The Two Minutes in Sports No One Cares About

My wife flipped the tv on at 3 to settle in for a good four hours of horse racing coverage. Horse racing coverage. Four hours. America turns its eyes to Kentucky every time this year for the most exciting two minutes in sports. Otherwise I don't think America ever turns its eyes to Kentucky the rest of the year, except to watch Rand Paul make a surprise Senate win.

The Kentucky Derby has experienced a great resurgence in popular culture in the last five years. I started watching the Derby six-years ago. No, I wasn't ahead of the trendy curve, that's just when I started dating my future wife who required me to watch all four hours of coverage. It must have been love. As I settled in with many beers to suffer through four hours of a sporting event which I knew nothing about, I watched a very dated scene of social elite and Kentucky college kids mash into the twin peaks. The event's hosts spent the next three hours and fifty-eight minutes pouring over race histories of each horse, evaluating strengths, weaknesses, lineages, and track conditions, with the occasional human interest story thrown in. There was plenty of show boating and fashion displays, but almost exclusively from the unknown Kentucky elite, and only as lead-ins to the horse analysis. I think we spotted a total of one, maybe two B-celebrities who were given a quick opportunity to say hi and tell the camera their odds favorite.

The ensuing six-years my wife and I watched a steady accumulation of celebrities and rising attendance. The racing analysis gave way to more human interest stories, fashion analysis, and stargazing. Leading to today's coverage. The cameras began with focus on the attendees fashion and frequent interviews with attending celebrities. This gave way to a gossip piece on the, ahem, dating life of the greatest retired filly, whose name currently escapes me. (Just asked wife -- the name is Rachel Alexandra.) The story didn't end well, with the stud getting what he came for, and the filly being left pregnant and on her own. Heartbreaking. At least there is hope that she can put her child to work at age two to make some serious cash.

We saw a smug appearance from superbowl champion Aaron Rodgers, who was strangely looking like the love child of Jim Halpert and Ryan Howard. Then came the series of human interest stories and historical montages to draw in the viewers. This I found to be the most interesting part of the coverage. Not the actually stories themselves. They are all the same by now. The interesting point is that the station realized that nobody actually follows horse racing, so nobody knows or cares about who is racing. So if you want people to watch horse racing coverage for four hours you better find something to draw them in that competes with Jersey Shore and Extreme Home Makeover.

And that is exactly what they gave us. A heart-wrenching story of a female trainer who three years ago was on her deathbed waiting for a heart transplant. What is significant about her training methods to set her horse apart? Who cares. She almost died! And now she is at the Kentucky Derby! Then there is the made-for-the-movies story of the steely 23-year old woman jockey. Only the sixth woman to ever ride in the Derby, she shows the fearless resolve normally only found in cagey veterans. She suffered several falls and broken bones, but now is fighting doubts and skepticism to try and become the first woman to win the Derby. I particularly enjoyed the piece on the 50-year old jockey making his first Derby appearance with his father-in-law as the trainer. He stood before his daughter's elementary class talking about he would have his first chance to race in the Derby. Kind of a tear jerker.

After four hours of coverage (alright I was cooking through much of it) I knew almost nothing about the strengths of the horses to help me make a competent bet. But I did know who Charles Barkley, Ice-T, and several other celebrities were picking to win. And seriously, with as much as Barkley gambles can I really lose following his pick? I also spotted Joey Fatone, Detective Stabler from Law and Order, the aforementioned Aaron Rodgers, Lindsey Vonn, and a few other random celebrities. I saw the latest fashion updates on hats. Not a good look. And I cried and cheered with the run of human interest stories. Then they ran the race. Somebody won. Nobody cared. We all went home.

Fat Tuesday: Bun in the Oven

No, there are no announcements along those lines. Simply a seasonal nod to the oft over looked staff of life.

I love bread. It is a simple love. Fresh loaves, warm rolls, day old slices, I love them all. A little butter or olive oil and I am set. Unfortunately, the appreciation of fine bread has diminished from our lives due to the over abundance of cheap – adequate bread from the grocery store. Who wants to go to the trouble of making bread when I can stop by and get a loaf for $2, some rolls for $3, and even artisan breads for $5. After all, it’s just bread.

