What doesn't kill us makes us stronger

When you're the father of two little people, you generally don't get a chance to enjoy as much cinema as you'd like. That said, there were a pair of movies that I really enjoyed this past month. One of them was available by the miracle of Netflix, and the other one was viewed through the traditional means of a theater. The films were dissimilar except for one common theme -- they both had Minnesota as a backdrop. The first film was "Juno" written and directed by Diablo Cody. I'm sure you all know about her background so I won't go into that, but suffice to say that this was the best movie I've ever seen that was written by a woman who rubbed her pubis mound on my leg for $10. 'Nuff said. The main character Juno, played by Ellen Page, was adorable. I haven't fallen for a young female character like that since Parker Posey in "Party Girl". The witty dialogue (courtesy of Cody), and Juno's relationships with her friends, parents and boyfriend (played by "Arrested Development" co-star Michael Cera), had a very authentic and hopeful feel. Taking the would-be tragic premise of teenage pregnancy and turning it on its head, the film's exploration of this theme was phenomenal. By no means did it glorify the decisions or take lightly the subject matter, but Juno's attitude toward her plight and the way she took people's attitudes in stride gave the whole film an optimistic feel.

Another film that I recently watched as "Sweetland" directed by Ali Selim, who won a Spirit Award for Best Independent Film in 2007. I don't know what connection Selim had to Minnesota, but he captured the setting (rural Minnesota during the 1920s) perfectly. The story was about an immigrant Swedish farmer who orders a mail-order bride to bring to his homestead in Minnesota. Once she gets there, they realize that she isn't Swiss but German, which is an issue since the U.S. had just finished a war with Germany and there was a great deal of prejudice against German immigrants. The movie's themes about ignorance, intolerance, perseverance and love made this a memorable film. The life that these two farmers created, after being thrown together in tough circumstances, gives everyone hope in a more complicated but equally prejudiced society today. I'm not sure there are many connections between these two films, but I think the one that stands out is this: there is an underlying moral code that we need to live by. Not one that's dictated by organized religion, or the expectations of others, but a real, tangible, understood set of codes that we live by in the face of obstacles and life's trials. Our winters in the heartland make us stronger mentally and force us to rely on one another. Maybe we have more time to consider our place and our body of work that we leave behind, but regardless of why, those values act as a bedrock that a lot of us rely upon when tough circumstances arise.

Dr. Love and the art of beating up kids

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OK, I think I've reached the acceptance part of Kubla Ross (or is it Kubla Khan's) stages of mourning. This, of course, over No. 4's decision to hang it up. So, in lieu of reading about my favorite football team -- and definitely in favor of doing the job that I'm paid to do between 8-4 -- I took to the Internet to do a little surfing the past week. I'm not sure if there is a thematic string between the two sites I found, other than Armageddon .

When I was growing up, KISS was one of the baddest bands in the land and Gene Simmons was the baddest of the bunch. Seven-feet tall with the bottom of his tongue cut loose so that he could better enjoy the company of women, he was bad-ass. We all have heard the stories about Mr. Simmons' penchant for women. Now, I've seen clips of an aging Willie Mays botching fly balls in his last season as a Met, and I've seen a decrepit Johnny U in the powder blue of the San Diego Chargers, so it shouldn't have surprised me when someone sent me a link to the sex tape of Gene Simmons and the only feelings I had were sadness and revulsion.

Dr. Love, who is in his mid-60s now, is shown on the video having sex with some blond. The quality is BAD, and the sight of a shirtless Simmons with his pants down to his ankles having relations with this prostitute is only enjoyable for the shock value. Simmons is frighteningly out of shape and his performance reminds me of someone in the throes of a NyQuil buzz. On two different occasions he leans down to kiss the woman and she turns her head on him. Bottom line is this: not all celebrity porn is worth watching. (Editor's note: Alas, the host of the video, Blabbermouth.net, has removed the video over the protests of Simmons thereby depriving everyone of watching some one's grandparent having sex.)

The other site that has attracted my attention is the survey website "How Many Five Year Olds Could You Take in a Fight". Based on a scenario in which you're in closed confinement with a number of incensed kindergarten children, how many could you fight off? My favorite question in the survey asks whether or not you'd be willing to use one of the kids as a weapon to swing at the others. The results (shown above) indicate that I could kick the crap out of 12 rugrats. I have to call B.S. on this one, though. I've seen some pretty psycho kids and if one of them kicked me hard in the sweetbreads, I may just fold pretty quickly. If you take the survey, please report your score. And please be sure to stay away from my kid's Montessori.

