Stanimal's World

In the blink of an eye....

2011-08-21T21:58:00.000-05:00

The sun starts to set earlier getting into the later part of August. I noticed that tonight as I went for an evening walk through the neighborhood. The temps are cooler. The air is drier. And every time this part of the summer comes by I start to think that I need to pack up my things and head back up to UND.

I caught myself thinking about that tonight as I remembered that it was 25 years ago this very evening that I was preparing myself for that trip up to Grand Forks for my freshman year. Can it be 25 years already I thought to myself. It only makes sense that we celebrated our 25th High School Reunion just a few short weeks ago. 25 years....in the blink of an eye.

I remember that last evening in Andover, hanging out with my friends. We were going to set the world on fire. Each of us were going to conquer our own little chunk and laugh mightily in the faces of those who thought we wouldn't succeed. Who am I kidding, we didn't have a clue what was going to happen. All we really knew that night was that it wasn't going to be the same anymore. It didn't matter how much time we would spend over Christmas, Spring, or Summer breaks....it was never going to be the same.

We spent some time at our neighbors across the street, and then we took a slow stroll to my house. I'd taken that walk many a time in my childhood, but the dew seemed heavier, the crickets louder, and the trail a little darker. We stood in my driveway a little while, making small talk, telling each other that we'd write, we'd call, dammit, it's only a couple of hours away so we'd all be there for each other no matter what. But then it was time to say goodbye. We hugged and shook hands, and as I think back now I guess maybe I cried a little bit.

As I watched my friends walk back across the street to my neighbors I suddenly felt alone, and that I wouldn't have that security around me anymore, and I didn't like that feeling one bit. But in the same respect I knew that I needed to start growing up, to take responsibility, to move with purpose. After all, I was a 17 year old kid moving 300 miles away to learn how to fly airplanes. And grow up I did. It wasn't always pretty, but it was was with purpose.

Part of my walk takes me around a holding pond. In the pond are some waterfowl that I can see making ripples in the calm water. I can feel the heavy dew in the air. I can hear the crickets loudly chirping. But my path is not that dark. I move with purpose, with responsibility. I may not fly airplanes anymore but I know a hell of a lot about them. I'm in touch with most of that group of friends. In our own ways we've taken a chunk out of life, and brought a new generation into this world. In a few years our kids will be embark on their own journeys....in the blink of an eye.

So there I was....an hour out of Subang

2011-04-15T03:11:00.000-05:00

It sounds like the start of a bad Vietnam-era movie, and the only thing I'm missing (besides a Chuck Norris cameo), is a bad '80's soundtrack.

You guessed it - another journey to bring home an airplane. It's my first trip to Malaysia and hopefully not my last. The people are warm, the work is busy, but the brief down time is good for the soul. This morning my co-worker and I ate breakfast outside in the pacific humidity and listened to the birds. Little things like that make it cool.

Lobby Area of our hotel

It was a long journey here. MSP to LAX, a 7 hour layover, and then 14 hours from LAX to TPE in the back of a 747. From there it was 4 hours from TPE to KUL and a hot shower. There God for hot showers. Besides death and taxes there is another certainty in life, and that everyone looks like shit after a 24+ hour travel day.

It's been a few days. We've gotten into a routine and so far so good. It's another few days before we take this circus back on the road to Singapore and across the deep blue sea for home. Until then wish me luck.

Truths for Mature Humans

2010-08-20T10:35:00.000-05:00

I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

There is great need for a sarcasm font.

How the heck are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

Was learning cursive really necessary?

MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

Bad decisions make good stories.

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.

Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.

I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page technical report that I swear I did not make any changes to.

"Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this -- ever.

I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Da** it!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voice mail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lite than Kay.

I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.

Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the heck was going on when I first saw it.

I would rather try to carry 10 over-loaded plastic bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm trying to finish a text.

I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!

Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

Sometimes I'll look down at my watch three consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey -- but I'd bet anything that everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time!

Rogerio

2010-08-11T11:19:00.003-05:00

It doesn’t matter how you rationalize it because no matter what you think or say, it’s going to be your fault. Day-shift crew bailed to another airplane? Too Bad. Can’t get a part? Too Bad. The guy who was supposed to troubleshoot the fuel quantity problem went on vacation? Too bad.

So you sit outside at the taxi stand listening to people talk Portuguese around you. The June, Brazilian, fall rain is cold and you see your breath rise. Looking down to the cobblestones and you see a group of ants bringing food into the nest and you chide yourself for calling them the most motivated workers at the facility. The 12 hour day is a blur and then you remember how hungry that you are. Then the thoughts of self-doubt run back into your head…. Did I forget anything? Did I do everything I could do to move the airplane on time? No matter what you do, it’s going to be wrong. The cold rain falls and the seconds on the watch face drag.

Then from down the cobblestones comes a familiar sight. It’s Rogerio. In a bright orange Fiat taxi (number 2124) he comes up to the curb, greets you with a handshake and a smile and away you go back to your hotel. Rogerio came recommended to us by a staff member of the facility because of his knowledge of the English language.

As a US citizen you’re spoiled. I mean really. It doesn’t matter where you go, you expect the people you meet to be fluent in the English language. It’s arrogant, it’s self-centered, and as a citizen of the good old U S of flippin A, by God you expect it. Oh no my friend. Direct you to a toilet? Sure. Get you a beer? Maybe. Get you proper directions to a hotel? Good luck with that. Sure, Portuguese and Spanish may sound similar but they are further apart then you think. And as someone who failed College Spanish I knew that I was going to be deep into it when push came to shove.

So back to the other side of the equator you go. It’s Minneapolis to Atlanta to Rio to Florinopolis and finally to Porto Alegre. You claim your bags and walk into the cool Brazilian air to find your contemporaries with the leasing company. Friends yes but still adversaries. They have their best interests in mind and you have your own. And standing there with a big smile and a handshake is Rogerio. You make your introductions and soon it’s off like a rocket through the crowded streets of Porto Alegre, Rogerio setting you at ease with his humor and easy way. His English is accented and at times difficult to understand, and yet, his laugh sets you at ease like you’ve known him all of your life.

On our first trip down to Porto Alegre we thought it would be self-sufficient and rent our own vehicle. Five minutes into the process we realized that we were in way over our heads. A fifteen-minute trip to our hotel wound up to be a two-hour journey in the hills and the rain. One night going to dinner we wound up following the wrong car for a few minutes and wound up on the opposite side of town. Thank God our cell phone batteries held up as we tried to remain in constant communications with our leasing company contacts. We ate and drank well that night. Lesson learned, next time hire a driver.

Rogerio took care of us. If we were working late and he was going to be off shift, he’d make a phone call and have one of his trusted friends come over and pick us up at the facility or hotel. He was always there with a smile, with a good attitude, and best of all, a clean safe ride. On our rides back and forth to work he would give us some local favor, share dirty jokes, and put us at ease. We always felt better when we got out of the car than when we got in.

For two weeks he was there, and the three of us appreciated his kindness and hospitality. When we shook hands to say goodbye at the end of our project it was bittersweet, as we know that we were saying goodbye to a good friend. The chances of us going back to Porto Alegre are slim, but if we do I know who to call for a smile and a ride. If you ever plan on going to Porto Alegre and need a taxi please let me know.

New Adventure

2010-04-22T20:19:00.004-05:00

It was about an 18 hour journey from home to Porto Alegre. The flights were fine, the travel company is great, and the mission is quite.....challenging. This airplane needs some help. It's supposed to be in service by June 1 but buy looking at it, I don't know if it'll make July 1. But that's just work.

I've never been south of the equator before - and yes the drains go the other way. In a way it reminds me of the Phillipines when I visted 30 odd years ago. The unrelenting traffic, the cloud of diesel smoke, and the humidity that sticks to your soul. The people I've met so far are friendly, and it's really too bad that I don't understand the language. I think I'll be learning more about myself this week.

Stay tuned.

Missing AMS

2009-11-24T11:43:00.003-06:00

The weather outside here at MSP is very Dutch-like today. It's cool and misty with more than a little late fall in the air. It feels like Amsterdam.

I won't be going this year and I'm both relieved and disappointed. We're taking 2 airplanes this year and the way the schedule works the person going over would have to be over there for 9 days. With other work committments and hockey committments I find it difficult to justify pulling myself away from home for that long.

I'll miss the morning dutch coffee and the evening Heineken's. I won't miss the ever present battles between our two companies. I guess it's a wash. It'll be strange since this will be the first time since 2002 that I haven't been there.

Damn.

Old School

2009-07-23T18:10:00.002-05:00

In the slow times of summer the kids tend to get restless. When I get home from work my first order of business is to start cooking supper. The trick is to get the boys interested in something that doesn't involve Disney Channel and/or SpongeBob.

As they as sitting quietly downstairs I open up the entertainment center and drag out 3 cases of old tapes. Yes tapes - no CD's. No iPod. Tapes.

So for the last hour or so they've been downstairs listening to Master of Puppets, Van Halen I, etc. My oldest even asked if I had any Hendrix.

Almost brings a tear to my eye.

R.I.P John B.

2009-07-20T23:11:00.002-05:00

We say goodbye to a friend tomorrow.

Our co-worker and close friend John died last Thursday evening of an apparent heart attack. He was 51 years old and leaves behind a son who has just graduated high school. He's supposed to be attending school here this fall but all bets are off on that.

We're a small group at work. When one of us goes on vacation it's a little different in the office. He was always there for you. Outside of the Stores office they had printed the word "Sanctuary" on some label material and placed it on the door. It meant that if you needed to vent about anything you could go in there, sip some coffee and vent. I know I did a few times.

We'll miss John. I miss him now. Peace John.

So what's new....

2009-04-01T21:13:00.003-05:00

The last time I wrote I was whining about wanting to leave England. A lot has happened between now and then.

Stanley's hockey season came to a premature end (broken right radius and all). While as a team we weren't as sucessful on the scoreboard as we'd hoped I think they all had fun. The kid wound up with 7 goals, 7 assists and 16 penalty minutes. The goon.

I'm already missing the rink.

I haven't been busier at work. We brought the second airplane home and as soon as I finished bridging that one I was neeck deep in the -800 that flew in from Belgrade (holy cow but does that aircraft literally STINK). I can see the light at the end of that tunnel now. All things considered I'm glad I'm still employed.

That's all for now.

Hurry up and wait

2009-02-27T11:17:00.002-06:00

I'm sick of this office. I'm sick of waiting for the feds. I just want to go home. Right now I'm sitting at an office at London Stansted airport waiting to bring an airplane home. All we're waiting for are a couple of articles of official paperwork and we can start jetting westbound. If it doesn't happen today then it's time to give it a go tomorrow morning bright and early. My problem with it is why it's taken so long for some of this crap to go through.

