Dave's Thinking
Just a day off
For those of you looking for My Minnesota Adventure Part 5, that will probably post Monday (or Tuesday due to the holiday) and wrap up that series.
I am taking today off and wish you all a wonderful weekend.
My Minnesota Adventure - Part Four
I think everyone should sit down and write stories about their parents, you can't help but appreciate them more when you put things into words. My Dad is a kind, generous and thoughtful person. He was patient beyond reproach with a young know-it-all who wanted to work in television. It should also be noted he was equally patient with my brother who was also a young know-it-all who just wanted to run businesses. We both grew up with my Dad when our parents divorced in the difficult teen years, and this not-from-central-casting parent shepherded us through with flying colors. He is something like a Norwegian Zen master guiding us by letting us find ourselves with only gentle oversight. He knew exactly what to say when I struggled my freshman year at college to get me on track and I can't remember his ever raising his voice no matter what went wrong. I could go on and on about my Dad since I am so proud of him, but I need to show you what he is most famous for:
My Dad makes the best eggs, he just does. No matter what variety you prefer, he can prepare them. In fact, I knew I wanted to write a blog about it and wanted to take a picture of his creations during my visit. However, I generally was too busy inhaling them to bother to pull out the camera and take a snap shot.
I like my eggs over easy, and let me tell you it is not the easiest thing in the world to accomplish without either breaking the yoke or over or under-cooking the egg. If you examine the picture above (where I stopped half way through eating) the egg is perfectly prepared. He does this without fail and with seemingly little strain. Others have tried to step into the kitchen when he is around, but almost every family member will wait for my Dad to cook for them before accepting product from an alternative sous-chef. He was lovingly coined by my nephew Ben as "the egg man" when he was just old enough to put words together, a moniker which has stuck.
This particular morning the offerings also included a cup of coffee, and wild chokecherry jelly which is a regional treat. When I was a kid my friend Glen Overbee had a big chokecherry tree in his back yard. They produce these smaller than dime sized fruits better for smashing into the pavement to make stains than for general consumption (some literature refers to them as second-rate fruit) . However quite a few of the families in the area would make jellies or jams out of them and their balance of bitter and sweet tones certainly went well with a light smear over toast. Personally, I love them. It had been probably a decade since I had any, and it was as good as I remember.
I ate on the deck on a brilliant Friday morning just before I prepared my kids for the three hour drive back to Fargo to visit my sister and her kids (all in high school, all worshiped by my kids...they see them once a year but will talk about them until they see them again). Time seemed to be going by too quickly at this point, my flight back to California was due to leave in just little over 24 hours. I was trying to drink the moments in at this point. I should have been sipping the coffee offered reflectively, but I was slamming a sugar-free Rockstar I bought at the Cenex gas station the prior morning. I had been off-schedule much of my trip, the two hour time difference and the fact I work nights on the West Coast made each day long on both ends. I found myself watching a documentary on Greek Civilizations the prior night until 2am local time (12am in my head), I knew snapping back to life in CA would be easier if I stayed somewhat close to my normal cycle.
In the other room my step-mom was applying purple nail polish to Campbell's fingers. After 6 weeks in Minnesota the kids had taken to all things local, and lets just say that purple nail polish is just the tip of the iceberg. Ethan was only wearing Vikings shirts at this point and only switched things up when instructed that those shirts needed laundering occasionally.
Looking at the clock the time to leave came on us faster than we hoped. My niece and nephews would be home from school in a few hours and we had to beat them back. The lives of teenagers don't have a lot of time built in for vacation visits especially since school had already started. So, we all scrambled for our cameras to take a few final pictures to remember the moments by. My step-mom, Sharon, was staying behind in St. Cloud to prepare for my brother's arrival in a few days. Saying our goodbyes it was on to the final and only day I would spend in my hometown of Fargo.
Not NASA material
OK, taking a momentary departure from my blogs about my visit back home to talk about a guilty pleasure: bad reality TV. Emphasis on "guilty", I should be locked up for this one.
