It is hard to believe, but I am actually going to sit down and write a bit. I have my cup of tea by my side -- the cup is a big, black 20 ounce treasure from the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman, Montana. It's a great place to visit if you're in the area -- especially if dinosaurs are your thing. The tea is "Organic Peachy Green" by Tazo. I am happy it is "organic," because an inorganic tea doesn't sound very palatable. The Tazo connoisseurs say this tea has a "hint of cucumber," but I'm not buying it. Still, it is pretty tasty.

No, I have not stopped drinking coffee; far from it, actually. Throughout the morning, I've had two pots of Sunrise Blend from New Hill Coffee Roasters. My friend, Kevin, is the owner/operator of New Hill and he roasts and blends fantastic coffee.

This date, February 28, is earmarked in my life and it might be why I was moved to write today. My father died on this day back in 1997. I held his hand when he slipped away. I've always been thankful I was with him when he took his last breath. I will never know if he knew I was there, but I am glad he wasn't alone. Twenty-nine years ago feels like yesterday, but at the same time it feels like a lifetime ago.

〰

So what have I been doing? Working, mostly. I usually have a day off during the week and then embrace these precious weekends. I've been watching lots of basketball lately; I always do in February and March. It isn't nearly as entertaining and interesting as football, but it is better than most things on television. 

I am also reading (almost done) a fantastic novel, The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. It was a Christmas gift from my daughter who picked it up at a used book store (she knows I love those kinds of gifts). Atwood, of course, is most famous for The Handmaid's Tale, which presently sits atop my desk, part of my lengthy "To Read" list. If it is half as good as The Blind Assassin, I will be happy. She's an awesome writer.

Well, the days are getting longer. That's a positive. This time of year I am always looking for something positive, because this is an ugly time of year. The snow has become a flagrant gray-black, as if its very existence is meant to be offensive. The trees are barren skeletons. The few pock marks of bare ground are dreary and dead. The sky is concrete on most days. On good days, the temperatures rise above freezing for a short time, then the world becomes a skating rink at night. Rinse and repeat. Day after day. 

Oh, and there's dog shit everywhere.

I guess this is called "spring fever," right?

And, as any Minnesotan knows, winter isn't over. My dad used to say we always get a snowstorm right around the boys state basketball tournament. And you know what? He was right every time. I suspect the same will be true this year.

[editor's note: my last post waaay back in July 2025 was about the Amelia Earhart plane wreckage and the Purdue University expedition to Nikumaroro where the mysterious Taraia Object is located. I mentioned there was something very odd on the northwestern shore, which was nowhere close to the infamous satellite imagery that many researchers think is Earhart's plane. 

As it turns out, this is actually a shipwreck of the SS Norwich City, which foundered there in 1929. So, my eyes didn't deceive me; it really was something man-made, just not an airplane. Mystery solved.

By the way, this expedition, originally slated for November 2025, has been postponed until later in 2026.]

No More Cable, A Consult, Super Bowl Tickets and Snow!

 Yesterday was a rather empowering day for me. I decided I had had enough of paying too much and got rid of our cable service (I sound like a commercial!). Over the past year our cost has gone up 10% for the exact same service. Over the past five years, the price has gone up almost $80 a month for the exact same service. I got a letter this week saying the price was going up yet another $11 and that was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. 

I was being charged what is essentially another car payment for television. No new channels, no new, upgraded services. Same thing, higher price. It is just stupid. I don't see how cable companies can stay in business.

I kept the high speed internet service and researched for several days before deciding to go with YouTube TV. I get more than 100 channels, including the NFL Network, plus the option to get NFL RedZone during the football season (which I watch religiously September through January), all for 1/3 the price I am paying right now. Why I waited this long is another question. Good lord.

I also went to the optometrist yesterday and have a consult scheduled with an eye surgeon later this month. Last year at this time I was dreading surgery, which I knew was inevitable. Now I am looking forward to it. Time to get this done and get back to 100% (hopefully). 

☆

The Super Bowl will be played a week from tomorrow and below is a terrific example why I will never take my family to the big game. 

A family of four would cost $20,200+ just for tickets in the cheap seats. That's not counting hotel, plane tickets, meals, etc. I would much rather take my family on a cruise around the world for the same price, rather than watch a three hour game. 