Indeed, it is just bread. You won’t receive any accolades like grilling the perfect steak, or hear raves of tantalizing taste as when mixing a zesty guacamole. Flour, water, sugar, salt, egg, yeast, and butter.

But bread, in some form or another, has been the historical cornerstone of every society. Just think of its historical significance. As the Israelites wandered through the dessert God provided manna from which they made a sustaining bread. Christ broke bread with his disciples at the last supper. When the French peasants were starving for lack of bread, Marie Antoinette famously quipped, “Let them eat cake.” And Lenin, in rallying the peasants for revolution promised “Peace, Land, and Bread.”

While bread may never be the feature of a meal, its role (no pun intended) at the table cannot be overstated. Below is my great-grandmother’s recipe for dinner rolls. Enjoy.

Old Fashion Dinner Rolls

1 potato peeled and cubed

1 1/2 cups of water

2 packages active dry yeast

3/4 cup of whole milk

1/2 cup butter

2 teaspoons salt

1/4 cup sugar

2 egg

6 to 7 cups flour

Cook potato in water for 20 minutes or until tender. Drain and reserve the water. Mash potato. Measure 1 cup of potato water and let cool to lukewarm. Stir in yeast until completely dissolved. Heat milk and butter until very warm (120-130 degrees), butter does not need to completely melt. Add milk mixture to yeast mixture and stir in salt, sugar, eggs, mashed potato, and 3 cups of flour. Beat 2 minutes at medium speed and stir in enought remaining flour to make a soft dough. Turn dough out to a lightly floured board and knead for 8 to 10 minutes or until smooth and elastic. Place in a greased bowl, turning to grease all the dough and cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size (about 45-60 minutes). Punch dough down and divide into thirds and then divide each piece into 12 balls. Place 12 balls in a greased 9 inch cake pan. Cover and let rise for 30-45 minutes or until doubled. Bake at 375 degrees for 20-30 minutes. Makes 3 dozen.

I shall avenge thee!!! Bearded threats.

Since getting married I have learned to understand my wife’s motto, “my stuff is our stuff and her stuff is her stuff.” That’s fine, I’ve never had anything that I was particularly attached to anyways, until after we were married. While continually wearing a scruff throughout our dating and early marriage, it was not until a few years into our marriage that I grew a beard. I came to love my beard. I am Moses and my beard is my staff.

Now for guys out there on a budget, you know how difficult it can be to find a barber that can actually provide a decent haircut for under $20. Recent months had provided me good luck with a local barber establishment known for their accommodation to men’s interests. No, not bikini clad stylists. Just sports on TV all the time.

On a recent excursion for my monthly haircut, I arrived at the barber’s on a Wednesday morning. There was only one stylist present, and I was her only customer. A few minutes after the stylist began cutting my hair it was apparent that this gal was not a seasoned professional. In fact, my deductive reasoning would lead me to believe that her working on a Wednesday morning means she was probably a member of the B-squad. No matter, I’ve fixed more than a few sub-par haircuts in my life, so I just settled in for the remainder of the flight.

As the stylist approached the completion of the haircut she continued with the various trimmings of the neck and so on. She then asked if I would like my sideburns trimmed. Despite doing my own beard upkeep, I usually anticipate needing to do a beard trim after haircuts, so I conceded that she could trim up my sideburns. Many other stylists had previously trimmed my sideburns so I thought nothing of it. The usual process is the stylist uses a clippers with a guard on it just to shorten the sideburns a little bit.

Now I previously mentioned that this was a sports themed barbershop. The particular attraction of this shop was televisions placed in between the stations. Stupid NFL keeps re-showing all those crazy hits from the previous Sunday. So my attention was not focused on the minor issue of trimming my sideburns, but rather James Harrsion shortening some poor fella’s life by three years.