I know there are diseases to cure, laundry to be done, grass to watch grow but I admit I fell into the bad habit of watching this silly show on Oxygen. It makes no sense on a zillion levels. For one, this is on Oxygen? This is Oprah's network, right? I am not sure how giving a bunch of unstable women attention, alcohol, and a camera crew is something she would generally sign off on. These are absolutely not the kind of people to sign the "No Phone Zone" pledge.
For those of you who have not seen the show, it is a gathering of women from all kinds of backgrounds into a house in Miami. The one thing they have in common is that they are self-described "bad girls". What that means is entirely unclear. All I know is that 2/3rds of the show is bleeped out. The problem, of course by design, is that they are encouraged to behave like bad girls, and a friend of mine who also watches the show has noticed that they so often refer to themselves in the 3rd person as "bad girls" that you could easily turn a viewing of this show into a very efficient drinking game if you consumed something every time a character said that. The less-than-ironic thing about it is that the plot each week seems to also revolve around heavy alcohol consumption and the explosive consequences. None of this should come as a surprise as this is all by design.
I thought to myself that the only thing that makes the show interesting is that this nuclear potential is all in the casting and that is where the show is evil. Producers are looking for the exact opposite of what NASA looks for in astronauts. The psychological investigation into a potential astronaut is exhaustive with some of the key features being the ability to get along with others in an isolated and stressful environment without letting emotions cloud judgment. "Bad Girls Club" producers are looking for wildly unstable people bordering on clinical emotional problems who are guaranteed to fight with each other under calm circumstances and destroy everything in their path when the slightest sign of trouble shows up (and I mean that quite literally, and that is a word I hate to use 'literally'.
Again, this is not a shocker. So, why is it worth a blog?
Well, this last week one character told another in confidence that she used to do heroin; as part of a personal confessional to help the other person understand why is is the way she is. Well, the other character at a low moment after ingesting plenty of rocket fuel decided to reveal to everyone within ear shot that their roommate was a heroin addict. She also went on a ten minute bleep. A lot of stuff breaks, etc., etc.
In the calm repose of sweeping up debris the next morning the characters reflect on it. The defense the one woman used for revealng the horrible secret was: "Well, if she didn't want everyone to know then she shouldn't have told me." That woman is 26 years old, I think this is something you learn when you are 5.
I guess watching a reality show about NASA astronauts living in a house in Miami would be far less interesting:
"Shall we go out this evening."
"Is it in the mission itinerary?"
"No, sir it is not."
"Doesn't appear like sound thinking to me Jackson. Let's run this one by the boys in the Cape, and until then proceed to the next item on the check list. I don't think an EVA will benefit us at this point. Let's get some shut-eye."
"Yes sir, it is 8pm after all."
The caveat is Lisa Nowak, back in 2007 she was arrested in Orlando, Florida, and subsequently charged with the attempted kidnapping of U.S. Air Force Captain Colleen Shipman, the girlfriend of astronaut William Oefelein. Nowak is a former astronaut. She either slipped through the psychological exam, or was accidentally examined for the wrong program. On the show I just watched yesterday, she might fit in.
My Minnesota Adventure - Part Three
The headwaters of the "Mighty Mississippi" begin in Minnesota, and they happen to run widely past the small river retirement community I spent most of my time at last week. This view struck me as perfect. A single and simple chair on the end of a dock, perfect place for some reflection or some not-all-that-serious fishing (which is the same thing as thinking).
The bulk of life here though surrounds the gentle buzzing of golf carts around a lushly green 9 hole course, between the fairways the tree canopy filters much of the light which throws small shadows everywhere somehow making everything seem more three-dimensional if you ask me.
Living here is meant to be quiet and leisurely, but somewhat communal. Virtually everyone has made a sign announcing their names outside their summer homes, "Halversons", "Stensgaards", "Volkstads"...names you might expect in outstate Minnesota (which refers to everywhere else that is not Minneapolis or St. Paul).