The Super Bowl is truly a rich person's event. Most of these cake eaters who go to the Super Bowl haven't watched a single game all season, much less know the players; and they certainly don't know the rules of the game. It is a social function for the rich and famous. A place to be "seen." It is not a fan's game at all. 

That's okay, I've got better seats in my living room. And a private bathroom. And much, much cheaper beer.

It is snowing like crazy right now. Temps are in the mid-20s. I took my son driving to Little Falls and back and he got to experience some dodgy winter driving. It was good practice and he kept it between the ditches. That's all that matters.

22 January 2025

 I'm not sure what to do with this site. Should I make it into a football-only site? Maybe record the daily weather? How about my own personal book club? A personal diary? All of the above? 

I don't know.

I suppose it doesn't really matter. I'm not marketing myself for an audience and if you don't promote a site, you don't get traffic. I'm good with that. This is for my own therapy. 

We all need a release valve. There can be no doubt today's world is far more toxic to one's mental health than it was 30 years ago. It is almost impossible to get away from the slings and arrows of social media (and yes, the irony that I am writing this on a website is not lost on me). I know for a fact my mind was much happier before Facebook, Instagram, etc. I find the less attention I pay to social media and news outlets, the better I am. 

Am I burying my head in the sand? To a degree, yes, I suppose I am. Does it really matter? No, it doesn't. The country will meander off the edge of the earth with or without me. This is not to imply I ignore current events and world news, but I try to tune the bullshit out. And most of it is bullshit.

Speaking of current events...

This year has been a theme of fire and ice so far. Fire on the West Coast: cataclysmic wild fires around Los Angeles earlier in January (they started on the 7th). Dry conditions with 100 mph winds make very favorable conditions for a catastrophe. Ice in the south: Lafayette, Louisiana, has more snow (10+ inches) than Baxter, Minnesota as of January 21. 

Are these cyclical patterns? Climate change? Even though the theory of climate change is based on the course and trends of 175 years worth of data, it doesn't exist if you say it doesn't exist. Draw a line in the sand and anything is political.

As John Lennon once wrote, "Living is easy with eyes closed."

Speaking of weather, we've had brutally cold temperatures here in central Minnesota earlier this week. Monday night was the coldest it has been in the last calendar year. It was -32° F on Monday night/Tuesday morning. It always amazes me that wildlife, like deer and birds, can exist in extreme cold like that, but they do. It is much more pleasant now -- something like 19° F right now. Above zero is always a nice thing. 

It is a little late for resolutions, but my son mentioned something yesterday that I have thought of before and I even made an abortive attempt at trying once: converting all my weather apps to Celsius/metric scale. In his words, "It's just so much easier to understand." (And so it is: 0 is when water freezes, 100 is when water boils. It is simply a paradigm shift to thinking anything from 17 to 29 Celsius is very pleasant. Anything below that is getting chilly and anything above that is getting hot.)

Liberia, Myanmar and the United States are the only three countries in the world that "officially" use the old imperial units. The U.S. isn't exactly a forward-moving, progressive nation, but obviously this is what the majority of Americans desire. Certainly, we are no longer leaders in education (far from it!). We've also fallen behind as the world leader in science and technology. That's not my opinion. That's a fact. Unless you choose to not believe it. Remember, it doesn't exist if you say it doesn't exist. Easy!

I finished a novella yesterday, The Pearl by John Steinbeck. I haven't read anything by Steinbeck that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed. The moral of this quick read was, essentially, "be careful what you wish for."

I think my next book is going to be Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky. It is yet another classic I have not yet read.

Happy birthday to my dad, who was born on 21 Jan 1915.

4 January 2025

 Exactly one year ago I published my last post here. I thought it might be rather poetic to post again, 52 weeks later. No, I am not dead. As far as I know I am not even close to being dead yet. But I suppose we are working closer to that goal each day. There is a song about that somewhere.

It is -7 (F) this morning.  A typical Minnesota early January ice box. The sun has yet to rise, the sky a pale, baby blue (it is around 7:30 AM). This time of year is just lonely. Squirrels in abundance at the bird feeder, but that is just about the only sign of life outside.