A few moments later the barber informed me that she had completed my haircut. I turned in my chair to face the mirror and my brain failed to register what it was viewing. My mind started to churn to decipher what was going on. My best guess is that at whatever twenty-minute seminar on haircutting this gal had attended, the instructor taught them to trim sideburns by cutting in with the clippers and shaving down, creating a nice straight edge. Unfortunately, the physics of this process don’t exactly translate into a successful trim when the client has a beard.

So there I sat, a decent haircut on top, my nice bushy beard on the bottom, and a one inch gap on either side separating my hair from my beard. Hmmm. After an awkward 30 seconds of silence the barber sheepishly chimed in, “should I shave the rest of the sides or do you want to walk out that way.” Well, at least she understood that me walking out of the shop looking like that would have warranted some odd looks, multiple discreet cellphone photos, and a few calls to the police. “Yeah,” I said, “Why don’t you go ahead a shave the beard off.”

With instructions to leave the mustache and goatee, the barber proceeded to shave off my beard. She then moved to the side where I could again see what I would have to classify as a party prank. She left my mustache, goatee, AND THE ENTIRE BEARD ON MY NECK! Another 30 seconds of awkward silence. “Should I go ahead and shave the neck too, or…” “Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and shave the neck.”

Left with an adequate haircut, a shaggy goatee and mustache, and the memory of a savagely assaulted beard, I promptly stood up, paid the barber, gave her a two dollar tip (standard for haircuts of less than $20) and thanked her for her work. Looking back, I have determined I must have been in clinical shock, something along the lines of what other victims of violence experience.

I drove home in silence.

At home I was met by my wife sitting next to our sleeping daughter. She cocked her head slightly, noticing something was amiss, but unable to immediately identify what it was. I looked at her with mournful eyes and mouthed the words “Worst. Haircut. Ever.” She finally noticed what was amiss, and smiled sheepishly as I headed for the shower.

AFTERWORD:

Seeing as I had an interview the next day (the whole reason for getting the haircut) I trimmed the remnants of my beard into a nice mustache and goatee combo. The following day, after the interview, we headed over to the in-laws house for dinner. Upon opening the door I was met with a mirror image of my father-in-law wearing a nicely trimmed mustache and goatee combo. This wasn’t going to work. After arriving back home that night I immediately shaved my face clean to start over.

“And hear the sounds of Bert… I mean silence.”

Good day my committed readership of three, or one, or zero. Sorry for the lapse in writing. I had to take some time out to work on writing that I actually get paid for. That was followed by a wonderful stretch of vacation and holidays. But now I am back for the Christmas season, and hopefully posting more regularly.

I once heard on average men speak 15,000 words in a day and women speak 30,000. If you know me, that number seems a little high. 15,000 words, in a week perhaps. In any given room, in any given situation, there is a 99% chance that I am the quietest person in the room. No, I don’t have the weakest voice, I just say the least.

This is always the way it has been. I don’t know why. I’ve never had much of a problem with this. Yes, being questioned from kindergarten on as to “why don’t you talk more” does get old, but it beats the alternative of actually talking. I also frequently get the “are you alright,” “are you upset about something,” and my favorite, “are we boring you?”

After reading my blog one of Gert’s friends commented to her, “who knew your husband was so articulate. If we would have known that maybe we would have let him get a word in when we went out.” Great! I thought. And then I thought some more. Who knew I was so articulate? What had everyone thought of me up until that point? “Hi my name is Gert, I’m a snappy, smart, and stylish public relations consultant. This is my dim, slow, half-witted husband Bert. I took him on as a charity case. After spending five-minutes with him I just took pity on him. Why he can hardly take care of himself.”

While the last portion of that statement may have some validity, I’d like to think the rest of it is not representative of me. I had always been an adherent to the old saying “better to keep your mouth closed and let them think you a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” Well, I guess that one back-fired on me. I’d been keeping my mouth shut and everyone HAD been thinking I was a fool, or slow, or perhaps had been dropped on my head as a child.

In addition, I am not a slight man. So I fear that due to my not insubstantial size, everyone was going directly to images of Lenny in Of Mice and Men. “Tell them about the rabbits Gert, tell them about the rabbits.”