I know, I get it, I'm a quality guy and these things take time but WTF!!!!

Sorry, I'm getting whiny again.

The flight over and the stay here at Stansted has been fine. The people I'm working with are fine as well. It just seems that these things get pushed on so damn fast that things get missed. Oh what the hell.

Plus I want to get home and see the 10 year old...he broke his right wrist at practice this week so I'm obviously bummed about that. Poor kid.

/rant......

Your Last....

2009-01-12T21:35:00.006-06:00

I'm an Anthony Bourdain fan. While I was eating lunch at my desk today I came across this clip:

At about the 7:30 mark he asks the question to those dining with him: what would your last meal be? So I thought about it.

The meals would be mad in my parents kitchen. Food from my youth. No Pizza, no fast food. Whole Filipino foods. Pancit. Chicken and Pork Adobo. White rice. Lumpia.

Maybe a slice of Prime Rib as dessert.

Election Day

2008-11-04T22:36:00.003-06:00

Looks like we have a new President. Congrats to Mr. Obama.

What I think is funny is all of these TV talking heads pissing all over themselves about how great this is.

We'll see.

Meanwhile I'll be wathing my wallet. I encourage you all to do the same.

First Solo

2008-09-25T22:16:00.013-05:00

The morning started out cool and overcast, and part of me was relieved. I was scheduled to fly my first solo later in the day and while I was excited I was a little bit scared. I know, aviators are supposed to be fearless; Charles Lindbergh flying across the Atlantic, Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier. I felt more like Charlie Brown waiting to kick the football Lucy was holding. I was 13 days into my 18th birthday and I was psyching myself up for my first ever solo flight.

At a very young age I had taken to airplanes and flight. I loved the hustle and bustle of airports, the smell of jet fuel, and the roar and crackle of engines at take-off power. When I was 10 years old on a flight back from Manila we had a long layover in Tokyo. Airport security in the late 70’s wasn’t anything like it is today so my dad and I took the opportunity to tour a couple of the 747’s sitting on the gates. So with camera bag in hand we boarded several wide-bodies, aircraft cleaning crews watching us curiously as we walked through the aisles and galleys, and eventually winding our way up the circular staircases to the cockpits. To this day I’m amazed that nobody asked us a single question. In the cockpit of one 747 I sat in the first officers seat, looking at the instruments, listening to the terse, static-filled conversations over the radios. I put my hands on the yoke and dreamed 10 year old dreams of someday flying one of these magnificent machines.

So a decision that I’d made as a 10 year old on the tarmac in Tokyo was being turned into reality in the plains of North Dakota. It was the fall of 1986; Top Gun was the summers hit movie, and Sammy had taken over for Dave in Van Halen. Myself and a few hundred other souls were freshmen pilot wanna-be’s at the Center for Aerospace Sciences at the University of North Dakota. Until I’d set foot on campus the smallest aircraft I’d even been in was a DC-9. My flight plan to destiny would start in the mighty Cessna 152. The 108 horsepower was developed by a 4 cylinder Lycoming power plant, pulled through the air by a twin bladed prop. Fast? No. High performance? Not hardly. A joy to fly? Of course.

As the day wore on, the cool undercast gave way to bright sunshine, and the relentless North Dakota winds settled into a slight northernly breeze. My palms wouldn't stop sweating as I stepped off of the shuttle bus to meet with my instructor at the field. After our preflight briefing it was time to take her around the patch a few times with him sitting in the right seat. My preflight of the aircraft was a bit more thourough than normal. My steed for the day was Sioux 36.

My instructor and I climbed in, and started through the interior preflight procedures, I spent extra time making sure things were correct while he sat stoically in the right seat. "CLEAR!" I yelled out the window moments before I engaged the starter to get the prop turning. Ground control cleared us to taxi to runway 35 right and without much delay we entered took off and entered the takeoff pattern with a few more UND aircraft.

I concentrated on flying the aircraft, and not letting it fly me. Keeping ahead of it, hitting my marks. My radio calls were crisp and clear, my turns and altitudes the best I could manage. My hands were sweating like crazy the entire time.

After 4 touch-and-goes my instructor gets on the radio and informs the tower that our final landing will be a full stop. After we land and taxi off the runway back to the UND ramp he instructs me to kill the engine. As the engine noise dies down, all that's left is the static from the radio to pierce the uneasy silence. He's thinking about it.

"So you ready to do this or what?" he asks.
"I think so," comes my response. He unbuckles his lapbelt, opens the door and hops out. "Good luck. Have fun," he says as he punches me on the shoulder and walks back towards operations.

Suddenly things get serious.

Suddenly the checklist means something. I see details in the instrument panel that I hadn't noticed before. It's all me baby. I had never felt so alive in my life. I go through my checklist, obtain the current ATIS, set my altimeter, reset the directional gyro and call ground control lettting them know my intentions. They direct me back to runway 35 right. At the end of the runway I accomplish my "run-up", set my brakes, push the throttle to 1700 RPM's (take-off is between 2500-2700 RPM's), check my engine instruments and megnetos. Then it's time to go.

"Grand Forks Tower, Sioux thirty six holding short runway three five right for touch and goes."
"Sioux thirty six taxi into position and hold."
"Sioux thirty six," I reply and obey the commands. My heard beats loudly in my headsets as I stare down the runway, on task, as focused as I've ever been.
"Sioux thirty six cleared for takeoff."
I respond and push in the throttle.

Time slows at moments like that. The engine responds and I'm gaining speed down the runway. At 40 knots I pull gently back on the yoke. I feel the nose rise slightly and before I know it I'm airborne. I hold a climb angle of 67 knots until I reach 800 feet above ground level/1600 feet MSL. Just as I've been taught I lower the nose, look for traffic and start my turn for my downwind leg. Then, and only then do I realize/grasp that I'm alone. At 100 knots, 800 feet above the North Dakota prairie, I reach my right hand over and touch the empty seat next to me.

Holy shit - I'm actually flying solo.

But I don't have a whole lot of time to exhault in my reverie. I've got work to do. On my downwind I set up the airplane. Mixture rich, carb heat on, throttle back to 1500 rpm. At my 45 degree mark on downwind I add 10 degrees of flaps, throttle back further to idle and pitch the nose for 80 knots. I start to make my turn for my base leg. On my turn to base I look to my right to catch the field, dropping 10 more degrees of flaps and pitching for 70 knots. And then I take my turn for my final approach.

I make my turn to final, I drop my last 10 degrees of flaps, make my radio call to the tower and get the "cleared for touch-and-go" response. The throttle is back, the static of the radio, my beating heart, and shallow breaths fill my ears. I wipe my hands on my jeans. My airspeed is down to 60 knots, 50 knots; I'm reaching the end of the runway. 30 feet over the theshold I cross the numbers, a burble of turbulance as I descend. Not a sound. Look down the runway, keep the nose up.Wait for the stall warning horn; there it is. Back on the yoke, more elevator. The ground is coming up to meet you. Closer. Closer. There it is.

The wheels kiss the ground with a little burp, and the nose wheel comes down and starts to shimmy. Flaps up, carb heat in , and give her hell 'til you are airborne again. I let out a war woop over my headphones and did it all again, pride coursing through my veins. Two more landings followed (the 3rd one wasn't very pretty), and it was back to the ramp.

As I shutdown the aircraft my instructor came walking out to the airplane with a huge grin on his face. "You did it man," he said to me, "you did it!" We debriefed in his office and for the first time in my life I wrote in my logbook that I had solo'ed.

What an incredible feeling. Plus my hands had stopped sweating.

Rites of Passage

2008-09-20T13:44:00.002-05:00

The other day I received an e-mail from one of my best friends from High School. His father had passed away and he was letting us know. He was only 67 years old. Much too young.

Brenda and Grant were off to Iowa to visit the Grandparents and help out with the Barn Tour. (Brenda's parents had their barn renovated/updated courtesy of the Iowa Barn Foundation 3 years ago). Anyhow, Stanley and I were going to be hanging out here because he's got hockey over the weekend and I was hesitant in bringing him. We'd talked about it and while he was a bit nervous, I felt that it was important to him to start understanding more about the circle of life.

The ride up was quiet, he didn't have much to say. When we entered the church I saw my friend Steve, and his wife Ana. We chatted for a while, and spent a few ,minutes with Steve measuring his emotions. He was strong as a rock - solid in his belief that his dad was in a better place. When the day comes for me to bury my parents (much later than sooner of course) I hope that I have the strength that he showed.

After we disengaged ourselves, Stanley and I took a seat near the back of the church. I asked him if he wanted to go to view the body with me, and I was mildly surprised when he said yes. We went forward and stood quietly for a couple of minutes as others paid their respects besides us. And without too much conversation we turned and walked away as well.

I don't remember how old I was when I had attended my first wake/funeral. I remember being really apprehensive about it though. I didn't take it as well as Stanley did. On the way home I asked him if had felt scared or sad. "Different" was the word that he used. I haven't pressed him about it. I'll try to draw it out of him another time.

On a completely different subject he's going to experience another Rite of Passage.

Tonight we rent "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

Something tells me that he'll use the word "different" again.

40

2008-09-12T20:44:00.003-05:00

I turn 40 in a few hours. A couple of years ago the number never really meant anthing to me, it was just a number. Then I realized that my father was 40 when I was born.

I don't know how he and my mom did it, taking on another child when the first 2 were already 13 and 11 years older then me. In some ways I look to my brother and sister as aunt and uncle; there were a few years in Andover when I felt like an only child. But I digress.

So now what does 40 mean to me? What about me has changed? I'm not sure I'm prepared to answer those questions yet.

Ask me tomorrow.

Waving Goodbye

2008-08-15T07:54:00.004-05:00

In May of 1975 we moved from our house in Northeast Minneapolis to my parents current home in Andover. It was near the end of the school year and as I was anxious about it as any 6-year-old would be. I was excited about being in a brand new house with tons of space of run in. Also I knew the family across the street so I'd have some kids there that I'd know. I remember jumping in the car as we pulled away from the curb and looking back at the old house and waving goodbye to some of my neighbors.

Grant's best buddy Dylan does that today. And truth be told it really sucks.

Grant and Dylan really started to pal around this past winter. Dylan is the quiet one, while Grant is the siren. They compliment each others personalities perfectly. When Grant and Stanley are together they pick at each other and fight like brothers do. Of course the now-10-year-old doesn't want his kid brother bugging him all the time so more often then not there are arguments in the house. No big deal.

When Dylan comes over it's like a switch gets turned. Grant goes from growls to giggles and those 2 can play for hours on end, whether it's playing Batman, playing farm, or swimming in our little kiddie pool. It has been amazing watching them grow and play over the course of the last few months.

But today it's going to end. Dylan moves today. It's only a couple of hours away but Grant won't be able to look out the window and call his buddy over to spend time in the sandbox anymore.

