Sigmund the Sea Monster

One of the most popular links on the CNN website last week was a story about a supposed "sea monster" which turned up on the shores of the Hampton's. I can just imagine Nancy North Shore poking this thing with a stick for an hour or so after her dog Muffy started chewing on it. I love that it has a beak AND a tuft of hair on its neck. My guess: a sea turtle without its shell. Thoughts? Discuss amongst yourselves...

The Voice of Reason

This has been the spring/summer where the term 'unretired' has come into our lexicon. The person who has improved our collective word bank is our beloved southern good-ol boy: Brett Favre. After his tearful departure in March, Packer Nation went through the process of grieving and moving on.

Starting a few weeks later, Favre decided half-heartedly, then wholeheartedly that he wanted to play football again. When it became apparent that the Packers' brain trust had seriously moved on with their plans to give 2005 first-round pick Aaron Rodgers a legitimate chance to see his skills before he left for free agency (his contract is up in 2009), Favre decided that he wanted to head to Minneapolis where he could play in the relative comfort of the Metrodome and play with his longtime golf buddy Ryan Longwell. When Packers' management said that wouldn't fly, Favre became petulant and started calling everyone out. He leaked private conversations, called out GM Ted Thompson for not hiring his buddy Mariucci, and not trading for malcontent Randy Moss. His interview with Greta VanSustern was a train wreck to watch. As my friend Kevin, a recovering alcoholic for the past 17 years simply said: "He's acting like an addict." Which, of course, makes sense.

Sense is what we've been seeking for the past several weeks. We were in Green Bay this week for our annual Lambeau Family Night with the kids and the scene was surreal. While the team was getting ready to take the field Sunday night, the monitors around the stadium were giving an O.J-esque blow-by-blow of Favre's plane landing and his getaway in an SUV. During the scrimmage, a camera panned the Favre-family suite and Deanna was displayed. Her quarterback husband, while not in the picture was somewhere in the suite out of camera eye. The whole thing made no sense to me, much less my 4-y-o, who asked me last week 'What is a diva'? He's been watching too much of the news.

Through this all, I've been waiting for Professor Bob McGinn to chime in on the situation. McGinn, for those who don't know, is one of the preeminent pro football writers in the country. The fact that he works for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, and that he covers the Packers makes him a state treasure that rivals Summerfest and the Madelaine Islands. If you haven't had the pleasure of reading McGinn's work, let me give you a rundown. His network of contacts throughout the NFL is astounding. He out-works everyone else in his field and his insights are spot-on. His detail is amazing and I would gladly pay him personally in order to read his daily stories during the football season.

In a column penned today, McGinn came out and said that the Packers made the right decision in moving on without No. 4. Here were some of the highlights:

Regarding the organization's perspective --

"From a purely football perspective, the organizational shift against Favre began that November night in Dallas, gained steam in the arctic cold of Soldier Field and became a blaze during Favre's pathetic second-half showing against the New York Giants with a Super Bowl there for the taking.

Just about everyone who counted in the football department reached the conclusion that Favre could never win another championship. His dismal playoff record in the past decade couldn't be overlooked. And the Packers concluded that it would be the mother of all mistakes if Aaron Rodgers got away without being properly evaluated as a starter..."

And this --

"Once Favre tearfully retired, the die was cast. The singular comment made by Favre on March 6 that remains etched indelibly was his admission that he really didn't want the ball in the clutch anymore.

After that, the Packers cut the cord, and rightly so. Favre had come across to most as an emotionally spent 38-year-old with nothing left athletically that he cared to give."


And finally --

"The Packers blame themselves for making some communication gaffes along the way, which they did. They gave away their motives by announcing plans far too early to retire Favre's jersey and to send him his locker. Ted Thompson hid behind too many no-comments.

But when the endgame is to remove a legend, there is no smooth way of doing it.