While I cannot say that I never have lapses in common sense, I’d like to think that my intelligence hovers a decent bit above Lurch. So if you’ve only had the pleasure of “socializing” with me when I provide dull one-word answers, please don’t hold it against Gert. There was a time I was charming and witty, and perhaps I still can be. But proving so would require actually talking, so I will for now opt for the alternative of keeping my mouth and letting them think me a fool.

Fat Tuesday - South of the Border?

American cuisine is a fine array of bastardized ethnic foods altered to fit our particular tastes. And I like that very much. While some authentic ethnic food is good, there are very good reasons that I don’t see other authentic restaurants take off in the states.

Mexican food is one of those tricky in-between ethnic cuisines. Being one of the few places I have travelled, I greatly enjoyed most of the food there. However, I also have come to savor a lot of the Americanized versions of Mexican food. This always presents a dilemma for me when I want to cook some Mexican food. Do I stick with the standard Americanized fair or do I venture into the authentic. Due to my sister having lived in Mexico for a few years, I have been able to pick up a few tricks of authentic cooking. However, my mom also has a long history of great Americanized Mexican cooking. Ahh, the eternal struggle.

Today, Americanized Mexican is going to win out as I revert to one of my all-time favorite dishes, my mom’s and previously my grandma’s Enchiladas. Given some of the ingredients it is apparent that this is an Americanized dish. However, what is also interesting is that given the labor intensiveness of the dish it is also obvious that my grandma came across this recipe quite a while ago when labor intensive activities were not shunned and prepared tortillas were not readily available.

While you can substitute prepared tortillas in place of the homemade ones, the difference in taste is vast, so I encourage at least one effort in the homemade realm.

Enchiladas

-1 to 2 lbs. of hamburger. I have also used shredded chicken, but that can quickly dry out.

-1 can of Hormel chili (hot with no beans)

-1 small can of enchilada sauce (mild-hot depending on your tastes)

-1 Tablespoon chili powder

-Brown hamburger and drain grease. Add can of chili and can of sauce. Add chili powder. I also add a little cumin, garlic powder, and paprika. Simmer this for a while till it thickens a bit. (45 minutes)

-Cheese: 12-16 oz. Grate cheese (whatever kind you want. I've used colby or cheddar or the mexican cheese.) Put in bowl

-Dice 1 onion. Put in bowl.

-Tortillas

-1 cup of flour

-1/2 cup of cornmeal

-1/4 tsp. salt

-1, 1/2 cup water (cool)

-Beat until smooth. Sometimes I might add a bit more water if they don't spread out nice on the griddle. I always double or triple this recipe to make a few pans.

-Fry these on a griddle or fry pan. I use teflon or cast iron so I don't need as much oil but if you use another pan I'm not sure how much oil you need to fry them but I try not to use too much. It is not like an inch in the bottom or anything. I just pour a couple tablespoons of oil, let the pan get hot and then spoon a spoon of batter on and spread it out to a small tortilla size. Fry a bit and flip it over and fry a bit on the other side. They should not get brown at all but be dough colored and pliable. Continue to add oil if they stick. This can go really well or be a nightmare, and stick all over the place. Make sure the pan and oil are hot but not smoking of course. It might take a little practice. As they are done someone can be filling them or you can put them in a pan and keep slightly warm.

-When ready put some meat in tortilla, some onion, some cheese and roll them up. Line them up in the pan. At the end I spread any remaining hamburger mix and cheese and onions on the top.

-The great thing about enchiladas is at this point you can either pop them in the oven of 20 to 30 minutes on 350 ( just until they bubble on the sides a bit.), or else you can just put them in the refrigerator covered and then bring them out and bake them when you are ready to cook them. They may need to bake a bit longer but 30 to 40 minutes is probably good.

Of Style and Function

Want to read my wife's side of the story? www.montanagert.blogspot.com

My senior year in high school I was voted best dressed. Fact checker, can we confirm that? Yes, that is correct, I, Adidas shirt, 7-days a week in jeans, stay-at-home-dad was the best-dressed man in his class. I was a dapper dandy if ever there was one. Pressed khakis, button downs under sweaters, and an array of spiffy shoes that could at one time have rivaled my wife.

