Phase One In Which Terry Cuts His Hair

Shown here hanging with Screech the Cat.

I'll be working for the Tornow family this summer up in North Dakota, so I figured I'd 'trim' myself up a bit to leave a good impression. No sense in looking like an Indian up in the part of the country where Indians have a bad rap. Besides, I am planning on having this pay off for me in the long run, and, after all, it'll grow back, won't it? By this fall I may even begin to be my old self again; we'll see, huh?

Not planning on doing anything exciting enough this summer to mention in this blog, but, hey, you never really know with this guy. So if I do find some adventure I'll slide down to the Bismarck Library and borrow a computer and blather all about it.

So, like, have a good one and all that. See ya round.


Follow Up

Save some very nice sight-seeing (Teddy Roosevelt National Park, Lake Sakakawea), and some cool things I got to keep for my troubles, the summer was rather uneventful. I will say one thing about Bismarck, though. Beautiful bike trails all over town and down by the river, and many, many nice-looking ladies on the sidewalks and bike paths. Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. Too bad my digital camera died while I was up there; I could have documented some of that.

And by the time we got back, many of the barn cats had disappeared, including Screech. Take care, friends. Hope you are well.

Tulips

In the two years I've lived here in NW Iowa, I have been seriously lamenting the dearth of culture in this area. O'Brien County just ain't where it's at to celebrate the joy and beauty of life.

But my outlook on this area got a big improvement when we spent last Saturday at the annual Tulip Festival in Orange City. It is a beautiful event in a beautiful town.

I knew from having been in Dutch villages in America that it wasn't going to be like attending a real festival in Holland, which I have done. I had to chuckle, even though I knew there would be no Cannabis Cafe's or half-litre mugs of Heineken Pilsener in a sidewalk pub in Orange City to while away the time. It is my understanding that, shall we say, some of the more liberal aspects of Dutch politics did not survive the transatlantic journey to the New World (at least in public).

But the Iowa Dutch are proud of their culture, and they show it. There were a great many men, women, and young folk proudly displaying their beautiful hand-made Dutch costumes, complete with clomp-y wooden shoes. An educational and entertaining parade displayed the varying traditional dress of the different Dutch provinces, as well as traditional children's games and dances, and dances featuring the adults. Also in the parade were many beautiful floats, outstanding marching bands (especially the MOC-Floyd Valley Marching Dutchmen with their traditional costumes and wooden shoes), and visiting dignitaries. And you simply can not ignore all the lovely Dutch honeys gracing the festival with their bright smiles and Dutch finery. It wouldn't be me if I didn't mention that.

A several-square-block area was closed off for the festivities, and it made for an enjoyable leisure stroll through the shops, the parks, the artists' area, the many food vendors, and of course the tulip gardens. The Native American new-age group Brule put on another one of their marvelous performances with their native dancers; although if you want to get technical they really didn't culturally match with the Dutch theme, I suppose the organizers figured they would still be a major draw, and they were.

So I tip my hat to the people in OC who work hard all year long to bring us this wonderful celebration of their culture. A job well-done by all; even without the Heineken Pilsener.

My Cubs

My grandfather was a Chicago Cubs fan. So is my dad. So is my son, and so am I. To borrow the term, we bleed Cubbie Blue, through and through.

The Chicago Cubs have been Major League Baseball's ambassadors of the American Midwest for well over a hundred years. They represent our hopes, our dreams, our desires, our ambitions, and our sweat and our hard work.

We Midwesterners don't need someone to tell us that life sucks. Every asshole that we have to deal with at work, at the store, in the neighborhood, or on the highways does that for us. Yet every time our Boys in Blue take the field, we get back on our feet, smack the dust off our fannies, and renew our eternal pledge to overcome those who keep trying to knock us back down. Each game and each inning is another opportunity for fulfillment, another shot at reaching our dream.

We are not lovable losers. We are strong, tough, determined men and women who want our well-earned piece of the pie. And we will not stop. We will work until what is rightfully ours is in our hands. And when that day comes, it will feel so God-damned great that it will re-invigorate our spirit to begin that long quest all over again, from scratch if needs must.

The excitement and camaraderie of the crowd, the thrill of the action, the analysis of the intricate strategy, the feel of sunshine and a fresh Lake Michigan breeze on our skin, the taste of a hot dog and a cold beer (or soda) on our lips, the joy of a run crossing the plate, the delight of the seventh inning stretch sing-along, the cathartic emotional release of a well earned victory, all of the time-honored Wrigley Field traditions: these will nurture and sustain us through time and through our daily trials. When we're dog-ass tired at the end of the day from all that we have to do and put up with just to survive, we know we'll always have our Cubs to take us to a better place, and that's enough. Go, Cubs, go.