This is my personal favorite Minnesota name, "Petersen" with the S-E-N not the S-O-N you'll find elsewhere. And you absolutely have to appreciate the charm of the birdhouse on the sign made lovingly of real wood and somehow aged to perfection by the passing seasons.
Just across the way from my parent's place is Dave and Sue Wolff's place, even my kids understood how this all fit together.
I don't know why I liked this one so much, was the idea that the real Don Johnson was hanging out here? Or was it that this Don Johnson knows a Lil?
Everywhere you look there was a outdoor knickknack of some kind, and all seemed appropriate and added to the regional flare. There simply HAD to be a Minnesota loon somewhere, and no trip home is complete without hearing their trademark cooing.
Interestingly, our place doesn't have it's "Hovde's" sign. But we do have this:
The tin man, and we also have plenty of bird feeders, the BBQ grill and everything else you would need to blend right in.
My Minnesota Adventure - Part Two
The first thing I noticed about Minnesota in the summer is that it was green, very green. The rich tones spreading effortlessly from the fields into the manicured lawns into the tree line and reaching into the sky where the dramatic contrast to blue took over. If that was not magical enough the residents at my parent's retirement community or an undiscovered community of tree creatures enjoyed getting the attention and imagination of my children for a few days.
My Dad and Stepmother live part-time in a community of 299 mobile homes, but that is only a technical distinction. In reality they are permanent for the most part and many have what are called "Minnesota Rooms", which are living room sized additions making a small footprint much larger. (I will have more to say about the community in another entry later this week, it has a charm which requires its own post).
The residents are retired for the most part, and everyone seems to know everyone else. It is nestled around a well-wooded 9-hole golf course and the whirl or electric golf carts and tinny efforts of small gas motors are everywhere. Literally everyone says hello to you when you pass, and some are ready for longer conversations about who you were, where you were from, the weather outside, who the Twins were starting tonight, and anything else you can imagine. It was refreshing because no conversation was likely to carry too much weight, people here seem to really embrace these moments of repose.
There is also a special attention paid to children. There is no doubt that grand children over the years have been looking for stuff to do, removed from the constant draw of Facebook, television and video games the relaxed weekends by the river must come as quite the shock to the young initially. My Stepmother found bikes for my kids, they found friends and they were off to explore the narrow roads between the stretches of slender vacation homes.
There are at least two very cute offerings. One being the "Elf Door". With gentle direction from Grandma (meaning she drove them first on a golf cart) the kids found their way to the "Elf Door". This is just a small red door and hinge screwed into the base of a tree.
After some time pondering this, and told that the thing to do was craft messages to the elf to be placed inside the tree, my kids raced back to the cabin and set off to write something, anything. I think they were less worried what they said and more excited by the possibility that a mythical creature might read it.
(I think you can see in the picture here that my son Ethan wrote, "I wish I could see you. Hello." My daughter went with "Elf, I wish you can visit me.")
Clad in his Adrian Peterson jersey (I only saw my son wear two shirts the entire time we were at the cabin, his Favre jersey and this one), we went back to the tree...
...and we placed the notes inside.
This is however the lesser of the two legends of the retirement community. The more interesting story has to do with the "Fairy trees" at the other end of the vacation cluster.
For one, they are located in a darker canopy of trees certainly leading to a more mysterious air. And rather than short notes to an unknown elf, there are long and artistic pleas to a fairy named "Mary Margret" to return here. Kids who have visited the park over the years have placed notes on these trees, mostly placed in plastic bags to survive the elements. As the story goes the fairy used to answer the notes years ago, but then suddenly disappeared. Now sightings of her are in dispute but the hopes and dreams of kids still get pinned to the trees.