But alas, life took its toll. It started at college, where my stream of disposable income slowed to a trickle. A girlfriend helped slow that trickle to a few drops. By college graduation my style was dated – a good five years behind the trend. But wait, a post-college job would surely save my waning wardrobe. No such luck. Dreams of law school turned to reality, and the little money I had left was going for books and gas [read beer]. By the end of first semester of law school I had become a full-fledged style utilitarian.

Does this shirt go with these shoes? Who cares – at least the shoes are comfortable so that if I need to sprint the eight blocks through St. Paul to get to my class my feet won’t hurt the rest of the day. Are these pants in right now? Probably not, but they’re the only pair you haven’t worn three times without washing.

This trend continued into dating my wife, getting married, and having a child. How I was able to woo my wife with my utilitarian wardrobe escapes me. Perhaps it was my brilliant conversational skills. Or maybe not. But either way she did marry me and I am now a stalwart of the utilitarian style community. Shoes: they better be comfortable – and preferably slip on. Shirts need to not show pit sweat and be cheap enough to not care if they are lost to a baby dinner. Pants are the important element. They need to be dark to not show stains, wrinkle free so they won’t need pressing, and durable so they can be worn and washed, or not washed, many times over.

My utilitarian style reached a pinnacle a few months back. We were visiting my parents in Minnesota in the summer. Showing my utilitarian skill, I packed as few clothes as possible to make the airport shuffle a little easier. This, unfortunately did not include shorts. I thought, I won’t be working out, and really, I can survive anything in jeans.

During the weekend, the family had a party to celebrate a number of birthdays within the family. Being a nice day out, we were all outside in the front yard. My brother and I being who we are, only required a few minutes until we were shooting baskets in the driveway. Both approaching our 30’s, our will to prove our remaining youthful vigor soon turned shooting baskets into playing against each other.

Now my brother and I have a long history of basketball together. Though we were two grades apart and rarely played together organized, we frequently went head-to-head in streetball grudge matches. Yes, there was hard defense played. Yes, there was shoving and maybe even a few punches thrown. Yes, there was frustration, crying, yelling, and cheap shots. And yes, I may have knocked out my brother’s two front teeth. And no, there is no long running tally of the record between us, because the only game that matters is the next time we play.

Being sociable and all, we invited two unwitting youthful family members into our grudge match. The teams were picked, and it was game on. Except for one fact. My brother has been playing basketball in the mornings for several months now, so he definitely had the advantage. And he had shorts and sneakers to my jeans and one remaining pair of stylish Steve Madden street shoes. This won’t do, I couldn’t give up this big an advantage before the game even starts.

I flagged down my dad and asked him for a pair of shorts. My dad did have a pair, but my dad being from the 70’s era basketball, and a good 70 pounds lighter than me, the shorts were… well let me just say they were high and tight. Or better put, these were a well fitting pair of unintentional bike shorts. Style, cool, my wife’s dignity be damned. It’s time to play basketball.

I took my time stretching out near my wife. Maybe this was how I wooed her. My hamstrings were particularly tight, so the toe touches were a must. Finally, it was game on. And what a game it was. Never in the history of basketball or dad’s has a chubby, out-of-shape dad moved so swiftly on the court. It was like I was unhindered by any clothes on the bottom half. The only wind drag was the hair on my legs. I huffed and puffed my way through three games before we all [read I] decided it was time to call it an afternoon.

I’d tell you who won, but as I said, the only game that matters is the next one. But be warned all who would challenge me. There is no length I will not go to in order to hang on to any remaining shred of my formerly great athletic ability. I may look silly, I may embarrass my wife, but if it comes down to style versus function there is no doubt what’s going to win with me.

Make Way For Babies

I have not spent much time around “baby culture”. Yes, apparently there is an entire “baby culture” of clothes, books, pictures, blogs, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc. Despite being an uncle several times over, I managed to maintain a safe distance from this culture and from babies in general. Indeed, I didn’t change my first diaper until my daughter came along.

So my normal life consisted of very few interactions with new parents. While I generally found them annoying, I gave little thought to the matter because my run-ins were rare. However, my new status as father has unceremoniously thrust me into the bowels of my own personal shopping hell.

