A lot of thoughts went through my mind when I heard of the death of the enigmatic Kirby Puckett earlier this week.

When I think about watching KP growing up, he was THE MAN. My favorite player on my favorite baseball team. As an 11-year old sports fanatic, I remember running all over my living room after the 1987 World Series victory and thinking how truly great this guy was. As a 15-year old, I absolutely roared throughout the house after his game-winning home run sent the Twins to Game 7 in the 1991 World Series. Puck's heroics were a great source of joy for me.

All my life I had wanted to see one of my teams win a world championship, no matter what the sport. When the Vikings came up short year after year after year, I had already been resigned to that great sense of disappointment that usually is associated with Minnesota sports fans.

But Puck changed all that, with a catch, a home run, and a childish enthusiasm for the game that no one in his era could match.

He was Twins baseball. His 5'8 frame was larger than life as far as I was concerned.

Few events from my adolesence will ever stick with me like the 1991 World Series and the emotions I felt when the Twins won. I still get tears watching the championship highlight video from that season. I can't wait someday to show that to my son, and I'm sure I'll still cry then too- hell, thinking about it now, fifteen years later, still causes me to pause and bring a smile to my face.

Watching Kirby rob Ron Gant of a sure base hit with his catch against the plexiglas still is one of the greatest plays in the field I've ever seen. My cousin Rory, who has an artistic talent that I marvel at, sketched a picture of Kirby scaling the wall to make that catch out of a photo in Sports Illustrated. I had that picture next to my Kirby poster in my room until I moved out of my parent's house several years later. His autographed baseball card that I have was one of my most prized possessions.

As I look at my eight-month old son now, I often wonder if he will ever have a sports hero like Puckett. They just, as the old saying goes, don't make 'em like that anymore.

But consider- Kirby's off-the-field problems that all came out after his retirement and induction into the Hall of Fame. Alleged abuse of his wife. Constant threats to her livelihood. Extramarital affairs that left women battered and bruised. An alleged assault incident in a bar with another woman.

Those of you that aren't parents (those that are will relate to this comment), think about how you would feel talking about Puckett's life to your son. Think about it: Is it possible to honestly sit there and call him a hero? Life didn't stop for Kirby in 1996 when he retired and brought a whole world of problems upon himself.

I never used to think about this before I became a parent, but I sure pause and wonder now. Can I watch old highlights of this man, the greatest baseball player ever to wear a Twins uniform, and really tell my son what a great guy Kirby Puckett was?

The answer, like many things is life, is part yes and part no. Kirby the player- a legend. Kirby the man- seriously flawed.

Those of us that were "Kirby's Kids" growing up are now grown up with kids of our own. And we should think about how we held this man in such regard. For it is a cautionary tale of the modern athlete---and how we as the public can be so wrong about our perceptions.

But one thought is appropriate, whatever you think of the life this man led.

Rest in peace, Puck. We'll never forget you.

Rest in peace, Grandpa Don.

Grandpa died last Saturday at the age of 92. Since Grandma died last May, I have been wondering how long he would hold on.

I don't think he left the world with any regrets. He raised four fine sons, got to see his grandchildren grow up, even got to see his great grandson a couple of times. For that I will always be grateful that even though my son won't remember his great grandpa, at least I can tell him one day that he got to see him up close and personal.

I will miss Grandpa dearly. Everything I learned about the game of poker came at his kitchen table in Moorhead, it seems. When to raise, when to bluff, how to play criss-cross, etc. Grandpa was a poker expert before it became "in" to play poker. He taught me a great appreciation for the game and how to play it the right way.

For years, I'd go to Grandpa's house on Sundays to watch the Vikings play. We suffered through many a lousy effort by the Purple as they would fumble away another playoff loss or bad game, but I always enjoyed watching games with him. We'd shake hands each time the Vikings had a good play or a score. He'd make us popcorn and after the late games were over, we'd play poker at the kitchen table until it was time for me to go home. We talked about football all the time. I regret he never got to see his beloved Vikings win a Super Bowl.

Grandpa also made me a boxing fan. An old amateur fighter himself, Grandpa would study fighters and always watched for specific techniques, etc. I distinctly remember watching a fight with him involving Sugar Ray Leonard--Grandpa told me to observe Leonard's opponent to "watch when he drops that left hand, and Ray'll knock him on his ass" and not ten seconds later, the left hand dropped, down went Leonard's foe, and that was it. While boxing is pretty much a shadow now of what it once was, I will always be a fight fan because of Grandpa.

The man could fish like no one's business. He made his own lures by hand, had a tackle box with just about anything you could imagine in it, and never forgot a good fishing spot. He could always tell you, for example, that the best fishing spot on Big Detroit was "about 5 minutes off the public landing to the east, right underneath the purple house with the two boat docks and the small patch of weeds." He was that precise. Forget maps, the man had a memory like a sponge.

Whenever I'd call Grandpa and ask how he was doing, he'd always answer with "Well, I'm tryin' to just hang in there, young fella!" It became a staple response.

I know you hung in there as long as you could, Grandpa. I love you and I miss you---enjoy the great fishing with the Man upstairs.

I'm kicking ass.

The job is going fantastic. I'm leading the market in products sold, revenue earned, and percentage of goal made. On pace to make a nice bonus.

My son is happy and smiling every day when I come home. My wife is loving the fact that she can be a stay at home mom.

My dog, aside from crapping on the floor every other night or so, has been a constant source of enjoyment.

It's proof that hard work and dedication paves the way for success.

Yeah baby.