Here someone took some liberties with the story and invented "Twitter - The animal fairy", I am guessing somehow technology and dreams got mushed together here. In fact the note pinned on the tree includes "BFF", to which I am sure no matter what "Mary Margret" is or was the truncation probably escapes her. Regardless, this was one of the cutest efforts I have seen in years.
My daughter is checking out a small telephone box on one of the trees.
Where elves and fairies apparently order their pizza.
but most of the work consisted of signs like this and smaller postcards with the single word "LOST" written on them.
Captured by all of this my kids made more artwork, and I drove the gold cart over with a screw gun to make sure notes became part of the fabric of the story.
I figure Mary Margret was a resident here, and answered the letters before passing. I imagine the joy she must have gotten out of this too. The magical thing about all of this is the connection between people, even those who don't know each other or are not here anymore. This was unexpected and wonderful and something I will always be happy to have seen my children embrace.
My Minnesota Adventure - Part One
I am not much for sleeping on a plane. For one the noise, chattering announcements about the great selection of 4 dollar soda and chips to be offered and 7 dollar cocktails to be poured to the willing and dubious at 6:10am. I also find it hard with the baby three rows back trying to figure out what all this change in pressure with altitude is all about and communicating the confusion in a 3 hour drone of crying. That said, I slept most of my flight from Los Angeles to Fargo. I was dead tired despite an elaborate plan to avoid it. I came down to LA a day and a half early to hang out with my friends (who live in Irvine) and go to sleep super early the evening before the flight. But between working nights and general flight apprehension there was no way an 8pm bedtime was going to work for me, in fact, I doubt I slept more than a few minutes before giving up at 2:45am and heading to the airport at 3:15am. I barely noticed the 45 minute drive to the airport, probably not a notation one wants to make about driving a car in a metropolis. It is a direct flight to Fargo which is somewhat rare for the "Gateway City to the West" (The formerly emblematic statement on all city stationary and police cars before someone said, "Hey, you know, this town can be more than just a doorway to somewhere else.") The direct flight means I don't have to switch planes in Denver or Minneapolis, and saving at least an hour and a half of extra travel. Even losing 2 hours flying east I still was off the plane before 11:15am local time in Fargo, ready to hop in a car and drive 3 more hours to St. Cloud, Minnesota.
My Dad was the only person to greet me at the airport by design, we had work to do. A stop in a convenience store was in order. My regularly caffeinated blood was mounting an internal protest. The first culture shock was that there were not several Starbucks per square mile. I walked into a North Fargo "Zip and Go" (or something like that) and the woman at the counter was in a longer form conversation with a regular about the lottery (the man had apparently won some prize but judging from the appearance it was not a lot). The exchange was full of the brogue spoofed in the movie "Fargo" and covered in sayings like "Ya, geez" and "super". Neither could be interrupted by my business. My Dad hates when these stereotypical moments happen and I mention them in my writing because he feels they make the upper Midwest appear like a caricature of the real thing, but after he tried to simply buy a newspaper from the same people he seemed to side with me that it was provincial and very funny.
We had to drive an hour to Detroit Lakes and get my kids who have been summering in Minnesota with their other grandparents before continuing on another 2 hours to our final destination. My Dad is the kindest man alive and long car rides with him are wonderful. We quickly ran through topics ranging from my personal life, through American foreign policy and the latest technological advancements in cell phones and computers before settling in on discussing the Minnesota Twins and their tough battle with the Rangers. Long before I got into the news business my conversations with my father were always long and thoughtful, and it is nice to know some things don't change no matter how long you are away.
My reunion with my kids was done at a Perkins parking lot. They sprang from their grandfather Al's truck like they were shot from a cannon. There were hugs and kisses as I chocked back my emotions, because it is Minnesota after all. After more than a month they seemed taller and spoke even faster than before, there were 6 weeks of stories to be told and they tried their best to squeeze that into 15 minutes. They were so excited that the next two hours on the road flew by.
The color of the landscape defies description. Green seemed to glow from every plant and tree and was a shock to see after watching the Central Coast color of life fade months ago. The air smelled of cut grass and a strong wind ripped through shaking leaves on trees filling the space with a wooshing noise.