I took my son driving yesterday around Gull Lake. It was a 63 minute little excursion. He won't be 16 for seven months yet, but it is good to get that winter driving time in while we can. 

I watched the Gophers win the Duke's Mayo Bowl last night, defeating Virginia Tech. Such a prestigious bowl game. Not. The whole damn game a sideshow for some crap mayonnaise ...and the winning head coach gets a mayo "bath" at the end of the game. Somehow, nobody quite sees the joke is on the winning team. Not exactly the pomp and circumstance of the Rose Bowl, right?

While watching the game, I listened to Counting Crows for the first time in years. I am way behind the times and checked out an album called "Somewhere Under Wonderland" which actually came out 11 years ago and I think it is their last full length studio album. Truth is, Adam Duritz is a modern day philosopher and lyrical genius and I've always loved this work. To me, he's a modern day Billy Joel. Duritz's voice can be somewhat an acquired taste at times, in the same vein as Geddy Lee's voice is an acquired taste, but his music and lyrics are second to none.

"If you can't keep your shit together when God is on your side / What chance to you have when He's not around?"

That particular lyric, taken from "Cover Up the Sun," really resonated with me and it seems more relevant today, in the United States, than ever before. Because, yeah, God is supposed to be on our side (in the immortal words of Don Henley, "We pray to our God, who we know is American"), but we definitely do not have our shit together. Not even close.

The wrap this post up, for absolutely no particular reason, I will include a picture of a very large acorn which I found at Wilson's Creek National Battlefield, located just southwest of Springfield, Missouri. Taken late October, 2024.

 

 

Living the Beatles Legend

 Another nice day today; it is 38 degrees and sunny. You won't break a sweat taking a walk, but you also won't freeze to death either. We finally got a dusting of snow a few days ago, but it hasn't taken the grass over yet. And there are just 12 days until Christmas. What a mild winter.

I finished Living the Beatles' Legend, The Untold Story of Mal Evans today by Kenneth Womack. I may have mentioned earlier that the Mal Evans story is one the long lost puzzle pieces to Beatles history. His story seems like some kind of fanciful, poorly written novel, but it is completely true. In fact, it make be a great movie "based on a true story."

This book is a well-researched, well-written page turner. I loved it. 

Prior to joining the Beatles, Evans trained as a telecommunications engineer for the General Post Office in Liverpool. He had a perfectly respectable job with a decent pension, a wife and a child on the way in 1961. 

Then one day in that year, he took his lunch break at the Cavern Club in Liverpool and his life changed. Because of his size (he was 6'3" which, at the time, was a massive man) "Big Mal"  stood out. He took a liking the band on stage, rather oddly called the Beatles, and quickly befriended them. 

Before he knew it was was moonlighting as a bouncer at the Cavern Club and, as the band's popularity spread, began working as their second roadie, taking care of the band's equipment while original road manager Neil Aspinall took care of the Beatles themselves. Along with band manager Brian Epstein and Derek Taylor (later Tony Bramwell) handling the press, these four made up the entire Beatles "entourage" during the touring years. Hard to believe, but it is true.

Evans was indispensable to the Beatles. He was also embarrassingly underpaid his entire life by the Fab Four. 

When he was home, which wasn't often, he appeared to be a doting father and caring husband. 

But he was out the door the moment the phone rang, whether to buy new guitar strings for George or accompany Paul on an African safari. Sadly, he lived a compartmental life and truth be told, he was a shitty father and an even shittier husband.

Evans lived the life of a rock star away from home, or at least lived on fringe benefits of being part of the inner circle of the biggest band in the world. Evans was unfaithful to his wife any chance he got (which was often) and he would be away from home for months at a time. Sure he would call home and write letters, but was known for his hard-partying ways and womanizing. And truth be told, the Beatles themselves were hardly choirboys. 

When the Beatles stopped touring, Evans tried his hand at record producing (in fact, he produced Badfinger's "No Matter What," a song my own band plays), and he liked to think of himself as a professional lyricist, which is what he focussed on "later" in his life. 