Favre went on to risk his future as a heroic figure in the state for perpetuity by his actions last month. All but calling Thompson a liar. Revealing intimate details of conversations with Thompson and McCarthy. Selling out offensive line coach James Campen after he went out of his way to help his old pal.

During one interview, Favre criticized Thompson for not interviewing his buddy, Steve Mariucci, for the job that went to McCarthy. After the horrendous job that Mariucci did in Detroit, Thompson would have been roasted for even considering Mariucci, let alone hiring him.

Those were just a few examples of Favre operating almost in a delusional state, hearing only what he wanted to hear and acting as if he was larger than the team."

I couldn't add anything more than that. Favre is probably the most exciting quarterback ever to play the position and his style and exuberance made easy to relate to and cherish. In the end though, no player is bigger than the franchise and the Packers have one 11 NFL Championships without him. We'll see how long it takes to win No. 13.

Bastards of Young

The Replacements were a big part of my college years. I first heard their catalog of music after moving to Minneapolis in 1987. Granted, by that time they had released their final album with their original lineup and they were no longer playing local clubs. But their music was still revolutionary to me in the ways that Paul Westerberg's lyrics and Bob Stinson's guitar work made me think that music could still be great and fresh even without popular radio help.

This summer I spent a couple days reading Jim Walsh's "All Over But the Shouting" about the Replacements 1979-1992. The book consisted of interviews that were printed prior in various publications and interviews that Walsh did himself. It was a book that I've been meaning to read since it came out almost two years ago, but as they say 'The best laid plans...'. Anyway, I wanted to read it for quite a while.

Before I give my thumbs-up/down on it, I should admit I'm biased regarding the author. Walsh worked as the music editor at City Pages and the St. Paul Pioneer-Press (when I was there in 1996). He was also a musician of a minor note during the same period that the Replacements were playing local clubs. I never found Walsh's writing coherent or particularly insightful. His writing style comes across as the aborted love fetus of Lester Bangs and Virginia Woolf -- that is self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness B.S. I was less interested in knowing about Jim's personal mindset than I was in knowing what Wilco's set list was on their last show at First Avenue.

Walsh nearly sprains his shoulder patting himself on the back early in the book by placing himself as Westerberg's muse for the song "Unsatisfied". Several sentences later he writes that he didn't add that anecdote to make readers think he had any part in Westerberg's song, but you can't have it both ways my friend.

Walsh's book was without a narrative string. It merely consisted of one interview linked to another. Overall, the book disappointed me and I was left hoping that Walsh could have hit a homerun on this one -- even though I didn't expect it. His best work dealt with Bob Stinson's death (presumably due to a drug overdose) in Uptown. Walsh printed the eulogy that he wrote for Stinson's funeral and it was admittedly touching.

Despite the Replacements local ties, I never met or spoke to any of the band's members over a beer at a local tavern. Bob was the closest. I would see him occasionally at local establishments and his drug issues and mental instability were apparent. His mother still works at the Uptown Bar on Hennepin. I remember one time I was there having a beer with a friend and we were discussing famous rock-and-roll flameouts. I mentioned how Stinson's death seemed inevitable. I probably was talking too loud because a woman (I later found out was his mother) brought us our beers and said to us "Well, we did the best we could."