The best part of the story is the part I will tell you over the next few days. It involves elfs who live in trees, messages kids write to missing faeries, pleasant retirement villages, and everything else that makes Minnesota an interesting place to have grown up and visit.
Re-LAX
My flight to the Midwest left EARLY this morning. I woke up at 2:30am to just get to it on time. Of course, I arrived with more than an hour extra. You know you are at the airport extra early when the picture above is the view out your bleary eyes. Seats everywhere, even near the coveted chargers for cell phones and laptops. I am like a Eastern king with my bags sprawled luxuriously across several seats keeping folks headed to Fargo, ND at least several feet away for the time being.
No, Starbucks and Cinnebon offer no morning solace, nor were there any other convenience stores open yet. Now at 5am I hear their doors clattering open. I wonder what is the better thing to do, try to sugar and caffeine my way through the early morning, or attempt sleeping on the plane which others seem to do with little effort but always eludes me.
I hate to group people unfairly, but this group looks like a group headed to the Peace Garden state, lots of Earth tones. A couple of weeks ago I was shopping in Santa Monica and lets just say you can kinda tell where people live sometimes. However I should be forgiving, I didn't exactly spend a lot of time getting ready this morning as a protest to myself for booking this flight. (Actually this is the only direct LA to Fargo flight and it only flies on Tuesday and Saturday, the other options are connecting and after recent adventures in lost bags and delays I thought this was better despite a revelry-like rousing).
Well, folks. Time to board.
Dave Hovde: MasterChef
I don't tell a lot of lies about what I am capable of doing because at some point someone will look you square in the eyes and expect you to show them.
I have never claimed I can cook, and I think it is safe to say at this point whatever I learn here on in will be just enough to get me by. That said, I am a HUGE fan of cooking shows, especially the competitive ones like MasterChef which is new to America developed by the BBC and now airing on FOX.
This is a show where Gordon Ramsey and two other haughty chefs have gathered the best non-professional people from their kitchens at home and run them through a competition to see who is the best. The winner gets to publish a cookbook. The tests include getting a box of ingredients and an hour with the only goal to wow the judges. Some experience jubilation, some get their hopes dashed under sharp tongued wit then must literally walk off the set with camera rolling. I would just hand them the box back. I would love to have Gordon Ramsey's respect but I will not earn it in the kitchen.
It takes years of appreciation of food to get to the point where you can impress real chefs with skills developed at home and not a culinary school. By comparison I have lived in my new apartment for a month and I have not pulled out a pot or pan from the garage yet. Those pots and pans along with the finest plastic cookware (spatula, cooking spoon and a few measuring cups) were lovingly selected at Wal Mart by looking at the lowest price tag. I only hope the pot has the properties that it can hold water and keep its integrity if it is heated to a boil. I assume the pan has a non-stick surface because it is dark gray, but for no other reason than that.
Spices, lets see. I have salt, pepper, garlic salt, flavored popcorn toppings, and a few other random shakers of all-in-one type seasonings mostly given to me out of pity in an attempt to spark some interest in the endeavor to enjoy preparing food. I have to say I think my job in TV has a lot to do with not cooking. The night schedule only allows for an hour dinner break and clanging around pots and pans when 5 dollar footlongs are an option seems intimidating. I often hear you should cook once a week and prepare food you can take to work. Yes, I understand this conceptually. But let me show you what passes for food supplies at my place:
Yes, the staple, Crab Classic. As the bag clearly states it is not crab at all but "crab-flavored seafood made from surimi, a fully cooked fish protien." The last word is the only important word, protien. I have heard that word before, that means something good right? My body needs that? Chunks of this over salad and I feel like I am eating for some health food experiment. I get EPA and DHA in every serving?! Awesome, let me Google those.