This past Sunday my wife and I headed off to Babies R Us to pick up a few things for our daughter. She stayed with grandma to expedite the journey. Upon entering the store I was disarmed by what appeared to be a scene out of Mad Max gone parenthood. Heavily equipped parents roaming the store with their assault carts and a glare of warning on every face. As I rolled my cart around the store looking for the correct aisle I could discern in each parent a distinct heir of superiority normally reserved for movie stars and dictators.

I found our first aisle of interest, the carseats. However, I spotted trouble. Another couple had laid claim to the whole aisle. Apparently they had called ahead to have the store shut down while they shopped for their prodigy, but the store had declined to concede. So instead they co-opted the entire aisle. Now, this was a wide aisle that had two separate aisles in which two carts could pass in either aisle. In one aisle they had left their cart – sideways. Several feet down in the other aisle they were standing examining carseats, staggered so that no one could pass in that aisle. I wish I were making this up.

Impatient and angry, I headed over to the diaper section. If I can’t get down an aisle, at least I can head over to the open wall of diapers and mark one item off my list. My frequent trips to the grocery store for diapers has provided a familiarity with diaper statistics that would rival Ken Jennings’ knowledge of just about everything else. However, when I reach the wall I am faced with the Indian Defence. No, not the chess strategy, a family of Indians spread four wide across the diaper wall, shoulder to shoulder so no one can get through. Are you kidding me? What do you even need diapers for, your general attitude of superiority assures me that your baby doesn’t poop!

Oh well, my eagle eye spotted the prices anyhow, and I noted they were a good $10 higher than the grocery store. Back to the carseats. Upon my return I am pleased to find my wife has wiggled her way down one of the carseat aisles. Yes, they are still taking up both aisles. The husband in one aisle and the wife with cart and baby in the other. But my wife is at least within swinging distance of the other woman. I stand at the end of the aisle my arms crossed as I start to review in my mind the recent cases I have read on the temporary insanity defense.

My wife is pretending to look at carseats while eavesdropping as the store clerk gives the other woman the rundown on the safest carseats. From the glare in the other woman’s eyes it is evident that she believes her child is the only one entitled to the safety information on carseats. After the store clerk finishes her rundown, my wife and I quickly process the results of her fine espionage work and settle on the safest carseat. We move quickly to grab a box, not because there are limited numbers, but because I have a sneaking suspicion that the other couple may try to box us in and kill us for identifying what the safest seat was. No way any other baby should be as safe as theirs.

After putting some distance between us and them we are able to slow down a little. A quick review of the store prices reveals the other parents must believe that higher prices translate to superior quality despite the same name brand. We finally settle on a few necessary items and prepare for our escape. Again I am having flashbacks to Mad Max preparing to make a run for it from the marauders. I just hope I don’t end up in Thunderdome.

As I make a break for the checkout line a band of renegade parents instantly takes off after me. Miraculously I make it to a line where the only couple is currently checking out. Phew. However, as we stand there the scanning goes on and on, hundreds of items being stockpiled apparently. Is your child going to be leading the world in a post-apocalyptic future where they will need ten boxes of wipes? Finally, they reach the end. But now starts the coupons. Coupon after coupon after coupon. She must have had a coupon for every single item she purchased. Now a total - $438. Wow.

We get ready to move forward now, except the woman starts reviewing the charges. Apparently she believes she is entitled to an additional $2 off. $2 – out of $438!!!!!! We wait another five minutes before the store manager realizes the natives are restless as 8 couples have lined up behind me. A new register opens and we are finally able to checkout.

As we roll out I feel lucky to have my life. Good thing we’re not crazy. Yes, my daughter is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And yes, there are early indications that she may be the next Marie Currie. But we’re not that bad… are we? Well at least we’re not at the checkout still arguing about $2.

FYI: Courts have in the past recognized a temporary insanity defense of “irresistible impulse,” ie: the perpetrator knows right from wrong but is nonetheless unable to stop himself from committing an act he knows to be wrong. That sounds about right.