Most all of the other kids in the neighborhood are either older kids who pal around with Stanley, or too young for him to want to play with. And to be honest, playing with mom and dad isn't what it's cracked up to be at times.

This next few days/weeks are going to be interesting for all of us. We've asked Stanley to be a little more understanding and supportive of his little brother. But we know that will have it's limits as well. Time will tell.

I remember what it was like pulling away from the curb and waving goodbye. I don't really remember the faces or the names. I just hope Dylan doesn't forget about Grant.

The Bridge

2008-07-31T23:55:00.002-05:00

For whatever reason, the afternoon of August 1st, 2007 was maddening. I don't remember if the kids were being unruly, or if I had had a trying day at the office. I just remember being frustrated.

Then my mom called.

"Turn on the news!" were the first words out of her mouth.
"Why?" I answered back.
"Just turn it on." And so I did.

And so I stood in front of the television, dumbfounded at what I was watching. The whole bridge is in the water? All those cars? All those people?

Oh my God.

My oldest son was standing next to me watching the TV coverage and I slowly realized something....

Both he and my parents had been on that bridge that very morning. Oh my God again.

I won't pretend to know what it was like to experience what so many people experienced on that day. I hope that I never have to face a destiny like that, but who knows. 13 people lost their lives that day, many more injured physically, mentally, and spiritually.

In my selfish world I wonder what could have been.

This is what $10/gallon of gas looks like

2008-07-14T12:21:00.002-05:00

I'm no tree hugger. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. But if you think $4/gallon sucks here is what $10/gallon looks like. Think about what you drive and how you drive. Just sayin.

Amsterdam Epilogue

2008-07-03T23:26:00.002-05:00

I've been back for a few days now. My last couple of days were hectic but it was nice jumping on that bird back across the pond. The funny thing is that this was the first time that I had flown westbound over the Atlantic on a full airplane. Usually there are only a couple of us onboard.

When I arrived back in MSP I felt as if I had been gone for half a lifetime. For one the temperature was close to 90 degrees and I was driving a car that didn't have a clutch pedal. And I noticed how big American vehicles really are.

By the way, my family was really glad to see me.

So what have I learned from this experience? I've learned that time alone isn't a bad thing. I also know that people miss me when I'm gone. Selfish I know but that's something important to me. So what else?.....

Children grow up faster when you are gone. At least there hair does.

I appreciate home, but I also appreciate the rest of the world.

So would I do it again? In a heartbeat. I look forward to the opportunity.

Amsterdam Day 14 - Observations Part Deux

2008-06-23T15:19:00.003-05:00

· The Dutch work at there own speed. Get used to it. Even the fast-food isn’t fast.
· If you are not used to roundabouts practice at home.
· Don’t be freaked out when you look at a ship on a canal and realize that he’s higher in sea level than you are.
· There is a lot of graffiti.
· Toilets in restaurants may be smaller than your linen closet.
· Bring your own bags to grocery stores.
· You are going to walk a lot. Bring good shoes.
· You have to ask for your check at a restaurant. They won’t bring it to you unless you ask.
· Look both ways. Twice.
· If you don’t like the smell of smoke don’t bother showing up.
· For as neat and tidy the Dutch are there is a lot of trash and pollution in the canals and ditches.
· Appreciate the fact that there is no Bud Light or Miller Lite on tap. Anywhere.
· Stroopwaffles deserve to have their own food group.
· Go ahead and laugh at a Smart Car, then look at the price at the pump.
· Americans typically stick out like sore thumbs – they dress bad, whine a lot, and generally they are the most overweight. The British run a close second.
· Take note of cultural differences, and don’t assume that yours are the best. There are rhymes and reasons for things and a couple minutes of observation will speak volumes and quite possibly change your opinions.
· Did I mention that Heineken is good? I probably did.

Amsterdam Day 12 - The Color Orange

2008-06-21T13:09:00.004-05:00

I don't like soccer. I don't get it. Hell, even as a kid I played it. I just don't get it is all.

That's completely different here in the Netherlands. People are crazy about it. Good for them. I wish that we the same passion for a national sport in the states.

The color orange is everywhere, apartment awnings, those annoying little window flags that people stick to their cars with suction cups. Hell, I even saw 4 leggy Russian women in downtown tonight with Orange go-go boots. (The fact that the Netherlands plays Russia tonightmakes that even more curious).

It's a matter of pride here and I think that it's cool.

I still don't get the sport though.

Amsterdam Day 9 - Observations

2008-06-18T12:56:00.003-05:00

Bike helmets are for wimps. I've seen Dutch women with kids hanging off the front and back of their bikes, talking on cell phones through downtown Amsterdam. Cars and pedestrians on either side, not caring a bit.
The Dutch love soccer, hell, most of the world does. As an American hockey fan I believe that every soccer player who dives needs to be beaten and be forced to watch Robbie Earl highlights.
You can actually burn rubber up a hill in an Opel Corsa when so inclined.
There isn't pick-up-dog-poop law. Watch your step. Really.
Tourists are annoying. (and not just the American ones)
Walking on a path that follows a canal is probably some of the best therapy that one can enjoy.
Don't expect a menu in English - just go for it.
"Beer" is Heineken unless otherwise specified.

If I think of anything else I'll let you know.

Amsterdam day 6 - Fathers Day

2008-06-15T16:24:00.003-05:00

I missed my kids today. I missed my wife as well.

I went to a castle about 20km away and walkd around there. It was ok. there were a lot of families there with a lot of kids and while it was semi-humerous watching Dutch moms loose their collective cool, it was something I wish that I could've shared with my kids. Oh well, that's life i guess.

I don't know if I'm cut out for a life on the road. We'd have to see.

Amsterdam Day 4 - How in the hell do you drive here?

2008-06-13T13:01:00.004-05:00

Yikes!

I know, hike up the skirt and suck it up. Good for you.

I can't say that I enjoy driving here in Amstelveen. Obviously the cyclists and pedestrians have the right-of-way, but damnit - have some sort of sembelence of order when it comes to the sequence of stop lights. Especially to an ubernoob like myself who drives a manual transmission once every decade.

I just have to suck it up and get out there. I'll survive.

Anyhow, I'm out of the Dorint now, and at the Htel here in Amstelveen. It's kind of like an extended stay in the states (look it up on http://www.htel.nl/). It beats the hotel plus I get a kitchen. So I went to a little supermarket down the road and picked up some necessities (you know - Heineken) and other stuff, cooked myself a nice meal, and am just relaxing and unwinding.

Tonight would have been an interesting evening to be down in the city. The Netherlands plays tonight in the Euro 2008 soccer tournament and it seems like the whole contry is shut down. I was briefly entertaining the idea of going into the city to join the masses but I really don't want to be the stupid American walking around Dam Square in the event that they lose. I have this thing about international incidents and making the news. I'm funny that way.

Anyhow, you could tell at the market that people were in a rush to get home, hell, almost all of the Heineken was gone. The staff at the office was pretty thin as I think most everyone who has an interest in soccer/football found a reason to tap the keg early. (Of course this is from a guy who lives and breathes hockey at all levels and ages so I'll shut up).

Since everyone is either in a bar, downtown, or in front of their TV's I might take this opportunity to drive around and practice. God knows I need it.

Day 1: Chasing an Icelandic Sunrise

2008-06-12T14:17:00.000-05:00

From 5F in Saga class of a Icelandair 757 the North Atlantic looks pretty nice. Onboard it’s relatively quiet; it should be now that it’s 12:24am local MSP time. I’ve had my 2 hours of white wine aided sleep and as I look around it appears that I’m not the only one who has enjoyed the Icelandair hospitality.

Today started as most workdays do; up around 6ish, at work around 7:30ish, reviewing the weekend work for the fleet. Restlessness hit me earlier than normal, my desk cleaner than normal. Anxious. Pensive. Focused miles ahead. A mission to embark upon. C’mon let’s get this show started already.

I’ve been looking towards this trip for weeks now. Some reasons more obvious than others (as time moves forward I may or may not reveal more about that) I’ve been looking forward to this trip and as the days have flown and minutes dragged I’ve wanted to step forward into this journey.

I left work a little early, finalized my packing and after the bus dropped Stanley off we loaded up the car and headed to the airport. With tears in his eyes Stanley gave me his Father’s Day card. Grant gave me his with no tears as he wanted to use Dylan’s Slip-and-Slide more than he wanted to ride to the airport. Stanley and I sat on the living room steps and cried a little bit. So did Brenda.

So I got to the HHH Terminal 3 hours before departure as prescribed by Icelandair, checking in with the Sun Country staff. Behind me was a large group of high school kids, bandmates ready to head to Europe. I knew that I had to get in front of them. So I check my bags and take my seat assignment: 22E.

My internal seatmap tells me I’m in the middle seat back in steerage. Ah shit. I kindly ask if there is anything left on an aisle or window and the guy behind the counter lets me down easily saying that it’s a full flight. Hey, no biggie, I can deal with anything for 5 hours right?

So up the escalator I go, rearranging my carry-on before I head through security. I hear my named being called from behind me and there is the counter agent telling me that he thought that I was part of the band party. Oops, his mistake, his manager tells him to get me another seat and sure enough in his hand is another boarding pass for seat 7C. Emergency exit row on the aisle. Oh yeah. Things are looking up.

After a couple of beers and some wings at Fletchers I head over to the gate. The genral boarding/cattle call comes so with the others I shuffle down the jetway to the aircraft. When I get close to the entry door I notice that my particular seat is right at the main entrance aisle, and that people would have to turn around my knees if I took my seat. I tell the lead flight attendant that I’d stand to the side to make sure that the boarding process would go off without a hitch as we were already going to be running late. I also She see’s that I’m a non-rev and asks me if I want to sit in Saga Class…..well sure….why not! Let’s see – middle seat surrounded by a bunch of high schoolers? Or 1st class? Duh!!!!

Needless to say I enjoyed my time sitting in front. Wide seats. real silver. Actual glass. Something you don’t’ get too much of anymore. The only downer was the fact that when we landed in Iceland I had a head-cold.

Serves me right.

BTW, if you have the chance to fly Icelandair please do so! I’m not saying this because I got to sit in first class. (In fact I sat in the last row on the way to Amsterdam from Iceland). Fly them because the service is first rate and friendly.

Next entry: Stan learns how to drive a manual transmission in Amsterdam

17 days in Amsterdam

2008-06-07T23:02:00.004-05:00

Monday night I hop on an Icelandair 757 to Amsterdam for a work trip that will last for 17 days. My co-worker Mark has been there being the technical rep for 2 of our aircraft since the end of April so he needs to get back stateside to unwind and bleed some Dutch out of his system.