Raisinets. As this package says it is fruit antioxidants and 30% less fat. All good. The lower right corner looks like some kind of seal of goodness or award has been bestowed, so gotta keep this around.
And, of course, combining the magic of chocolate and teeth rotting powers of gummi-bears is "Muddy Bears". I am not offering this as food so much as a silly picture. I bought these for someone else but it is taking up position in the kitchen.
Actually I am using this blog as a motivation to go and dig around the garage for the cooking utensils. When I was a kid I remember watching my Dad cook. He did it in a way I can understand. He is a pharmacist by trade and he would measure ingredients exactly on a scale and follow cooking directions to the letter like it was a doctor's prescription for food. Always turned out great. I think, like me, this was not a natural set of instincts or family cooking tradition but something he figured out along the way.
I am going back to Minnesota next week and my Dad will be there. He still cooks the best breakfast in the world with the basics: eggs, bacon, toast, OJ and coffee. Always made to order however and prepared carefully, I expect he'll make it even though he can't eat that kind of food anymore.
So, I have to figure this out and stop giving myself excuses. A person should make at least some good food at home. I have the interest in it having watched Chef Ramsey yell at hundreds of people I think I know a few things not to do (don't overcook scallops or undercook the risotto). I think at this point just cooking "something" would be a good start. But I am hungry right now and somehow Muddy Bears and Raisnetts are not going to do it. Have to leave the man cave for food.
The most important part of your cell phone
It is interesting that the most important part of our cell phones is the one part we are trying to eliminate: the power cord. This has come up so many times recently it is worth at least a few words.
How many times have you heard or read this:
"My phone's gonna die, call the other line."
"E-mail me phone is about to shut down."
Now we are at the point that everyone knows everyone else has their cell phones with them constantly. The only issue is IF they have power or not. Now losing power is about the only excuse left to drop off the grid without offense. However it is also a legit issue. I am a hard core user with the phone either being used for intercepting company e-mail, business calls, text messages, music, and navigation constantly. I use it as a mobile internet WIFI hotspot when I go on live shots so I can still post weather stories from the field. The most important part is the charger which plugs into the lighter which basically has turned my cell phone into a wall phone. My phone heats up I use it so often, kinda like holding a glowing charcoal briquette connected to the information super-highway (powerful if I need to know about Ashton Kutcher's latest Tweet).
I am not alone here. When I was at the Mid-State fair recently someone came up to the live van and begged to plug their phone in for a few minutes because it was dead and they needed to get a hold of their kids who were melting under the heat from the sun at some undisclosed other part of the fair grounds.
Of course, plenty of people don't have mobile chargers and at some point over the course of the day the phone just runs out. I always wonder how much valuable information exchange actually drained the battery:
"I think I found the cure to a horrible disease"
"You did. Which disease?"
"You know, the big one."
"Awesome, tell me about it."
"Sure, if you isolate the chromosome subset in the nucleus of a cell pertaining to the sequence...oh crap."
"What?"
"My phone is going to die, I will TTYL."
(I am sure almost all phones are drained this way. The alternative is that they are drained texting about what other people think about various minor day to day activities, flirting and posting or reading them from social networking sites, but that is too depressing to seriously consider. It is what Bell imagined with Watson for certain in their first texts.)
Bell: "Watson, what u up to."
Watson: "Uh, nothing, what u doing?"
Bell: "Nothing. It is 1875, what is there to do?"
Watson: "LOL, aren't you glad we invented this?"
Bell: "Well, we didn't really invent this, we invented voice telephone technology."
Watson: "Well, who has time for that? Lets invent a portable version of the teletype and call it texting?"
Bell: "That is ancient technology, or at least will be at some point, no one will go for it. Who will type out basic conversations when they can actually hear someone's voice."
Watson: "Everyone, my dear Bell."
(OK, I leap around at the end and it gets wildly historically inaccurate and ludicrous at the end. I am just saying those boys who invented the phone would not be impressed by the step closer to Morse code or by the kinds of 'information' we prioritize.)