"We, the unwilling.....led by the unknowing.....doing the impossible.....for the ungrateful."
---seen on a t-shirt

That's a great quote--you know, appeals to that "working for the man to be the man" mentality, right? Probably adopted by a union somewhere that is convinced they are getting screwed on benefits or some such thing. Unions, by the way, are completely backwards and corrupt these days, but that's another topic for another day

I'm fortunate to really enjoy my job. Sure, there are days where I want to scream, go all Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" on my co-workers and customers, but those have been few and far between in the last few years.

If the statement that led off describes your job, GET OUT. Life's too short to not enjoy what you do for a living. I gained perspective on that for all the wrong reasons. Last year, the company I had worked for was targeted for acquisition by (shudder) a large French corporation.

(Side note: Screw the French. They smell, are rude and don't have a damn clue about how to run a country or defend themselves in any armed conflict larger than a paintball game. You, me and about 30 well trained athletes could take Paris over within a few hours. Stick that in your craw, Mr. Jacques Chirac. Ahhh, the joys of socialist government. Get a set, Jacques.)

Despite the above, turns out the French are at a very small level, responsible for my recent success. Without their purchase of my former employer, I would not be where I am today, enjoying success with a top corporation. So I guess the French did do one thing right.

But back to my original point. If you hate your job so much, LEAVE. If you have the self-reliance to pull yourself up, achieve and not depend on the government or others to provide for you in your life, you can succeed.

The prime example of this is the recent hurricanes. Yes, there are people who may never recover economically and emotionally. No doubt about it, and they need time and assistance to get their lives together. Fully support that, I do. But I also suspect for years we're going to hear about the plight of displaced New Orleans residents and how they can't get back on their feet, etc. The worst part is some of those people won't even try. And of course, because they won't try, it's all George Bush's fault. What a crock of shit.

You've got people using the FEMA/American Red Cross $2,000 debit cards to go to strip clubs (Houston), purchasing Louis Vuitton bags for $800 (Atlanta) and designer jeans/high heel shoes (Memphis) At least they can't use them to purchase alcohol, tobacco or firearms (supposedly).
Nothing like the culture of victimhood to bring out America's best.

Where am I going with this? Get some perspective. You waste time waiting for the government to do things for you. Make something of yourself. Get laid off? Fine. Go find something else to do or learn to do something else. The longer you throw yourself a pity party, the worse your situation gets. Take a stand, and tell the Democrats to just stay out of your way with their ridiculous social and economic policies that are supposed to help you. Desire to succeed has nothing to do with politics, race, color, creed, you name it. It has to do with inner drive. And the government can't give it to you, nor can I. It's all on you, kids.

Now get out there and play the game the right way.

Ahem. Is this thing on?

Blogging. So it's come to this. Blog, which I am convinced is basic internet shorthand for "bullshit log", is the most trendy medium for putting an opinion out there for all to see. To blog or not to blog, that is the question. No tests to pass, qualifications to possess. Hell, you've seen people who create these things. They look like they were written by a 1st grader....e.g. "My huband and I went to camping in woods on Satrday-was grate but it wuz raining and got mudy and gross outside ewwwwww...."

Captivating stuff, I know.

There's a blog for everything. Want to read about the guy who documents his toenail clipping ritual-like exploits each day? Check their blog. Want to read about that crazy friend of yours who has no life except on the internet? Blog it, baby! Care to check up on the latest political rantings of your favorite party/cause/issue? Vote with the blog, amigo! Want to read about things that have nothing to do with anything? B-to the L to the O to the G, homies!

What's my blog about? We'll see. In the accounting world I used to work in, we called it WIP, or work in process. That's what this little experiment is. It's for amusement purposes only.

What amazes me is the fanatical dedication people have for posting their blog entries. They actually APOLOGIZE when they don't update the blog for an extended period of time. I sure hope Bob in Boise isn't going to be pissed off when I update this. Not sure I have the patience or the free time to post every day, but I'm usually good for a yuk or two.

For some, it's an outlet. For some, a way to express themselves. For me, I choose to use it as a vehicle to make fun of others and society in general. (Or post pictures of my dog, whichever I choose. Screw you for judging me.) As Uncle Steve says, you gotta "keep smilin".

So it was obviously time for my own blog, since I'm stuck in 2003 apparently and needed to get with the program. I mean, how many times can I hear something similar to the following: "What, you don't have a blog? You dipshit. What purpose is your life without a BLOG???? Where's your sense of self-purpose? And most importantly, DID YOU SEE THE REALLY COOL SHIT I PUT ON MY BLOG LAST NIGHT? I RULE!!!!!

Let's recap my feelings about blogging. I'm SO SICK of reading blogs about other people's kids, what they ate for dinner, the fact that their job/husband/house/etc sucks. So SCREW THAT. Why don't you go play with your kids, eat something different, get a divorce, remodel your kitchen or just FUCK OFF and read a good book. Does anybody care that your child took a dump in his diaper for the 2nd time that day? Probably not. (For the record, mine just did and he's gotten quite good at it.)

So a quick summary: I'm not here to read your blog. You're here to read mine. And whether you like it or not is your own affair. My family's moments are mine to cherish and remember, so I won't be boring you with those details. I don't need to publish a picture of my kid in his exer-saucer to validate my abilities as a father, or talk about my dog's vicious attacks of collitis one cold March morning. I'm taking the gamble that you don't care, and if you do, I don't want you reading my blog anyway.

Enjoy the ride, kids. If you don't like what you see, I'm sure someone's blogging about their fond memories of Jolt cola somewhere.