s not to covet about that?  I had a friend whose family actually could afford a trip to Disneyland —  ON AN AIRPLANE!!! TO DISNEYLAND!!!  We could never do something like that – we were a car trip/cheap motel family.

Fast forward 40 years.  I now fly regularly – not as much as some, but enough to care what my SkyMiles status is (that’s shameful, isn’t it?).   If there ever was glamor, there is very little left.  As I eat my meager bag of complementary pretzels and sip my diet coke, I am very much aware that (probably for the better) flying has become an activity for the masses – thus, a bus on wings.  On a normal flight, one will meet and sit in personal-space-invading proximity to a large cross-section of humanity.

I’m not really a germophobe, but I have become acutely aware of people exhibiting symptoms on airlines.  There is nothing quite like feeling the impact of a sneeze on the back of one’s head.  If I don’t keep myself occupied, I listen for every cough or sneeze with the knowledge we will be breathing shared air for the duration of the flight.

On a recent flight, I there was a gentlemen a couple rows behind me with the kind of wet, loose, lung rattling cough that, in my mind could only mean tuberculosis.  He coughed up multiple lungs over the course of the 3 hour flight.

Worst was when Laura, our daughter Lisa, and I were flying to Europe for the wedding of Lisa’s high school best friend.  We were on a wide body plane in the middle, occupying 3 seats with a stranger next to Lisa in the fourth.  No sooner did we take off than the woman next to Lisa pulls out her barf bag and starts to heave, and heave, and heave.  Lisa the medical student leans in to help (apparently you’re supposed to do that as a doctor).  Laura and I were holding our breath and trying to will ourselves to the edge of the plane – ideally off it.  We had no sympathy and were distraught by our daughter’s altruistic reaction.

All we could think of was Norovirus – that dreaded intestinal bug that wracks one’s system until things want to come out both ends but there is nothing left to come out.  That would’ve put a bit of a damper on the wedding festivities.  Turns out we were fine, and Doctor Lisa ultimately diagnosed it as a severe case of too-much-partying-the-night-before-itis, but the rest of the plane ride was spent aware of every little gurgle or digestive imperfection.  We passed on the pretzels.

Laura had a business trip to Rome and I was lucky enough to tag along.  We stayed in this very charming hotel on the Aventine Hill, just south of the Forum and Colosseum.   It was a renovated residence – a villa really – with all the modern amenities.  I’m guessing it had been renovated in the last 10 years.

I was surprised to see a bidet in the bathroom.

I didn’t even know they made bidets any more.

I don’t know anybody who admits to ever using one – in fact, call me naïve, but I’m not entirely sure how they are supposed to be used.  They actually look like they might be a guilty pleasure of sorts – all in the name of cleanliness.

Actually, I do know one person who admitted to using one:  Laura’s mother once said she used the bidet to soak her feet.  I’m not even sure how that would work — it’s a bit of a balancing act if you plan to soak both feet at the same time.

The internet informs me that bidets are still quite common in southern European countries, but so, apparently these days, are showers.  I get the idea the one might want to wash their privates, but if you have a shower available isn’t that a whole lot easier?  And, why clean those parts and ignore your underarms?  I know that would be pretty difficult in a bidet.

On Saturday mornings, a local classic rock station runs replays of Casey Kasem’s America’s Top 40 from the 1970’s.  As I was driving this past Saturday, it was a rebroadcast from 1975 and the top single was “Have You Never Been Mellow” by Olivia Newton John.  The song reminded me of Mr. Christianson.

Mr. Christianson was my 5^th and 6^th grade music teacher.  He was probably in his mid to late 50s at the time, but seemed ancient to me.  The main thing I recall about our weekly classroom music sessions is that he would take time at the end of each class to play whatever single was at the top of the Billboard Chart that week.  He would put the 45 on the old classroom phonograph with the inadequate speaker and would expose us to pop music.

I only remember four songs: The Eric Clapton version of “I Shot the Sheriff;” the Blue Swede version of “Hooked on a Feeling” (ooga chaka, ooga chaka); “The Night Chicago Died” by I don’t know who; and “Have You Never Been Mellow.”

This was pretty cool, because I’m almost positive Mr. Christianson did not play these records at home.  In fact, he wasn’t much of a fan.  I believe he thought Newton John and Elton John were the same person.

The other thing Mr. Christianson did was indulge a 5^th grade rock fantasy.  A couple of buddies and I had the idea to start a band.  Having had a year of piano lessons, I was to be the keyboardist.  Mr. Christianson agreed to meet us after school to work with us.  This was more difficult for my buddies because Cannon Falls Elementary School did not have a supply of guitars or a drum set (and neither did my pals).  It did, however, have a piano.  While my pals looked on, Mr. Christianson patiently tried to teach me some rock chord progressions.  We lasted a couple of sessions before we moved on to our next big idea.   No danger of Mr. Christianson confusing me for Elton John.