Beginning of one thing, ending another
I don't think I have mulled a decision for a minor purchase more than I fidgeted about buying a new pair of running shoes. There was sweating, flushed faces, and shortness of breath but I finally got the New Balance 769's to replace my 748's. I think I hurt my finger trying to pry my credit card out from its firmly planted place in my wallet. It was lubricated by the fact that the 100 dollar shoes were on sale for 49.99 and that I took someone with me who kept saying, "do it, buy it, come on know you want them". Those old shoes had WAY too many miles on them, and I have written about them here before. They had lost their spring, like strapping on bricks or 2x4's on before a run, but they had the magical property of not hurting my feet no matter how many miles I would pile on them. Of course that was because of an intricate insert system I developed over the years. The pad on the bottom used to be blue, I am not sure you want to hear a detailed description about the mottled appearance of that substance now. The second layer is a green custom molded heel support topped by a less offensive pad on the top with a distinctive solid gray color.
I must have walked through a hundred shoe stores and taken recommendations from every runner I know. My brother is a powerful voice on the subject haven given me the first pair because they were slightly too large for him. At the transfer of ownership of the shoes he made it clear staring at my eyes to make the point clear, "These already have some miles on them but you should be able to get a year out of them or so." That was three years ago. Since then the fabric on the side has begun to tear, enough for the casual observer to wonder when the retirement age was. My old shoes were the Brett Favre of running shoes, never knowing if they will see use again. Honestly, I kid you not. I can't bring myself to throw them out, they MAY get use again if I don't like the new ones. I took those out for a 5 mile run today, there was more life to each step but I tried a different arrangements of the pads. I finished the run, but it was work.
And in astronomical news, there are several new objects in orbit...mostly home runs given up by Jonathan Broxton. I love my Dodgers and far be it from me to take on the genius that is Joe Torre but his patience with George Sherrill and Broxton would test the Dalai Lama's. I made the happy pilgrimage to Chávez Ravine a handfull of times again this year, and narrowly missed yet another foul ball that fate wants me to get. By the way, I don't think I have ever seen the Dodgers lose a home game I have been to...a fortunate interrupted run spread out more than a decade. The game pictured above was a recent extra innings win which Broxton tried his best to give away but managed to get a 'W' for. Now 11 games back I am searching for which team I will follow in the post season. The Minnesota Twins are the natural choice, duking it out with the White Sox for the AL Central for what seems like the 10th straight year. Is it too early to give up on the Dodgers? Never! But I thought I would take a position on my AL rooting interest just in case.
As for the NL, It'll be really hard to cheer for anyone else from the West since I root against them all year. 0-162 is the record I prefer the Padres to have each season, I would love to hear "The Coach" spin that on San Diego's sports radio 1090 which cracklingly leaks into the Central Coast, but of course they could win the West which somehow justifies the bit he did about songs on Geoff Blum's iPod a few years back. That is when I knew I could never like the Padres. There are just some things which should not be known or at least open to public discussion. Also I don't think an Illiad length discussion needs to be done on the strengths and weaknesses of Lake Elsinor's bullpen complete with live interviews, just in case dengue fever hits the big club and the entire roster gets called up. OK, maybe I dislike the radio station more than the team...I am just saying I will not be rooting for them.
Last night I sat in bed and watched the Minnesota Vikings pre-season game which re-aired on NFL-HD. I went to extraordinary lengths to not know what happened in the game. It took place Saturday afternoon but didn't hit the network until Sunday night. No ESPN, no Facebook, no AP wire, no talking to relatives or family. Why I did this is of some concern. There was no Brett Favre or Adrian Peterson, so I watched Sage Rosenfels cut apart the tame St. Louis Rams. I think it was the admission to myself that maybe some synapse in the back of my skull really doesn't believe the Dodgers won't go on a 20 game win streak and it is time to re-stoke the flame that the Vikings can somehow turn back the hands of time again and win something more than just respect.