Needless to say I'm a little bit anxious about the deal. I haven't been away from my wife and kids for such a long period of time bit all things considered it's not too bad. It's not like I'm humping a rucksack up a hill in Afganistan or anything, but still, time away is time away.

I'm overpacked and waiting to take another step out of a comfort zone. On the flip side I'm going to drink my fill of opportunity and see where this path decides to take me. As I wrote in previous entry, this industry is suddenly in unchartered waters. When I last wrote a barrel of crude was going for $110/barrel.

When I left work yesterday it was somewhere in the neighborhood of $139/barrel.

In the middle of April we were just getting set to send the rest of the leased aircraft back home and send ours. That went fine. It was stressful but we got it done. Then from out of the blue they wanted us to bring on an ex-Aloha airlines -700 on line as soon as frickin' possible. We gangbanged that aircraft and had it on the certificate in a hair under 3 weeks.

On the first day of revenue service for that airplane I took a 10% pay cut.

Am I bitter? A little.
Am I defeated? Not even close.

So what does this all mean as I head to Amsterdam? I guess I'm not sure. I'll do the job and take the days and nights as they come. I may even stop and smell the tuplips.

If anyone has any hints of what to do in Amstelveen please let me know.

Tough Sledding

2008-04-14T12:04:00.002-05:00

Aloha
ATA
Skybus
Frontier
Champion (goes out of business May 31st)
Delta/Northwest merging
Southwest paying $10 Million in FAA fines (BTW I know one of the whistleblowers)
American and Delta with hundreds of cancelled flights
Oil at $110+/barrel

Did I miss anything? Who wants to work in aviation with me?

Do You Believe in Miracles?

2008-02-22T14:57:00.002-06:00

28 Years ago today......

Me?....A goalie dad?

2008-02-06T20:05:00.000-06:00

The other week we would up having a scrimmage with our advanced team and Stanley wound up being beween the pipes. He did a wonderful job and I'm extremely proud of him. We've been rotating the boys in and out of the equipment different weekends so he'll be up for it again soon.

Tonight I got a phone call from our level coordinator and the first words out of his mouth were "So I hear you got yourself a goalie there!" Needless to say I was a bit shocked but I guess that the head coach from the advanced team was pretty high on his performance. The kid loves playing goal, but he also loves skating out and scoring goals as well. He's told my his career path - Rosemount - Gophers - and then the Wild (he's also going to have the first 2-position contract in the NHL).

He's only a Mite so there is obviously a lot of time. It's not like I'm going to be putting him in goalie camps all summer long or anything, but I wonder if I'm up for sitting in the stands all by myself when the forthcoming seasons come by.

Any other goalie dads out there with some advice?

Going to Open Ice

2007-12-21T22:36:00.000-06:00

Our Rosemount Mites started the season in early November and I took the opportunity to become head coach of my son's team. I've never been a head coach for any sport before so it's a little different in having to develop practice plans, working with our Team Manager (i.e. God-send) and keeping all of the players and parents happy.

We haven't played any scrimmages as of yet and the kids are all nibbling at the bit to play someone else. It's a good group of kids, well motivated, and well mannered. Hell, I have yet to break up a major fight (but it's still early in the season). Along with chasing the kids on the ice I've also signed up to play in a men's league in Eagan and we play Thursday and Sundays nights (either/or) so that's been fun as well. We're the Rosemount Hockey Dad's which tells you of our vintage. In other words we may not be as fast anymore but we've got all that wily knowledge under the helmets.

This morning was particularly rough on me. My son's team practiced outdoors from 6 - 7pm, we came home and watched Marion Gaborik hang 5 goals on the NY Rangers, and then from 10:15 - 11:15pm I had my men's league game (which we won BTW). I managed to tweak my left arm and left knee but it wasn't anything that a cold beer couldn't help fix when I got home.

As you can tell, I love hockey. My wife jokes (well, half-jokes) that she's becoming a hockey widow. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm addicted to it, but I'd much rather do this than sit on my ass all night long in front of the TV watching bad network re-runs.

I know for a fact that I'm a better coach than I am a player. Hell, I think my son is a better player now than I ever was growing up. I'm glad that I can share that with him. I'll keep you updated on how each of our perspective seasons are going.

Before I go I want to comment on something: Kyle Okposo left the Gophers this week for the New York Islanders. Nice job bailing on your TEAM in the middle of the season. If he had wanted to leave before the year fine. If he wanted to leave after the season, fine. Right in the middle? Quitter.

Oh sure, he's getting a lot of $$$....it's not about that, it's about finishing something; about being a team player. I've told my son that if he sign's up to participate in something you better finish it to the best of your ability. Too bad Kyle, you were a hell of a Gopher. Now you're a hell of a goat.

BIG airplane

2007-11-27T12:46:00.000-06:00

Airbus decided to drop one of their new A380 aircraft into MSP today and a couple of co-workers and I decided to go over and take a look. It actually arrived last night and then took off this morning at about 10:00am to fly VIP's around. It landed here sometime around noon, so a couple of us went out to geek at it. Here are a couple of pics. (For a sales trip I was surprised how dirty parts of the exterior were).

Departing Prague

2007-11-19T08:13:00.000-06:00

It’s quiet now.

About 45 minutes out of Iceland, cruising westbound in a nearly empty Boeing 737-800 you discover some solace over the cold North Atlantic. I catch my breath.

It’s been a long week since I left home for Amsterdam and then onto Prague. A lot of time sitting on my ass waiting for people to do their jobs so that I can do mine. It’s one thing feeling helpless, but it’s another thing to feel helpless in a country formerly ruled by Communism. Now I know that the Berlin Wall fell way back in the day but some things are hard to shake. My time in Prague proved that to me.

Now we were suppose to be out of Prague 2 days ago, so in total it was about 4 days of sitting at the airport and hotel being frustrated. On our off time we stuck close to the hotel, staying close, visiting a couple of local watering holes. When the temperature is right around freezing, the wind is blowing and the snow is pelting one tends to stay close to warmth.

Because we were so delayed in leaving Prague our colleagues from the Netherlands took us out to dinner at a nice Italian restaurant in the old city. The underground in Prague is clean and efficient, and we were transported quickly to the old square where we were able to take in some of the sights of this historic city. In America we don’t have this sort of antiquity. Sure we may have Boston, Philadelphia and the other towns of our founders, but nothing like this. It’s hardly an apple to apples comparison when you are crossing a bridge built in the 1500’s and back home they talk about tearing down sports arenas less than 20 years old because they are “obsolete”.

But I digress.

So downstairs to the Italian restaurant we went; vibrant, busy, typical European. And it was wonderful. The food and wine were first rate, the company engaging and light hearted, and it helped take a little of the bad taste out of my mouth of the entire experience.

We arrived at the airport this morning apprehensive, but when they told us that CSA was doing pressurization checks on the aircraft I had a pretty good feeling that we’d be departing on schedule. I can’t say that leaving Prague was the saddest chapter in my life. Maybe I’ll come back again someday, who knows; that’s how strange this industry is.

So here we sit, 4 of us in back of an airplane configured to carry 174. The 2 pilots up front are hitting our waypoints as the CFM56-7B engines propel us westward against the fading sunset. Not many people get to do this, but then again, I don’t know too many people who’d really want to.

Soon I will be home again. Until the next time.

So why do we do this? Why do we bring ourselves miles and cultures away? Maybe working for an airline requires you to be wired differently. Maybe it’s a badge of honor to wear to tell others that you’ve persevered and done the duty. I think that in aviation you are always striving to prove that you can do things other people in other industries wouldn’t think of doing. I’m sure our fathers and their fathers were the same way. Explorers, adventurers, people who would do the job no matter how hard it was and how much sacrifice it takes. I see aviation like that. We’re not teachers, lawyers, captains of industry. We’re the ones who get the planes to the gate on time, invisible roadies making sure that the aircraft are safe for Jenny and Billy to take that first plane ride to see Mickey Mouse. Glamour in aviation went out the window back in the 60’s.
So why do we do it?

I don’t exactly know? Let me ask you this question…why do you do what you do?

All work and no play.....

2007-11-15T10:31:00.000-06:00

OK....so I'm here in Prague.

The people are Eastern-Bloc Friendly, the food is marginal....oh what the hell, working here as a westerner sucks. Your first clue that you are not in Kansas anymore is the fact that 12 foot concrete fences topped by razor wire surround the facility, and that you spend about 10 minutes each morning going through security. (Hell the first morning I got frisked but didn't ask Comrade Ivan whether or not he was going to buy me dinner).

The Facility at CSA is right out of a Post-Communism handbook. Drab is in every imaginable shade, lights are optional, and closed doors are a must. If someone smiles down the hallway you expect an alarm to sound.

I guess my spirits aren't helped by the fact that the airplane is many days late now.....add to the fact that it's right around freezing, and we haven't seen the sun in a few days.

Our Dutch colleagues are taking us into the city tonight for dinner so we'll see if that brightens our moods any. I'm hoping that will be the case.

Greetings from Amsterdam

2007-11-12T02:24:00.000-06:00

My co-workers and I boarded NWA flight 56 from MSP - AMS and arrived yesterday at about 12:30 local time. Because of some circumstances out of our countrol Neal had to fly straight on to Prague and Allan and I are here in Amsterdam to sort out some paperwork and then to Prague.

It was a quiet night for us in Amsterdam. The typical November Dutch weather was up to it's normal self. Intermittent rain with high gusts of wind. Neither Allan and I wanted to fight the crappy weather and walk through the city so we stuck around Schiphol. Oh well, beats a stick in the eye. Oh, the Heineken was sublime as well.

I've never been to Prague before and I've heard that it's a beautiful city. I can't wait to see it. I just hope that we're able to actually get away from the airport and see some tourist stuff.

Happy 4th Birthday Grant!

2007-10-09T14:14:00.001-05:00

I can't believe that our "little" boy is now 4. It seems like yesterday that we were bringing him home from the hospital and now look him. Time flies.....time flies......

Start of the Grind

2007-10-02T10:55:00.000-05:00

Part of my loves traveling on business, and part of me hates it. This morning the hate side is winning. I've been preparing myself for the path that starts this fall and finally ends sometime in June.

It's one trip to Seattle, a couple trips to Amsterdam, before Christmas, and then Seattle 2 or 3 times in April and May. Add to this the forthcoming hockey season and well....you get the idea.

My mood may change again though - I think the overcast sky has a lot to do with it today. I don't expect anyone to feel sorry for me, I know a lot of people who travel a lot more than I do, I'm not as hardened as they are I guess.

Last night when I was saying goodnight to my oldest he started crying because I was leaving. I hate that crap. It'll soften up anyone. Oh well, time to suck it up and get it done.

R.I.P Colin McRae 1968 - 2007

2007-09-17T11:56:00.000-05:00

I just realized that he's just a few days older than me.....wow.