I say later in quotes because Evans only lived to 40 years old. Evans had alienated his family and moved to L.A. after falling in love with a younger woman. He was already struggling with drug and alcohol addiction when his wife filed for divorce. This should hardly have been a surprise to Evans. but he felt he could have the best of both worlds. At this point, in late 1975, he started spiraling out of control.

He wrote a last will and testament on a piece of tablet paper while inebriated on January 3, 1976. The "will" rambled incoherently and he asked the Beatles to play at his funeral. 

The next day, January 4th, he called a friend and asked them to look after his wife and children, should anything happen to him. 

That evening he proceeded to get drunk to the gills and high on cocaine and loaded a Winchester rifle, which he kept in the bedroom. His live-in girlfriend begged him to put the gun away and then called police when Evans locked himself in their bedroom. When police opened the bedroom door, Evans was sitting on the floor with the gun pointed downward. He was told to drop the weapon. He told the police "No. Blow my head off!" and he suddenly raised the rifle to a shooting position...

My guess is Evans probably did not have mettle to turn the gun on himself, but he knew the police would end it all if he pointed the weapon at them. It is clear he was suicidal and had a plan.

It is strange to think that four years and 11 months after he died, one of his former employers, John Lennon, was also killed by gun violence. Lennon was also 40 years old.

KISS's Finale and Other Thoughts

 I have to admit, I do enjoy standing out on my deck in a t-shirt and slippers on December 2nd, and not freezing my ass off... and not finding myself knee deep in snow. In fact, there is no snow. This isn't unprecedented; I remember some years ago video taping (yes, video taping) our yard on Christmas Eve, and not a single flake of snow to be seen. 

As I've said before, each day that passes with no snow means winter is one day shorter. It could be way worse:

My backyard on this day in 2019. 

Better news still, in three weeks the days will start getting longer again. I think my vitamin regimen is helping, probably especially vitamin D, which makes me encouraged.

I've waited to go on my "health kick" until I got my lab results back. I got my blood drawn yesterday and things are exactly as I thought they'd be. High cholesterol, really high triglycerides. My fasting glucose is high, which has been the case for several years. So I've earned "pre-diabetic" to my list of titles. Not one I want... but like I said in my last post, I can do something about all of it.

Tonight we are kicking off the Christmas season by attending the Madrigal Dinner, produced by the high school choir. We attended last year and it was fun. It is a multi-course dinner with singing and a play, all Christmas-themed.

This is also a historic night in the music world. Tonight is KISS's final performance on their "End of the Road" tour. This tour saw 250 performances on five continents. We will get to a point in time when this kind of tour will be a thing of the past. Most bands today will only tour during the summer and they call a 20-date run of shows a "tour." They just don't make bands like KISS anymore.

KISS has been one of my favorite bands for about 49 years. I discovered them when I was five years old and I was obsessed from the beginning (around 1975). KISS's Destroyer was the first album I ever owned (my mother bought it for me) and I was Peter Criss for nearly every Halloween during my youth. There has been no other band like KISS and their live show remains unmatched by anyone. 

I've been fortunate enough to see the band three times, twice with the original line-up and once with my kids nearly four years ago. The show was absolutely amazing.

We saw KISS's "End of the Road" tour in Grand Forks, ND, Feb 22, 2020. 

Now, do I think KISS will actually not perform live again? I'd say there's absolutely no chance they will hang it up for good. Even though this is a big "to do," and they are ending their careers where it all began (New York City), and this weekend has been a "KISS take-over" of the Big Apple, KISS has done this before. They went on a "Farewell Tour" way back in 2000. They swore that tour was it. 

And they were back on the road a year later. 

Performing live is a drug to these guys. They won't be able to stay away from the stage. The only thing that can keep them away is age and health. 

But for tonight, I will pretend along with everyone else that their long, fantastic run is over. 

Friday, 24 February 2023

 Today is a day off for me--even more rare, it is a Friday and a day off. If time could just stand still now. It was -17 degrees this morning, but the coffee is hot, I've got a comfy chair and a good book. It could be -50 for all I care.

I have worked, it seems, every day for weeks on end. I've taken extra call for my work, so one work day is equal to three eight hour shifts. Plus a weekend of call, which is 64 hours. That's the equivalent of eight working days alone.

So if it feels like I haven't been home, that's why.