AF-1: After Favre Day 1

Some notes on the day after the funeral:

The Vegas odds for the Packers winning the Super Bowl before Favre: 14-1. The odds after No. 4: 20-1.

The odds for Favre-successor Aaron Rodgers:

His total over/under yardage total for 2008-09: 3,250

Over/under for TD: 19

Over/under for INT: 15

Other misc. notes from the day... I sat down with Nicolas (aka McLovin) last evening and talked to him about Favre's retirement. It went something like this:

Dad: Nicolas, Brett Favre decided that he wasn't going to play football anymore.

Nicolas: Why?

Dad: Well, he felt that he was too old. When you get older it's tougher to do some things.

Nicolas: Is he gonna die now?

Dad: Well, I don't think so. He's daddy's age, you know.

Nicolas: Is it 'cause he's too fat?

Dad: Huh?

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Editor's note: Nicolas wanted to know if Brett could play for the Gophers. If not that, then maybe he could coach his team when he's able to play next fall.

It's official: We're growing old

The first time that I ever saw Brett Favre throw a pass is implanted on my mental hard drive. I was sitting in some girl’s flat in London with my friend Chris watching a 30-minute NFL recap with a couple English broadcasters and a former kicker who was doing the color analysis. It was the first football we’d seen in several months while traveling the continent with our backpacks. In the game, Favre hit Kitrick Taylor (or was it Sanjay Beach) with a laser to beat the Bengals in the final seconds of their regular-season game. I looked at Chris and said something like “I hope Majikowski isn’t hurt for too long.” Also indelible in my memory was that we were summarily kicked out of that London flat a day later and had to spend the rest of the week in a crowded hostel. (Editor’s note: The fact that I broke the host’s toenail clipper while trying to cut my unseemly talons was just a small factor in her decision.)

The Majik Man never saw the field again for the Packers. Instead, Favre played for the next 17 years.

I can pretty much pinpoint the points in my life and what I was doing with various Favre moments. The playoff win against the Lions in which Favre’s last-minute (is that getting redundant) pass to Sterling Sharpe resulted in a huge hogpile on the floor of the bar, Fowl Play. The Halloween victory over Chicago in a driving rainstorm; the Raiders’ game that featured the first Lambeau Leap by LeRoy Butler; the game I took my then-girlfriend, now wife to – the Yancey Thigpen drop that gave the Pack the division title; the NFC Championship win over Carolina – I snuck into the game without a ticket and sat in the aisle; or this past January when a snowstorm hit us during the Seattle playoff game. Of course the Super Bowl victory receives the top billing: I remember my roommate and me spending several hours before the game creating our own version of the Lombardi Trophy. The “trophy” was a Nerf football on the top of an empty Miller Lite case, ensconced in aluminum foil. It looked ridiculous but there wasn’t one person at the party who didn’t want their picture taken with it after the Patriots had been dispatched.

All of those were pretty great memories that will stay with me until I die or dementia sets in. I would prefer the former rather than latter.

When I heard about the retirement, I tried to think back to any of the other retirements of Wisconsin athletes that had a similar affect. Robin Yount retired from the Brewers in 1993. He was special because I went back with him to the mid-1970, when sports still had a special magical quality. The only other retirement that I think comes close was Al McGuire’s retirement from Marquette University in the 1977 season. I remember I was home that afternoon and watching my mom cry during the press conference. I had a vague sense of who he was, but anytime you see your stoic German mother in tears it’s a pretty big deal for a 7-year-old. I guess we hold our icons pretty close to us in the heartland.

My 4-year-old, Nicolas, has become a big sports fan. He calls me his football buddy because I watch games with him and take him to games when possible. His favorite player – guess: Brett Favre. He has imitated Favre’s post-touchdown dance, the one with the index finger raised and running in a circle with hip thrown out to the side. In fact, it’s become his signature move after he scores in t-ball, soccer, and hockey. Minutes after hearing the announcement my brother called to commiserate. We were discussing how to break the news to our little guys. His 5-y-o cried for a half-hour after the Packers’ loss to the Giants, about 30 minutes less than his old man. Both Nicolas and his cousin are still in the stage that their sports heroes don’t get old or stop playing.

For Nicolas, his scoring dance has become habit. I imagine that in five, 10 years that he won’t have a clue where it originated from. That’s when his old man will pull out the DVDs – or whatever format is in use at the time – and remind him of when he thought his heroes were magical.