For those of you how don't know who Colin McRae is, he was a Rally driver from the British Isles. I got into Rally (specifically WRC) a few years ago once I figured out that NASCAR wasn't making it for me anywhere. Do a search on Google for WRC or visit this site for more about the sport if you are interested.

www.wrc.com
http://www.colinmcrae.com/

Life is Good

2007-07-16T22:14:00.000-05:00

More often than not my job can sway between terror and tedium. But other times there are moments of pure joy that leave me feeling extremely gratified and thankful.

Yesterday was one of those days.

One of the many facets of my position at work is flying out here to Seattle to pick up airplanes. It doesn't happen often, so when it does, I take every opportunity to drink in the experience and make every monent count. We were supposed to take off from Boeing field at about 1:00pm yesterday but because of some issues beyond our control we didn't get into the air until close to 6:00pm.

Most of the traveling public doesn't get to see what I get to see in regards to air travel. Sure, I see the lines at check-in, at the shoe check at TSA, the packed flights, and the endless waiting for luggage at the carousel. I'm like the rest of you. And I absolutely hate it as well. Air travel is no longer the adventure it used to be, in fact, it's possibly the most excrutiating experience one can go through and have to pay for it (unless you like going to the dentist but I digress).

One of my job responsibilities is to go on customer test flights, and check aircraft out to make sure that they are up to snuff. It means flying in brand new aircraft before they enter revenue service. In other words I get to nit-pick eveything. Maybe there is a scuff on a sidewall panel, or a reading light doesn't work. My job is to document all the problems and see that they are resolved before the aircraft leaves the delivery center.

Now mind you this isn't a typical flight. While the pailots are up front flying an agressive flight profile, myself and others are up and around the cabin, testing seats, inspecting carpet, lavatories, ovens, and windows. All the little air vents and reading lights, tray tables, and seat pouches are poked, prodded, and summarily looked at. All the while the pilots up front are banking, twisting, turning, and putting this piece of beautiful machinery throught the paces.

Seatbelts? Sure, maybe on take off or when we simulate a rejected take-off but other wise....nawwwww.

Not to many people get to experience this sort of thing, and when I have the chance to I think that I've got the best job on earth. During the latter part of the flight yesterday, we had all done our jobs, we had wrung out the systems, noted our discrepancies and we were headed back to the field. As I sat in seat 7F looking out the window I gazed out over purple mountain majesty as white cotton balls cast friendly shadows over sappy, prickly pine covered ridges. I looked into deep mountain lakes and could almost taste the clear blue water as they spilled out into waterfalls, falling seemingly into the eternity of a lush carpet of ferns.

Life and earth look different while you're steaming up the window that you lean against as you drift back to terra firma. As we deplaned, and walked away from the airplane a pink whispy, whimsical sunset cast a smile upon us as we walked back into the building. I thought about how lucky I was to do what I had just done. I looked around at the rest of our crew and wondered to myself if they realized how special it had been.

I'm a lucky guy.

Thank You

2007-05-27T22:35:00.001-05:00

On my way to work every morning I drive by Fort Snelling National Cemetery. My Grandfather is buried there. A family tradition of ours is to go to Fort Snelling every Memorial Day and visit his grave. Some years it's been 90 degrees and humid, but on other years I remember it being 40 degrees, overcast and windy. It doesn't matter. As a debt of honor and respect we go every year that we are in town. In my younger years I'd complain and whine about having to go there but even in those days I'd try to understand. Seeing the tears roll down my Grandmother's cheeks was enough to shut me up for a little while.

So among the fields of the dead we will walk. We will listen to the speakers and listen to Taps being played. And we will remember, and we will reflect.

I have never been a warrior so I don't belong to the same fraternity as those who have marched the square and manned a post. I've never watched the sunrise from a ship sailing into Harm's Way, and I've never had to hold a buddy in my arms and watch him die.

I want to say thank you to all of you who have served, who have fought the battles, and have given the ultimate sacrifice so a family in Rosemount Minnesota can sleep through the night without worry, without fear because of you who stay awake for us.

Thank You.

Blue Angels 2007

2007-05-22T13:34:00.000-05:00

Have I ever mentioned that I like airplanes?

I'm so proud - my first youtube post......

Common Ground

2007-05-16T11:59:00.000-05:00

Grant and Stanley don't always get along with each other. Go figure.

Sometimes they get along just fine (usually when they're plunked on the couch watching Spongebob) but other times...well...not so good. What typically happens is that Stan wants to play with his buddies and Grant can't leave them alone, and I'm usually trying to step in between them before too much blood is spilled. Boys will be boys but I try to intervene once someone picks up a weapon which happens more often than not.

But over the last couple days we've found some common ground. Our old flower garden. Or as I like to call it, our worm hunting grounds.

Last fall we had a small storage shed built where our old garden was. We took down the fencing and where we used to have our wildfowers is some open area where the boys can dig. It started on Monday afternoon with Grant and I, and yesterday afternoon Stan jumped into the fray. I use the big shovel to dig into some of the harder terra firma while the 2 boys use hand spades to do the detail work.

So far neither handspade has been used in anger.

I think it's good dirty fun. They get along and work together, get out in the fresh air and away from the TV. And me, I get free bait and a little sanity.

A Quiet Walk

2007-05-10T09:43:00.000-05:00

Life is busy, that's a given. Like most, I don't take the time to stop and smell the roses and I really should. I think all of us should. Like most, my days are hurried and harried and you never seem to be able to catch up.

Running, Running, Running.

Always.

And it sucks.

My morning drive up Pilot Knob Road in Eagan is fairly mundane, the usual crawl up north through the suburban stop lights sipping the usual coffee, and flipping through the usual morning talk radio. Both the coffee and conversation bland at best. Normally I'm focused ahead of me, watching for brake lights and the occasional Canadian Goose. But something caught my eye this morning.

On the sidewalk along Pilot Knob was an elderly couple walking up the sidewalk. Hand in Hand.

There was quiet there. Peace. Dignity.

It wasn't quite a DeBeers diamond commercial, but I found it poignant nevertheless. Through all the hustle and daily business there walked partners in life seemingly oblivious to the daily chaos surrounding them.

Hopefully one day I'll have that peace.

One day in the Rosemount Post Office....

2007-05-01T12:28:00.000-05:00

Our 3 year old, Grant, can be a handful. A handful as in a hand-grenade with the pin pulled, or a handful as in you can’t get enough of your hands on him because you just want to squeeze him to pieces. Kids are like that. Some moments we might want to sell him to the circus but you take a breath and he’ll have a glint in his eye and you can start laughing until tears come from yours.

On April 17th he decided to be a hand grenade.

Well maybe that’s not entirely fair. On that Monday, Brenda had taken him on some errands, nothing big, and nothing too strenuous. But at the Rosemount Post Office he started to get whiny. Not that I blame him, I mean seriously, how much fun can you have at a post office as an adult let alone as a 3 year old?

It’s a Monday, and it’s also Tax Day so there are a few people there. No biggie. She brings him in and goes to our P.O box, meanwhile, Grant is complaining that he wants to go home. No full-on meltdown, no snot-flying, tear-drenching epic tantrum. He’s whining a bit but hey, we’ve seen worse. Brenda continues to do her thing, managing his volume and getting her stuff done.

“BE QUIET!” a voice booms out. But it’s not my wife’s voice. She turns to look and there is some middle-aged lady glaring over at Grant. Stunned, Brenda takes him by the hand and into the line to mail something. Grant continues to whine, same volume, but there’s not anything Brenda can really do about it.

“SHUT-UP!” the voice comes again from behind the line. “Is she talking to him?” asks another woman behind my wife in line. “I guess so….” She answers in shocked anger. Brenda finishes her business, and without a word walks out of the Post Office with Grant in tow.

Now I’m a parent, so I have an ability to drown out most whining, but I can also see the other side, because I don’t enjoy hearing it either. But I tell you what, you have some balls telling a parents kid to shut up. I’ll give granny the benefit of a doubt, maybe she was just having a bad day. After all it was tax day so maybe she was pissed off that she had to mail her pull-tab money to the government. Who knows.

Good thing it was Brenda instead of me. I would’ve gone postal.

Un-Reality Television

2007-04-05T11:45:00.000-05:00

I don't watch a whole lot of TV anymore. My viewing diet typically consists of hockey (go figure), the Discovery Channel, the Food Network, the National Geographic channel, and a little of the History Channel.

I like to watch music videos but since MTV and VH1 don't show those anymore I go to youtube for those. VH1 Classic actually does show video's that don't annoy me so I'll give credit where credit is due.

What I really detest these days are so-called "Reality Shows". I had about 3 minutes in the first survivor just to see if anyone would be dumb enough to eat a cooked rat. I haven't seen an episode of American Idol, the Bachelor, or any of network television pablum that passes for entertainment.

Two of my favorite shows could be considered reality shows however and I'll explain why I differentiate them from most of the others.

One of my favorite shows is "Deadliest Catch" on Discovery Channel. If you want reality this is it. It is life and death - and from this viewers perspective, there isn't anything on that show that isn't compelling. You can't fake the terror and fear of an entire crew when a 60 foot rougue wave knocks a boat on it's side. It's not like they can tell 2 captains that they're going to have to race between a couple of islands and see who catches the most and then give a rose to the winner. That's crap.

My other favorite is American Chopper now on TLC (previously on Discovery). While I haven't paid as much attention to it this season as I have in the past I still follow and enjoy the show. The constant Paul Jr. vs. Paul Sr. battles have long been lost on me but what I enjoy the most is watching the crew create. I don't even own a motorcyle but I can appreciate the effort and creativity involved in fabricating one. I'm not naive enough to think that shit isn't sprinkled into the mix to keep things interesting but all in all I think it's entertaining.

But why must every other media outlet have to shove these shows down our throats? I understand that Fox9 has to pimp "Idol" because it's on the network. But when I turn on the radio in my car on my morning drive I find myself flipping the dial trying to get away from the "results."

Darfur.
Iraq.
Proposed 350% increase on the beer tax.

These are issues, not who got booted, not if Paula is drunk or not.

I make the choice to not watch it, I'm also given the choice to not to care about it. Don't try to convince me that I should.

End of the season...

2007-03-25T21:11:00.000-05:00

The Gophers lost 3-2 to UND tonight so the 2006-2007 season is in the books and over with. But that's not the season that I'm upset that ended.

My son's Mite season ended today. One of the things that I hate is putting the gear away after the season. After every practice and scrimmage I go to the basement and take out all of his gear, hang it up and air it out so it doesn't smell and get develop a lot of mold. I swear that in the bottom of some kids hockey bag is the cure for cancer.