Things are going to get very busy in a few days. My daughter is going on a trip to New York City with her high school band in early March, so the next couple weeks will be early mornings and late nights of band rehearsal, not to mention she's the stage manager for the spring musical, which started rehearsals this week as well. 

Anyway, the band is flying to NYC and she's never been in a plane before, so I'm not so sure how this is going to go. She seems pretty chill about it, or at least she's putting on a heck of a brave face. I am accepting as a parent that at some point you've got to let go and let your kids spread their wings. I'm not going to be around forever. she's got to do things on her own. This will be a huge confidence booster for her.

My son is keeping himself busy playing trombone and working out after school in a power conditioning program; today is his last day of winter session and he wanted me to sign him up for spring session. So at least he's enjoying it, although I suspect a big part of the "enjoyment" is the fact he doesn't have to ride the bus after school. But he says he works hard and is always complaining of how sore he is the next day, so I hope he's getting some good out of it. 

I just signed him up for NDSU football camp in June; this will be his third year attending. I had to take his measurements for camp and he's now 5'10", 180 pounds... the size of a full grown man... He won't be 14 years old until July, so he's a big dude.

We had a feast of junk food for our little family Super Bowl party (me, my wife and my son). My daughter came out of her spider hole (her bedroom) to eat and to watch Rhianna at halftime and quickly scurried away. I was pleased the Chiefs won. When Brian and I went to a game at Arrowhead Stadium a few years ago, almost every Chiefs fan was friendly, talkative and respectful, which is the polar opposite of Eagles fans. They are obnoxious assholes. And if you're reading this and you are an Eagles fan, don't even argue. Own it. 

I was quite happy to see them cry in their beer afterwards.

My goofy son, posing with his "Chad" look. Evidently the "Chad" look is a thing. Anyway, he made wrapped smokies with mozzarella in the shape of a football for the Super Bowl. Deelish!

Otherwise, I am not doing much during these long winter days. although lately I've been working on putting together a new fantasy football league with a group of guys, so that's keeping me occupied. Hopefully the league will launch this fall. Fantasy football has been a hobby of mine since 1991. It is something I absolutely love to do.

I just started reading The Lives and Legends of Buffalo Bill by Don Russell, which I purchased last August at the Buffalo Bill Center of the West museums in Cody, Wyoming (highly recommended if you are ever in Cody). So, I am finally getting around to finishing the books I bought last summer. 

Snow is Here

 Winter has finally come for its annual visit. And so it will overstay its welcome for the next five months. 

Flurries and snow showers have been falling for days now, nonstop. The season has gradually snuck up on us and now we've gotten several inches of accumulating snow. I blew out the driveway Tuesday and it'll need to be done again in the very near future. Even as I write this, flurries continue to fall. It doesn't seem so bad while sipping a mug of hot apple cider.

Ava's fall play, "Father of the Bride" opens Friday (tomorrow). She's stressed about that, putting in very long hours over the past week. She was promoted to stage manager for the theater department this year (she was assistant stage manager last year); it's something she really wanted to do and this is a big test to see whether it was a good idea. She's doing well with it to be honest, and it is certainly a learning experience. I know she takes pride in what she's doing after texting me a picture of the set last night:

"Father of the Bride" BHS Theater Dept, 17 Nov 2022 

Since last posting, our upstairs shower is complete. Now we are waiting for someone to sheetrock around the surround and another to install the bathroom flooring. This is all being coordinated by our plumber and the pace is... well, there is no pace. We've come to another standstill. It has been a very frustrating experience. We are now two solid months without a second shower.

I saw my doctor this morning for a check-up. Not surprisingly, he added a new blood pressure medication. In a month he wants me to do bloodwork to make sure my liver and kidneys aren't being pickled. To think, this could all be avoided (probably) if I could get motivated to lose weight like I did in 2012. Actually, I'm not as heavy as I thought I was going to be. I weighed in at 251 pounds today, which is about 14 or 15 pounds less than what I was at my heaviest some ten years ago.

I started reading a book by Jon Meacham called And There Was Light. It is a biography on Abraham Lincoln; I've read multiple biographies/studies on Lincoln and I always find something new and interesting about him. He's one of my favorite historical figures. I read American Lion by Meacham a couple of years ago, a biography on Andrew Jackson. So far, his new book is proving to be just as good as that one.