The Death of the American Dream: A documentary

“Gonzo: The Life and Work of Hunter S. Thompson” is an interesting look at one of the most interesting, er, ‘non-fiction’ writers in American letters. The film, directed by Alex Gibney, has a limited release and made it to the Twin Towns a week ago. What I found interesting was that, in an obvious paean to the founder of Gonzo Journalism (a sub-set of the New Journalism movement of the mid-late sixties), the film wasn’t a complete over-the-top gushing about the man. The film not only examined his talents (“Hell’s Angels” ranks among my top non-fiction novels all time), and his excesses (drugs, guns, alcohol, and did I mention drugs and alcohol?), but his failures and his diminished abilities toward the end of his life.
Among the really great interviews in the movie were Tom Wolfe and Pat Buchanon. Buchanon, who was Nixon’s speechwriter when Thompson was on the capitol beat during the early 70s, showed a particularly dry wit and appreciation for Thompson’s writing talents. Wolfe credited Thompson with supplying audio tapes of Ken Kesey’s rolling party with the Merry Prankster’s for his seminal work “The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test.” Democratic candidate George McGovern and Jimmy Carter were also included among the interviews on the life of Thompson. Thompson’s best work culminated in “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail,” which was a compilation of his work for Rolling Stone during the 1972 presidential primaries, and the book that became required reading for every pot-smoking college freshman “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”. The crushing loss of McGovern, and subsequent writing failures -- the Ali fight in Zaire in which he got loaded and failed to show up and cover the event – were part of his spiral downward.
Thompson, according to RS Publisher Jann Wenner and Wolfe, was caught in a box that he created. He could no longer cover events because he was bigger than the events themselves. Coupled with that, his drinking and drug use was taking a toll on his writing acuity. His final years were Hunter covering Hunter. As much fun as the man’s persona seemed, he was in essence a sad man who couldn’t deal with diminishing skills and an inability to publish the great American novel.
One of the strangest points in the film was when Thompson’s son, Juan, was interviewed about his father’s death. Apparently it was a sunny winter day in Woody Creek, CO, when Hunter took a gun to his head and ended his life. Juan stoically recalled the day as being very peaceful and that his father undoubtedly chose the setting to end his life. Juan, in a very odd choice of words, called it “a warm family moment.”
Thompson ended his life in the same way that his hero, Earnest Hemingway, ended his. Still, as his first wife Sandi said, for fans who thought that Thompson’s act was one of strength, they were mistaken. Sandi said that Thompson’s act was cowardice and that he left while the battle was still at hand. His weaponry of words, according his ex-wife, could be useful today as the failures of the Bush Administration roll on.

Frank McCourt's "Teacher Man"

I finally got a chance to read a couple books that I’ve been meaning to get to. The first one was Frank McCourt’s “Teacher Man” and the other one was Jim Walsh’s story on The Replacements, “All Over but the Shouting.”

McCourt, who came to America as a teen-ager from Ireland, taught in New York public high schools for three decades. During the time he was dismissed from a couple positions and ran into pretty much the same issues that every other high school teacher has run into. There wasn’t as much sex, drugs and alcohol as I remember my students talking about, but maybe he just left those things out as a matter of taste.

Although the book was published several years back, my reading list is quite dated. Both my sister and wife had both read the book and while my wife didn’t like it, my sister said that I should read it. My sister taught in public schools in Milwaukee for several years as a speech pathologist. She’s since left schools to a stay-at-home mom. My wife felt the book was too negative and that he didn’t even seem to enjoy being a teacher.

There was a larger point that McCourt was making, however, and I didn’t take it as being an overly negative image of education in general. Any person who has spent time in a classroom has felt his frustration with the students’ unwillingness to learn for learning sake – cripes they’re teen-agers after all, a bunch of rock-head phy-ed teachers for administrators, negligent parents, or helicopter parents who NEED to have smoke blown up their asses regarding their children’s academic abilities. It’s enough to drive you to drinking. And, of course, it has. Still, there is a sweet undercurrent to McCourt’s path as a teacher. Eventually he developed his teaching voice and recounted a few of the students who affected his life in very meaningful ways. Overall, I thought the book was a powerfully strong voice in favor of teaching. I don’t know if McCourt realized how strongly he felt about teaching until he left. Oh yeah, he wrote a book or two after he left teaching and didn’t have all of those ungraded essays staring at him.