He played his final games against the other Rosemount teams this weekend and we got shelled pretty bad yesterday but today while he was in goal he played pretty well and we wound up winning. So after I turned in the goalie gear and we came home, I took the bag downstairs and hung it all up. It seems like the year went by so fast, and like so many things in childhood you wish that they wouldn't end, but you blink and they are gone in an instant.

We had our team party after the afternoon game yesterday and it was fun to have a chance to chat with all the other parents over a couple of beers. As an assistant coach I'm always worried about teaching and coaching and sometimes you can forget about the parents that bring those players to practices and games. Last year for the Boosters I put DVD's togehter for 14 of the teams, and while I wasn't asked to do it this year for the Boosters, one of the mom's and I decided to do one on our own. I gave them to the kids and they loved them. For all the yelling and prodding I did this year I thought it was the least that I could do.

So his gear hangs in the laundry room, socks and jersey in the dirty clothes pile ready for the washer. Shin pads and gloves quiet and dry. True, I could have him in spring hockey, but he hasn't pushed, and I haven't pushed either. The season started in November and it's time for him to hang it up for now. But I still hate it.

Hockey Dreams can Come True

2007-03-07T12:28:00.000-06:00

The following story is something I had written in the spring of 2006. I wanted to capture the moment before my memories had faded. I hope that you enjoy it.

Youth hockey in Minnesota can be a wonderful yet trying endeavor for any hockey parent. From association fundraisers to far away weekend tournaments and summer hockey camps you know that once you start your son or daughter in the sport and it takes hold of them you are going to be in it for the long haul. While I had only played organized hockey for a brief time as a child I knew of the trials and tribulations of my parents taking me to games and practices at all hours and in all weather, and now being the father of a 7-year-old Mini - Mite 2 in the Rosemount, Minnesota hockey association I steel myself for the long journey ahead. Who knew that on this damp, foggy November morning, our journey into youth hockey would take an unexpected and wonderful turn.

It was Thanksgiving weekend and we were scheduled to practice at Inver Grove Heights since Rosemount was hosting their Peewee and Bantam tournaments. Ordinarily I bring my son to the rink by myself as our precocious 2 year old, Grant, would rather toddle around the rink with my wife in tow than watch what is happening on the ice. But this morning we decided that all of us should come to the rink to watch Stanley and the rest of his team practice. My son plays in the Rosemount Area Hockey Association, located in Rosemount, Minnesota, which is a small-to-medium size, outer ring suburb of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. While not a traditional suburban hockey power, the program seems to be making the right moves to grow and develop players through the association. Rosemount begins with its Initiation Program at the Mini-Mite level, which comprises of kids from the ages of 5-8 years old. Most of this team had played together before in Mini-Mite 1’s the previous year and it was a joy watching how they had all developed and improved in the short time since they had started out. While most of the kids on the team had previous skating and/or hockey ability, there were some who needed a little extra attention while on the ice; and as coaches and parents it was our job to help them along with little coaching but lots of encouragement.

We arrived at the arena running late as usual, and Stanley and I walked down the hallway to the locker rooms while my wife Brenda, and my youngest took to the grandstands. Before too long I had Stanley’s skates laced up, helmet strapped on and I sent him out onto the ice ahead of me. By the time I had my skates tightened and gloves on, the rink was full of Mini-Mite 2’s. Before coming out onto the ice, one of our coaches, Steve Lewandowski was joking around in the locker room telling the rest of us coaches that we were under evaluation, when in fact he had forgotten his skates and was going to have to watch from the stands today. The rest of us joked around that we’d better be on our best behavior lest we be cut from the squad. So onto the rink I went.

Being that it was the Thanksgiving weekend I didn’t quite expect the number of players on the ice or family in the stands that we had show up. I figured that since it was a holiday weekend that there would be a fair amount of kids who would be out of town visiting family, but as I skated around and warmed up it appeared that most everyone must have enjoyed their holiday here. After a few minutes of skating around and stick handling it was time to start our drills. Our Head Coach, Doug Ebner blew the whistle, the kids obediently shot pucks back into the nets and skated down to the far end line for some warm-up drills. During these drills we have the kids practice their strides, their stopping and starting, and making sure they keep “Good Hockey Position,” which is both hands on the stick, knees bent, and head up.

After we do these initial drills then it’s time to break the team into thirds and to move them to different “stations”. Coach Mike Burr and I took our group to the center ice area and started having our kids practice their stopping techniques, while Coach Doug had his group in one end skating around the cones and shooting on the goalie, who this week was his son Wyatt. The far group with Coach Mark Peare was working diligently on how to correctly pass the puck. While we encouraged and exhorted our players about using proper techniques, I slowly realized that something was going on in the lobby.

Soon after starting our drills I looked over to the lobby area, as there seemed to be some sort of commotion happening. Looking over I saw a group players walking into the rink, full gear on, many wearing their helmets, and all wearing dark green hockey pants and socks. They also seemed a size or two larger than your typical youth hockey player. Curious of what was happening I skated over towards the boards, and to my utter amazement I realized who it was.

It was the Minnesota Wild.
I’ve been a hockey fan for as far back as I remember. When my brother went to the University of Minnesota he worked at the ticket office and was occasionally able to get us tickets to watch the Golden Gophers at the old Mariucci Arena. This was in the late 1970’s when Herb Brooks was working magic before the Miracle. I was hooked, and it wouldn’t let go. I’d also catch every Minnesota North Stars game I could, many nights listening to them on the radio in my room as I drifted out to sleep. I can’t remember how many late afternoons were spent at the local rink after school with a few friends, noses running, toes frozen, but never tiring. Each one of us was Neal Broten, Bill Baker, and Mike Ramsey, or a multitude of college or NHL’ers in front of thousands of screaming, cheering fans. When I’d find solitary time on the rink I would forever be Mike Eruzione turning and wristing a hard shot past the Soviet goalie to the delight of a nation, dancing on the ice, with arms raised in jubilation. In my mind I’d run over a running commentary in either Al Michaels or Al Shavers voices; “Up the boards to Broten, across to Christian, fed to the slot to Ancheta…he shoots, he scores!!!” Then I’d gather the puck from out of the goal, skate back the other end of the rink and do it all over again. And again. And again. And again until the lights came on and I’d have to rush home for dinner.

But while I was excited to see the Wild in the building, part of me wasn’t sure to make of it. My first fear was that they were going to kick us off the ice. In fact, once I realized that it was indeed the Wild I skated over to where Brenda and Grant were sitting in the stands and excitedly told them that the Wild were at the rink. Wide-eyed she asked me what they were doing at the rink, and at the time I wasn’t sure. Later on we found out that Xcel Energy Center where they play and practice was being used for a concert that evening and the Wild needed a place to go and Inver Grove Heights was an alternate location for the team. Meanwhile, as the realization of the Wild being in the building began to spread around the families in the stands, and the kids and coaches on the ice I began to wonder if we were going to be able to remain on the ice to finish our practice. I know how disappointed I would be, but my main concern would be how the kids would feel.
I skated up to my son, ”Stanley, guess who’s here?” He looked over to the lobby area, since vacated by the players, “who dad?”
“The Wild just showed up. I don’t know what they’re doing here, maybe we’ll be able to watch them practice before we’re done.” His eyes grew to be big dark saucers; he smiled around his mouthpiece, and skated away to continue his drill.

I found myself looking over to the door that leads from the locker rooms to the ice every few seconds, waiting for a couple of the Wild players to hopefully join us on the ice. I asked Coach Mike if he knew anything about this but he was as much in the dark as the rest of us were. The previous spring after our season was finished, Coach Doug had arranged for our team to skate at Excel Energy Center and Mariucci Arena on the same day, about 3 hours apart. I thought that somehow Doug had pulled a few strings and had the Wild show up as a treat. But he had ho idea of what was going on either. After a few more minutes of drills (which none of us could seem to really concentrate on), I saw the door swing open, and out stepped the Minnesota Wild. And it wasn’t just a few of them, but it was the whole team. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Coach Steve Lewendowski, who had forgotten his skates, had approached Brent Burns (#8) of the Wild and asked him if he and some of the other players would like to join our Mini-Mites on the ice, and he agreed. Instead of sulking about a scheduling mistake, the players piled out of the locker room and joined us all on the ice. They weren’t kicking us off the ice, no; they wanted to share it with us. It was a relief to me, and I wasn’t the only one. Griffin Lanoue, one of our hard charging players, had been worried as well. At first he didn’t know who these guys were, but when he realized that he was staring Dwayne Roloson (#30) in the mask, and recognized Marion Gaborik (#10) skating around he figured that he was going to have a pretty good day. He was right.

So there I was in front of one of the players benches, trying to keep 7-year-olds interested in learning on how use proper edge control when they stop at the cone. Yeah right. Like that’s what was going to happen now. To my surprise, Kyle Wanvig (#27) skated up to me and asked, “So coach, what drill are we running?”
“We’re skating up and stopping at the cones to practice our edges,” I replied.
“Mind if we jump in line with your guys?”
“Sure,” I replied, “why not,” I answered back. Sure enough, players like, Kyle Wanvig, Wes Walz (#37), and Stephane Veilleux (#19) jumped into line, our Mini-Mites looking up at them in disbelief, and we briefly continued our drill. Suddenly I noticed how crisply our players were skating and stopping, fast to start, and hard to stop, an intensity in their faces as they came to stop in front of me. When the Wild came through they also did there best to impress me that they knew the drill, grinning the entire time. Wes Walz looked over to our group of Mini-Mite’s and said in a loud voice, “who wants to skate with me?” All of them let out a resounding roar and followed him in a board-to-board relay as fast as their legs would take them. I noticed my son and how suddenly intense he was, trying to impress, knees bent, both hands on the stick. Good Hockey Position. Just like we were teaching them. Stephane Veilleux approached me and talked to me for a few minutes, asking how old the kids were and which team we were. I commented about the season the Wild were having, and thanked him for coming out to skate with the kids. It was then and there how I realized how surreal this whole thing was.

There we were on a Sunday morning in a suburban ice arena, with 7-year-old kids, and the local professional hockey team sharing the rink. My son has a runny nose while skating after Wes Walz, I had “The Franchise “, Marion Gaborik stickhandling in one end of the rink, with Wild team enforcer Derek Boogaard (#24) who is 6 feet 7 inches tall (without skates), skating next to kids who barely reach the bottom of his hockey pants in the other. Gram Peterson later remarked to his dad, upon looking up at Boogaard, “Dad, he was taller than the Zamboni!” On one end of the rink I saw Wild players curling around the circles to take a shots on goal on Kindergartener Wyatt Ebner, placing well-placed pucks in the middle of his leg pads. When asked by his dad, Coach Doug Ebner, what it was like to make saves on real pro hockey players, Wyatt deadpanned, “Dad, they are shooting them into my legs.” A couple days previous, Wyatt had gone to his first Wild game where they had played the St. Louis Blues, and Pierre – Marc Bouchard (#96) had scored a couple of goals, and now here he was clearing pucks out from behind Wyatt and chatting with him as he stood between the pipes. In the far end, Pascal Dupuis (#11) was giving some instruction on how to zip a pass across and catch a pass softly, our kids absorbing every word. Meanwhile, all of the parents and families of the Mini-Mites who were expecting to be patiently stamping their cold feet and drinking their hot cocoa are staring in the ice in complete disbelief.