I suppose that's it for now. Looking forward to absolute darkness at 5:00 PM. Not. My wife and I have come to an agreement that we have to do something in the evenings to keep us occupied. We cannot go to bed at 7:00 PM (even though it feels tempting). Maybe we'll hold a winter-long gin or rummy tournament? Anything is better than staring at the t.v.

The Nostril Stick Test

I like to call this photo "stupid cold."

This morning in my part of the world (Minnesota, USA), the mercury plummeted to -33 degrees Fahrenheit. To my friends everywhere else in the world, that’s -36 degrees Celsius. 

Life changes at this temperature. The house makes eerie popping sounds. Wildlife disappears. Delicate sensors in vehicles flash false warnings. Ice crystals float in the air.

Today I attempted the ultimate test of frigidity: the Nostril Stick Test. In the painful January air, I breathed in deeply through my nose. My nostrils stuck together like wallpaper paste. A positive test. It was cold.

By now you are certainly asking, “Why do you live there?”

It is a fair question; in fact, I ask myself the same thing every winter: “Why do I live in a place where my nostrils stick together?”

I have no clever answer. This is simply home. 

November Fades

Green blades stretch through the snow, arms in the air, surrendering, submitting to the inevitable. 

Seasons shift silently, leisurely. November fades to winter’s will, like chilled wisps of smoke twisting in late autumn air; the sun becomes a stranger and the moon bathes in exquisitely long nights. 

We curl in inky shadows, hibernating, assured that eternity will last just a brief time.

Five months of midnight, blindfolded, those blades of green will sleep, buried alive under a compressed canopy of white. 

But the earth turns, the canopy dissolves with the trickle of spring and the blades raise their arms in triumph. 

The circle is complete.

Thankful for Another Spin

I sat at the kitchen table, my steaming cup of coffee now lukewarm, repeating the phrase to myself. It was so simple, so honest. And beautifully profound.

Never underestimate the wisdom of your children. Even though they lack life experience, that very innocence can be the key to a certain clarity, something that becomes clouded as we collect the scar tissue of adulthood.

I became a dad for the first time almost 16 years ago. My daughter was a dribbly, snotty-nosed miracle who changed my life forever. Three years later, her burbling, bubbling little brother made me the proudest pop in Minnesota.

Being a parent to youngsters was like traveling back in a time machine. All of life's marvels, long invisible as an adult, became strikingly clear again, especially during winter time. The thrill of learning to ice skate or the giddiness of tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a carpet of white powder brought almost too much happiness to bear. There was nothing like the joy of a winter wonderland.

It was a joy I had long forgotten.

Which brings me to the kitchen table. 

I poured myself a coffee and sat next to my son, who was gulping down a mug of hot chocolate. The afternoon November sky was getting tired as we watched the first snow of the year collect on the backyard lawn: green succumbing to white. 

I had to work early the next morning and I was not looking forward to negotiating slick roads. As I grumbled about the accumulating mess outside, my 12 year old philosopher offered invaluable insight.  

"Well, here we go again," I said with a sigh. Another miserable winter. Skin-numbing cold, wet socks and cars that won't start. 

"I'm kind of glad it's snowing," said my son, wiping off his chocolate moustache.

"Why?" I asked.

He thought for a moment. "Because I haven't seen it in a while."

That simple, poignant phrase froze my thoughts. 

Because I haven't seen it in a while. 

When we become adults, we make a tragic metamorphosis. We become anxiety-ridden worry machines. We worry about money. We worry about bills. We worry about jobs. We worry about things we can't control. We worry about things we can control. Hell, we even worry that we worry too much.

Being an adult is serious business.

The longer I sat at my kitchen table, as the snow continued to flutter down, the more I realized my son had unwittingly exposed a wonderful truth. 

There really is something about the change of seasons that is truly welcoming. Transitioning from one season to the next gives us a sense of renewal; we can't embrace the rebirth of spring without first burying the dead, frozen bones of winter. That forward momentum not only gives us hope, it allows us to leave the past where it belongs. 