A Day of Firsts

There is something about doing something for the first time. I'm not talking about the first time that you get busted by the cops, or the first time that you got sick from a half-liter of vodka; or the first time that you, well, you get where I'm coming from. Saturday was a day of firsts. The first, and certainly the lessor, was when I finally nailed a lob wedge. I was the 18th hole at Les Bolstad (the University of Minnesota's course) and I sat about 75 yards away from the pin but directly in front of a large (say 45 feet) pine. I've questioned before why I even have this club in my bag. After a couple rounds you can tell which clubs get the most use from the mud and scuff on the iron. The pitching wedge and the 9-iron, unfortunately, get over-extensive use by me over the course of 18 holes. So, to be able to nail that sombitch and finish it out with a one-putt made a truly marginal round rather memorable.

A couple hours later I had a more momentous occasion to witness. My 6-y-o Ella has been working on riding her bike without training wheels. Yesterday she nailed it. I had been running behind her and holding the seat since last year and except for a couple moments, she hadn't been able to commandeer the vehicle on her own. After two or three running "practices" I let go of her bike. She didn't know that she was unaided until she saw me running beside her. That sight froze her momentarily, but she gained her balance and went flying along.

As a side note, for those of us who were born in the sixties or the early seventies, protective gear for activities was quite different than it is today. There were no helmets, knee or elbow pads. If you were smart you wore long pants and maybe a baseball cap to keep the gravel out of your bleeding skull. My parents had a rock the size of Gibralter next to their front yard and when I started learning to ride my first bike, that rock seemed like a magnet to my bike. There's nothing like a good shot to the groin that will give a young boy the encouragement to learn the art of balance and steering on a bike. I thought of that as I strapped on my daughter's elbow and knee pads and her titanium helmet. I didn't put the mouth guard on her as my wife was gone for the day and couldn't monitor.

I hope your own day of firsts don't include blood or compound fractures and Happy Father's Day to everyone who qualifies.

Another Local Celebrity-Criminal

Here in Minnesota, we don't get as many celebrity sightings as our friends in Los Angeles. That said, the few that we have are usually related to some indecent crime -- read Larry Craig. Well, it appears that we had another one this week. In our fine little hamlet of Mankato, home of the University of Minnesota-Mankato, a man approached a couple of young co-eds with an interesting proposition. Apparently posing as a professional CMT, he offered his services to the young women, both of whom were sunbathing near their off-campus housing. While neither took the man up on his offer, he was able to unknowingly follow one of the girls back into her apartment (where she was retrieving a drink for him). Once inside he was able to cop a feel on the girl before her yelling and protests drove him off. Normally a creepy story story like this would elicit a mere -- hmmph -- from me. It was the culprit's physical description that struck me:

“Police say they are looking for a white man, 30 to 35 years old, 5 feet 10 to 6 feet 2 inches tall, weighing 250 to 300 pounds. He has short sandy-brown brown hair.

The suspect also has several distinguishing characteristics: a large stomach, hairy upper body, a large head, a larger than normal nose and a high forehead. His voice was described as high-pitched. He also had a pimple or sore that was red and possibly irritated above the right side of his mouth. During one incident, he had no shirt on, was wearing shorts and was barefooted.” (Star-Tribune, A-1, June 7, 2008)

"Yes," you're saying to yourself. "He's handsome alright, but he's no celebrity Tom, is he?"

Well, I can't confirm this, but at the same time that this was taking place, suspected 911 terrorist Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was being taken out of his military prison cell (and a break from incessant water-boarding) for a trial. You may have heard of the case. He, perhaps inaccurately, assumed that by becoming a martyr in your cause -- in this case, killing as many Americans as possible -- that you'd get 70 virgins when you reached heaven.

My theory is that Mohammed took a break from his "destroy the infidels" efforts to visit Minnesota during our two-week summer and made his way to Mankato in an effort to score with some local beauties. But in his effort to fool the Mankato gals into thinking he was legitimately a masseuse and end up scoring with a virgin, he was sadly mistaken. As anyone whose been to the University of Minnesota-Mankato knows: There hasn't been one of those on campus in several decades.

In case you've forgotten what Khalid looks like, I've posted a picture at the top. Good luck with your own professional endeavors.