After some of this initial shock wore off I realized something, and that was how much of a good time the Wild players were having. The cynical part of me thought that I’d see some dour looks from these adults, some of them multi-millionaires, of having their practice disrupted by a group of 7-year-old beginners. But by the looks on their smiling, laughing faces I knew that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Seeing and hearing them urge the kids along, passing them pucks, chasing them, almost made it seem like they were enjoying the moment even more then our players. All of them, kids and pros were sharing a special time, and all of them seemed to know it. This wasn’t some sort of convoluted publicity stunt thought up by some marketing whiz from the NHL. This was an honest mistake in scheduling that turned into something special. Under these helmeted heads you could sense the joy. In each Wild player you could see that they remembered what it was like to be that 7-year-old, full of wonder and exuberance, before statistics and bonuses seemed important. And in the children’s eyes you could see the joy of know that someday, they could be this player in a Wild sweater, skating in front of thousands of cheering fans.

As was our usual team practice, we broke into scrimmages, again dividing the ice in thirds, with blue on one side, and yellow on the other. We let the Wild figure out where they wanted to play. One of our kids, Nick Peare is a sparkplug of a player, always moving, always skating, and seemingly always scoring. At one point, Wes Walz looked over to me and says, “hey coach we better put a ‘checker’ on this guy.” I laughed and filed that one away to make sure that I told Nick’s father after the skate. Goals were scored, and through it all we laughed and enjoyed the scrimmage. But pretty soon it was time to get off the ice. We gathered our players from each end and congregated at center ice, our players taking a knee, the Wild players taking knees beside and standing behind them. Rather than 2 separate teams on the ice, for 20 short minutes they were all one team. The players faced the stands for a couple of pictures, and the applause of the gathered family and fans, while not necessarily loud, was heartfelt and thankful.

As we gathered in the locker rooms afterwards it sounded like a million voices at once. “Did you see….,” and “Wow, wasn’t it cool…” Each child had his or her own story and wanted everyone to hear it all at the same time. We piled out of the locker room to see if we could catch some practice and maybe a couple of autographs from the players. After the Zamboni was off of the ice, a few of the players took some time to sign whatever pieces of clothing or spare pieces of paper we parents could find in the arena. Dylan Hall had about 6 or 7 autographs on his Rosemount Irish jersey, and my son had his stocking cap signed by goaltender Dwayne Roloson. Andrew Howard didn’t have any paper with him, so he literally took the shirt off his back and had the Wild players sign it while he zipped up his winter coat to keep the chill of the arena out.

We stayed for the rest of the practice session, amazed at the speed, the grace, and the power of the NHL’ers, and part of it was back to business for them. My son and a friend of his from the other Mini – Mite team went back behind the bench to catch some action there. One of the Wild trainers pretended to squirt water at them from behind the Plexiglas. As they were laughing and walking back to us parents, Coach Mike Ramsey scooped a blade full of snow of the ice, lifted it over the glass, and showered our 2 unsuspecting boys. As they looked up surprised, Coach Ramsey had a laugh and skated away back to practice. “Who was that?” asked my son.
“That’s Coach Mike Ramsey,” I answered, “he played for Herb Brooks in the 1980 Olympics.”
“He played for Herbie?”
“Yep, you just got a blade-full of snow from a guy who beat the Soviets and won a gold medal.”
“Cool.”
Yes…very cool.

As practice wound down, and the Wild players cleared the ice, a few of us remained, our children patiently waiting to see if they could get a couple of more autographs. And the players for the Wild didn’t disappoint. They took their time, smiled, signed, and walked out to the team bus that was waiting outside. If anyone on our Mini-Mite team wasn’t a Minnesota Wild fan before, they sure were now.
As we drove home that day we just couldn’t believe what had just occurred. In fact, I couldn’t believe it the next day when the Minneapolis Star-Tribune ran a small little article of the practice in the sports section. Our family left the rink that day walking on a cloud. The memories that we would take away from this day would stay in our minds forever. Someday, Wyatt Ebner would be able to tell his kids how he stopped the Wild shooters again and again, or how Wyatt Solderholm scored a hat trick against Dwayne Roloson. And how my son would be able to tell his kids how Manny Fernandez lightly punched him on his facemask when he smiled and said hello. It’ll be a thousand stories out of a thousand little experiences that were encompassed in those brief 20 minutes on the ice.

For those children on that day, the players and the coaches of the Minnesota Wild did something extraordinary; they inspired without trying. By being everything they were, and nothing they weren’t, they demonstrated to our kids how much they truly love the game. And to us coaches and parents, by showing respect to our kids, they helped to make life long hockey fans. For me, part of a child’s past came true, I can now say I shared the ice with past, present and future Olympic medal winners, Stanley Cup Champions, and NHL All-Stars. For a late starter who’d never made it past Midget “B” I thought I’d made out ok. I know that this life-journey as a hockey dad is going to be filled with challenges. I’m sure some mornings I’ll be sick of sitting in cold arenas while drinking 3rd rate coffee from out of thin paper cups. I’m sure I’ll wince in discomfort every time I get the monthly bill for ice time. But I know that I’ll temper that that by knowing that through it all, hockey dreams can come true.

My good deed for the day....

2007-03-06T15:52:00.000-06:00

It was my first winter here at work (1992) and we had a little departmental Christmas Party. Since I was living at home at the time my mom didn't want me bringing in a platter of Twinkies so she cooked up some eggrolls and dipping sauce. My manager at the time, Mike, loved the things and he would've eaten the whole tray of them if we would have left the room.

Since that time I've changed positions here at work and when we cross paths he'll ask me when he can expect some of my moms eggrolls. It's an insiders joke and we'll laugh about it.

But a few months ago things weren't so funny. He had gone to the doctor complaining about some pain in his leg. After a couple more appointments he finds out that he's got a tumor in his leg. For a while there he was on a chemo drip to shrink it down so they could eventually operate and remove it. While he was on that poison he was shrinking away in front of us, he lost his hair, and was on limited duty here at work.

But things are looking better now. The operation went well, his hair is starting to come back, and he's back to full duty.

And as an added bonus, he's got some more eggrolls. I told my mom about his plight and she was more than happy to make some more for him. He said he owes me. Naw, it's all good. Just so he's back at it is payment enough for me.

And my mom made up some extras for me.....

Sometimes a little "Thank You" means a lot

2007-01-15T10:54:00.000-06:00

Yesterday afternoon we went to my parents place for dinner. Before we left our house we decided that it might be a good day to introduce our 3-year-old, Grant, to skating. So we loaded up our skates and sticks and headed to my folks place.

After we arrived we sat and visited for a while, and then the 4 of us drove down to the local flooded park/rink to skate a little while. Grant did ok, his little feet were chopping all over the place and in all reality I think he had more fun on the swings with mom than on the ice with dad. He did something I thought was fairly amazing though, he actually stood up by himself on his skates. Not too bad his first time out. I don't expect him to be another Sidney Crosby.....Derek Boogaard maybe....but I digress...

So after a few more minutes of tolerating the cold, Brenda and Grant have had enough. Stanley and I aren't quite done skating around yet so I tell them to pack up and drive home since it's only a short way back to my parent's house. So then it's just my 8-year-old and I out there on the rink.

This is the park where as a child I spent many a winter afternoon with my neighborhood friends. None of us played organized hockey, hell, truthfully we could barely skate. But like many Minnesota kids, it was at frozen sheets like these where we learned to skate, fall and get up. And in many ways learned about ourselves. As kids we'd come straight out to this rink and play until either the street lights came on or until we couldn't feel most of our extremities. Most times it would be the lights that came on first.

So it's just me any my eldest on the rink. This is his 3rd year of organized hockey so he's got some ability in him, he's a student of the game and plays hard and fair. He's also spent a fair time at the rink in full gear though scrimmages and practices. Around cones, on the line, around the circles, etc.... One thing he hadn't done yet this winter was spend time alone on the rink, no gear, no drills. Just time for creativity with the puck, dreaming 8-year-old hockey dreams.

So that's what I let him do.

We skate, we pass the puck to each other, but we don't really talk too much. We just play. No pressure, no pads, no whistles. Just my kid and I on the ice hanging out. Was it magical? No, not really. Was it fun? Absolutely.

After a while we both were starting to feel the cold (more me than him) so we decided to kick off the skates and head back to my parents house. As I'm getting my skates off he says, "dad, thanks for taking me skating today. That was fun."

Yes it was.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

2006-12-19T11:44:00.000-06:00

This is just too funny not to post!

Why does being a business traveler have to suck?

2006-10-19T21:34:00.000-05:00

In my previous post I mentioned that I'm in Seattle on business. Well that's where I am right now, sitting in my hotel room, eating some leftovers (courtesy of The Boeing Aircraft Company) and contemplating a couple of things...

...Like, why does it have to suck being a business traveler?...

Maybe I'm just old, but remember when getting on an airplane (business or pleasure) used to be fun. Go to the airport, watch the airplanes land and take-off, get on board, have a meal, read a book, get off, and away you go.

Not anymore.

You take off your shoes going through security, all of your items are x-rayed, poked, and prodded, then you squeeze aboard, maybe get some pretzels, and now...away you go.

Ever since I took this job with the airline I've noticed how much business travel seems to suck for everyone. I still have a good time but for so many people it seems like they just aren't having any fun at all. I mean really, isn't life too short to be attached to your Blackberry? I don't know how many times I see some poor guy in his suit, hurrying through TSA's shoe gauntlet, a Starbuck's decaf in one hand, his PDA/cell in his right, trying to explain to some supposed big-wig on the other end that his dog ate the jump drive his Powerpoint presentation was on.

Stupid.

When I got off the airplane here in Seattle, it seemed like everyone immediately put a cell phone up to their ear like they just saved the world by checking their voicemail.

Please. Stop.

After I picked up my bag I put on my Andover Hockey hat and walked to the car rental counter. There were a couple of uptight business dudes there in their khakis and just-the-right-length haircuts, trying to wiggle a couple of extra frequent flier miles out of their ubiquituous full size upgrade. After they put their ear-buds in and headed to whatever upgrade line they seemed destined for I took my place in line. Instead of tryng for the upgrade, you know what I did?

I took the time to actually talk to the person behind the counter. Sure we took care of business, and she tried to upsell the needless insurance dealio on me, but the rest of the time, we laughed, we joked, and I left feeling better for talking to her like a real person rather than some sort of human utility pole.