This ride we are all on--this orbit around the sun--navigates us through life. It is fluid, rotating, ever-changing, yet remains comfortably familiar. This grand ellipse is all we have. Rather than gripe about another winter, we should be thankful for another spin.

As I had that little chat with my son, I, too, became 12 years old again. I vividly remember, as a boy, waking up one morning to a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. And yes, I also remember being euphoric over nature's beautiful transformation. And now I know why. 

Because I hadn't seen it in a while.

Perpetual Nocturnal Abyss Time

It has happened again, friends. We’ve “fallen back.” 

Daylight Saving Time is in the rearview mirror and the gates of infinite darkness have opened; we’ve started the inescapable plunge into the obsidian hell called winter. 

We’ve now entered “Standard Time,” or more accurately, “Perpetual Nocturnal Abyss Time.” 

Personally speaking, the beginning of November to the end of February is a tipsy season I like to call “Cocktail Time.” One for you, two for me. 

Cheers!

So why are we made to suffer through this change every year? As if the impending doom of another frigid winter isn’t enough, we must face the prospect of living on the dark side of the moon for the next four months. 

It’s really a bit much for even the cheeriest of souls.

Blame Germany

Daylight Saving Time (DST) started in Germany during the First World War ostensibly as a means of conserving coal. This new concept initially seemed to be a smart idea. However, it is now an antiquated notion currently employed by only about 70 countries in the world. 

Even worse, the application of DST is a worldwide hack job. 

Really, it is an international you-know-what-show as each country follows its own set of rules and protocols without regard to neighboring nations: the European Union switches to Standard Time a week earlier than the United States and Canada, while Chile and Paraguay are the only two countries in South America that even bother observing DST. 

Then there is Lord Howe Island in Australia, which adjusts its clocks by 30 minutes, rather than the traditional hour.

Why? Because Australians like a good laugh.

An Act of Congress

The European Union has discussed ending DST altogether, but some voice concern over such a radical move. (Fun fact: Iceland has not used DST since October 29, 1967. And Iceland is doing just fine, thanks). Just to make life interesting, under Brexit, the United Kingdom could end up in two time zones; one employing DST, the other not. 

But the United Kingdom has got nothing on the good ol’ United States. At least 19 states have either enacted or passed legislative bills electing to keep DST permanent. But like everything in the U.S., it’s not that easy. 

In typical convoluted fashion, making DST permanent would literally require an act of United States Congress. While all states are legally allowed to forgo DST (most of Arizona does, and all of Hawaii does; Indiana did, now it doesn’t), Congress must pass a law allowing states to observe DST year round, if they so choose. 

To put another way, it is possible that someday the U.S. could have states that observe DST in its present state, others that employ DST permanently and still others that forgo DST entirely. All at the same time.

In 1969, the band Chicago asked “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” There can be no doubt they were referring to the Daylight Saving Time fiasco.

The Price We Pay

While DST proponents argue that longer hours of daylight in the summer may help reduce road accidents, conserve energy used for artificial lighting and give farmers an extended workday (in fact, the agricultural industry has lobbied against DST for years), we all know why the time change is still observed: to give people longer summer nights to rest and relax.

Now heaven knows I’m not opposed to rest and relaxation. But for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What is the price we pay when we “fall back?” 

A season of blackness. 

We drive to our jobs in the dark. We pick up groceries after work in the dark. We walk the dog in the evening in the dark. 

We get into our jammies at 5:45 PM, because the murky gloom of the late afternoon messes with our sensitive circadian rhythms. We fight the feeling of constant exhaustion because our bodies are slowly being drained of precious vitamin D.

We sink deeper and deeper into that dim winter funk. 

We get fat. We get depressed. And yes, we have cocktails.

Are those few months of longer summer nights really worth it? Let me sleep on it and give you an answer in the morning. 

When it is still dark.

The Halloween Blizzard of 1991: How Wally the Weatherman Changed My Life

 

artwork by Ava Branstner

This week marks the 30th anniversary of the great Halloween Blizzard of 1991. In a nasty hit-and-run, Old Man Winter vomited approximately 1,736 inches of snow (my own rough estimate) on Minnesota. I'm embarrassed to say it took me by surprise.

That Halloween morning was straight out of a 1965 folk song: all the leaves were brown and the sky was gray. I was 22 years old and neck deep in my studies at the University of Minnesota. Also, I was a total putz.

As the concrete sky blanched to the east, I slogged down St. Francis Boulevard in my '77 Ford Granada, radio blasting, making my commute to school. To my irritation, my usual morning show was interrupted by Wally the Weatherman, who blustered on about a "winter storm warning!"

Winter storm warning? Pshhht! I grumbled. I was a native Minnesotan. Snow had never stopped me before and I had classes to attend.

Did I mention I was a putz?

When I walked out of the lecture hall that afternoon, I was greeted by a cold, feathery drizzle leaking from blueberry clouds. Rumbling homeward, Wally the Weatherman was abuzz, spewing phrases from my Granada's radio like "blizzard warning!" and "perfect storm!"

Nothing more than meteorologic hyperbole, I assured myself.

Like I said, I was a putz.

By the time I splashed the Granada into my apartment complex's puddled parking lot, Wally the Weatherman was practically soiling himself with excitement: "Snowmageddon!"

Snowmageddon? That's cute, I chuckled under my breath.

Inside my cozy shoebox abode, I microwaved a cup of ramen noodles and sat the card table in my cramped kitchen.

As I slurped my fake Chinese food, I studied the dying light from my living room window. The afternoon drizzle intensified to pounding rain. Then, like a ninja shapeshifter, the pounding rain quickly morphed into snowflakes.

Heavy flakes. Big flakes. Millions of them.

I breathed a deep sigh, pulled the curtain closed and cracked open my lecture notes. Just a little snow, I yawned to myself.

What a putz.

As night descended, the snow ogres unleashed a frozen tempest over Minnesota.

Next morning, I nuked a mug of Folgers instant crystals and clicked on my stereo. It was time for the Friday Funday show, which I enjoyed listening to before heading to class.

Instead of my program, the hyperventilating Wally the Weatherman (when did he sleep?) poured from my speakers, babbling on about "road closures!" and "record setting snow!" I peered through the curtain, but saw only the inkwell of predawn darkness.

I sucked down my Folgers and went off the seize the day. I couldn't be late for class.

The first sign of trouble was 22 inches of packed snow blocking the lobby door which prevented me from getting out of my apartment building.

The second sign of trouble was illuminated by the outdoor security lights. Through the thickly falling flakes, I could barely make out an ice cream meadow where the parking lot used to be. Interrupting the sparkling smoothness were perfectly rectangular mounds, each representing an innocent automobile buried alive overnight (my precious Granada!).

Good Lord! I gasped, in a moment of epiphany. Wally the Weatherman was right. It's a freaking snowpocalypse!

My lecture started in half and hour. Mild panic gripped my gut.

I corkscrewed my body around the lobby door, only to find myself planted like a scarecrow in white stuff up to my hips. Snowflakes peppered my eyes and a stiff wind sucked life out of my lungs. Like a putz, all I had on my feet were sneakers and flimsy leather gloves covered my hands.

By the time I lumbered to the unmarked grave of my Granada, I was wheezing like a concertina, blinded by snow cataracts and a creek of snot involuntarily flowed from my nose.

Yes, a shovel would have been handy. No, I didn't have one. What a putz.

I had no choice, so I started digging the heavy, sticky crap by hand, but within minutes my fingers turned blue, my Nike-covered toes were numb and I was sweating like Nixon under my jacket.

After ten minutes of battle, the chunky white parachutes pelting down from the cornflower sky won the day. My sleeves were stuffed ice packs, one of my gloves had disappeared into the albino abyss and the sweat from my forehead competed with the frost on my eyelashes.

Clearly this was a job for Superman, but he was probably snowed in as well.

I was defeated. I would miss my class and I would wear a dunce hat the rest of my days. I was a card carrying putz.

I trudged back to my apartment deflated, broken and frozen.

Little did I know at that exact moment, ghostly radio waves high above carried a familiar voice, bringing good tidings for comfort and joy: All classes at the University of Minnesota were canceled for Friday, November 1st, 1991.

Thank you, Wally the Weatherman. I won't be a putz again.