Why do we feel it necessary to have to button up and act business "correct" when we're on the road? Sure, surrounded by you contemporaries you don't want to show any supposed weaknesses, but in reality who gives a rats-ass? I see so many tight-asses getting their breakfasts in the morning, brows furrowed while looking at the USA Today (like that has any real info).

Loosen up people, sure you have a job to do, but let's not lose our humanity, or sense of humor. As for me? I'm showing up tomorrow morning wearing jeans and a hat, just to see how many tight asses I can loosen up.

mmmmmm....Pork Adobo

2006-10-16T15:37:00.000-05:00

So I'm here in lovely Renton, Washington for the 2006 Boeing 737NG Industry Steering Committee meeting and it's time for lunch. There are about 40 of us here from all points of the globe from Ireland, to South Africa, to Japan, and Australia. Actually, the Boeing facility that we're in right now is a big training center for flight crews as well so you can imagine how many different nationalities there are.

So I get my lunch voucher and walk into the cafeteria. Over on one side is your basic burgers and hot dogs. There's some cold sandwiches in another line. I look at the "international" line and lo and behold what do I see? MMMM.....Pork Adobo.

So why was I so excited? I make Chicken Adobo at home, my wife and kids love it, but for some reason I don't make the pork version. Adobo is a Filipino dish where you slowly cook either the pork or chicken in a combination of soy sauce, vinegar, bay leaf, salt and black pepper in a pot and serve it over white rice. It's something I grew up with as a child...seems like my folks made it once a week. It's a memory of youth.

Somehow seeing it in a lunch buffet line in Renton, Washington in the middle of a conference made me smile.....and it was damn tasty too.

Turning 38

2006-09-15T12:18:00.000-05:00

I celebrated my 38th birthday a couple of days ago. No biggie. Do I feel older? No. Do I feel wiser? No again.

My parents called me to wish me a happy birthday and my dad said something to me that made me think. He says, "you know, when I turned 38 I brought our family over from the Philippines."

Wow.

Could I ever think of doing that? I think of how they packed up the 2 kids, got on a jet and landing here in Minnesota in November (coming from Manila no less). No job, living with relatives, a different country and culture.

Could I handle that?

My Pilgrimage to Fulton and Church

2006-09-10T23:17:00.000-05:00

It was a warm October evening as we got off the train at Penn Station, much warmer than we thought it would be. As we exited the train and followed the after work crowd up to street level under Madison Square Garden I was both apprehensive and excited to experience Manhattan for the first time in my adult life. I was excited for the opportunity for finally experience the City, but apprehensive of where we might go, and how I might feel.

This was October of 2002, a year and a month removed from the September 11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center.

My coworker, Gordon, and I were in New York on business, spending most of our time at JFK airport. This, our final full day, we had finished up early and decided to take the train into the City and devote the rest of our time playing Midwestern tourists. As we climbed into the sunlight of midtown Manhattan it took me a minute to adjust to the mass of humanity, to the sounds of honking horns, and just the pace of the City. Gordon had been to Manhattan in his recent past so he knew where he was going so I followed his lead. From Madison Square Garden we walked to the Ed Sullivan Theater, as Gordon is a big David Letterman fan. We hung around outside the building and we could hear laughter coming from inside as they must have been taping an episode. After about 10 minutes of failing to catch a glimpse inside we decided to keep onto our sightseeing.

On our way across the street to Rockefeller Center our crosswalk was crowded and seemingly anxious, straining on it’s collective leash to cross the street. Thousands of citizens and tourists, needing to be across that strip of asphalt RIGHT NOW. I looked around and saw the faces of New York City; busy, harried, determined. And then a FDNY truck rounded the corner and slowly passed in front of us. A seemingly brand new one. Suddenly, if for only an instant, that crowd changed. For just a split second, that anxious, sweating mass of humanity quieted, and a hush fell over the intersection. A brief moment of quiet and remembrance in the bustle of the moment. One of the firemen sitting in the back of the cab made eye contact with me. I nodded, he nodded back, the truck kept rolling, and the crowd lost its moment. The volume and anxiety rose again, and we surged forward as the light turned from red to green.

As tourists we followed the crowd, walking through Rockefeller Center, and then eventually winding up at the south end of Central Park. By this time the sun was starting to set through the man-made canyons and valleys of mid-town, and the city lights began to light up the cityscape. With no set plan or timetable we felt free to explore and experience New York City, after all, it’s the City that Never Sleeps, so why should we? But something else was calling, and both of us seemed to know it. Few words were exchanged, and by mutual agreement, we started our trek down the Avenue of the Americas. We had started our own pilgrimage to Ground Zero.

Like countless people before us we felt like drawn like moths to a flame. Sure it was going to be a long walk, in fact, we had countless opportunities to hail a cab or jump the subway and get to Ground Zero relatively quickly. But why? We wanted to experience the city, to see it like any other New Yorker would see it. And I think another reason why we decided to walk was because we felt that we owed it to ourselves, to this city to make the journey on foot. Call it penance in a way. So we walked. And walked. And then walked a little more. We stopped at McDonalds for a coke and a chance to rest our legs. And after a bit of a rest we got back out onto the sidewalk and continued our trek south, past the Empire State Building on 5th street, and then eventually merging onto Broadway past Union Square.

Through the darkening night, through Soho, and the Garment District we walked. In a park full of homeless we found an empty bench, wiped our brows and rested a little more. On the map it’s only a 4-mile walk in a straight line, but we weren’t going in a straight line, and so we became a little bone weary. As we set out for our final push towards 1 & 2 World Trade Center we decided to stop and have a bite to eat. We walked into a little place, doubtless one of those places that entertains the financial district types, low key and low maintenance. As we sat and recounted our little pilgrimage I couldn’t help but look around and gaze at some of the pictures hanging on the walls. Some were old, but most were new. Most were pictures of what it looked like outside these windows on the day of September 11th 2001 and the days soon thereafter.

Those pictures told a story as I sipped a cold Budweiser. From those year-old pictures to my immediate view I saw an old wound starting to scab over. In those pictures I saw shattered vehicles, and shattered lives, people and objects strewn aside like so much flotsam. And now sitting comfortably and satisfied in this bar I sensed an oasis of calm and recovery. A bite of normalcy that served as a side dish to your burger. As a visitor I couldn’t truly know what those who worked behind that counter and kitchen felt and saw. Maybe there were unoccupied barstools in that place that were left empty on purpose. I couldn’t bring myself to ask. We ate our food and drank our beers, making small talk with those around us. But we still had a few final steps to take.

The closer you got to Ground Zero the brighter it got. Hundreds of halogen lights illuminated the night sky, some focused up into the surrounding buildings but most into the pit itself. Gordon and I slowly walked towards Ground Zero, quiet, somber, and still. It was quiet there. Sure you had sounds of traffic and the like, but it was much more quiet than I expected. As it was in October of 2002, it was quiet as the open grave that it truly was. More than 3000 people lost their lives on that fateful day, most at this 16-acre site. Over 3000 people. People with dreams, hopes and ambitions. Ordinary people like me, who were forced into extraordinary circumstances. Only to have those dreams extinguished forever.

Around the pit a large fence was erected, a memorial to those who had died there, as well as for those who had helped there. As for myself I felt weak and small. Part of a larger game whose outcome I did not yet know. There were a few people out there. Quiet, introspective, and meek. Every one of us in our own thoughts, and in our own spaces. I looked at the pictures on the fence, pictures of the World Trade Center in its heyday. Busy and vibrant, a symbol of ingenuity and prosperity. And then I looked through the fence and saw a hole in the ground. My emotions ranged from anger to hate, to sorrow and despair. I thought back to that day, how a seemingly perfect day led down this path of unknowing. And while confusion rang like a dissonant chime, I felt some clarity.

On the crossroads of Fulton and Church Streets I began to slowly heal myself. That’s where St. Paul’s Chapel backs up to Ground Zero. St. Paul’s Chapel is the little church that survived the collapse of the World Trade Center. Covered in debris, ash, and later on, tears, the little church provided an island of solace for countless rescue workers, family members, and citizens of conscious from New York and the rest of the world. Gordon and I walked slowly around the chapel, reading the memorials and I had to stop a couple of times to collect myself. We saw signed flags from New Zealand and the Philippines, t-shirts and hats from all 50 states. Even a signed hockey stick hung from the fence that rung the perimeter of the church.

It was here at this place, where people had first come to start to try to heal. By lighting candles, by hanging memorials and bed sheets and well wishes on cardboard, people came here to help those who needed to grieve, those who needed to cry out and be heard. Those voices of anguish and anger echoed in my mind, fresh and immediate. But in the relative quiet from around Ground Zero I heard another voice.

It was a voice of the Human Spirit.

It was a voice of reason, and a voice of calm. And that voice told me that no matter how ugly one face may be, there will always be another face: one of kindness, of generosity, and of understanding.

It seems like I stood there at the corner of Fulton and Church for a long time. I looked into Ground Zero for the last time and we turned away without looking back. The cab ride back to the hotel was quiet but not overly sad. We had seen what we had needed to see, and said what we had needed to be said. When our flight took off out of LaGuardia the next morning I looked over Manhattan again and found my eyes searching towards Ground Zero. I left part of myself on those streets of Manhattan, but I found that I had brought a larger part back with me.

20th Class Reunion - ooops I missed it (oh darn)

2006-07-24T14:25:00.000-05:00

So this past weekend was my 20th high school class reunion and I didn't bother going. Big deal.

Our graduating class was upwards of 650 and I keep in touch with maybe 6 or 7 of them. We hang out with our families maybe 2 times a year and that works well enough for me. I've been to my wife's class reunions, but never any of mine. Why not you may ask?

Why is my answer.

I guess that I don't feel like I have anything to prove. Is that wrong?

How time flies....

2006-07-11T23:35:00.000-05:00

I can't believe that this is 20 years old

Just trying to get by.....

2006-06-30T23:20:00.000-05:00

Hey everyone, Stan here, just thought that I'd try this stuff out and see what blogging is all about. God knows that there are enough of these things out there so I figured what the hell, I may as well try it out.

So lets see what's going on......hmmmmm

Well my 7 year old and I are heading up north to Cohasset, MN. to see some of our friends. It should be a good time, I'm looking forward to getting out of the city for a while and reconnecting with some friends again. I haven't seen Rich since he stopped into work a few months ago and it'll be fun to tip a few back, rehash some old stories and hang out.

It seems like I get further away from people now. I rarely talk on the phone with them anymore, and most all of my friends have their wives and kids and the various activities associated with them. Life gets busier, time gets shorter, and it seems like we all have less time to stop and smell the roses. (Not that I'm a big rose guy). So why is it that? Is it just me? I don't think so.