Mr. and Mrs. Valbowski

Living in Minneapolis without air conditioning right now is about the equivalent of living stuck to the inside of the Weber grill that's in my front yard; it's hot as hell. As I write this, I am wearing converted swim trunks that weigh roughly as much as the hair that comes off my head at a normal haircut. And that's all. It has finally reached the point where I'm no longer restricted by any sort of self-conscious "maybe I shouldn't do it" thoughts. I'm baring it all, and proud of it. Yeah, so I've had a few Chipotle burritos in the last three years and yeah, I've shotgunned a few beers and cashed a few kegs--and it shows--but damn, it's just that hot. Today marked the 10th consecutive day I've taken a cold shower. We're not talking lukewarm leftover dishwater here, I'm talking chill-the-beers-in-this-water coldness. Really is something to experience.


I have this strange need to always have at least one thing that I can do better than the next person. I don't know if it's a comfort thing or what, but, yeah, it's a comfort thing. Usually, I am pretty confident I'm better at playing the piano than anyone I may come in contact with. But sometimes, I have to kick it to another level. (And it's mostly with freakish Asians--I don't want to stereotype or anything, but man, those guys can play. And they are good with computers. But not with prepositions.) Sometimes, I will know that I'm SLIGHTLY-never more-attractive than a person. This is rare. (But many of those it works on are piano-playing Asians.) Other times, I figure I can eat more than a person. While this is fairly reliable, it isn't exactly comforting. If it really comes down to it, I am usually confident that I am better at creating my own slang language than the person in question. And that, my friends, is a great feeling.

Valbowski Begins

Sorry for the gap in posts. Work has picked up, energy has fleeted, material has diminished. But the spirit is still strong, so we press on.

I was under the impression that the full headgear braces were no longer in existance. Last night, however, I was proven wrong. At the Twins game, I witnessed a poor girl with the full-on grill face, chin strap, scrap metal headgear braces. I regrettably greeted her at the gate with a kind "hello," only to realize that there was nothing coming out of her mouth besides Edward Scissorhands. Poor thing.

I think when I am an old man, I would much rather have a high-rising, rock hard gut than a drooping, Santa Claus-jiggling belly. Just a personal preference. It's ok if the gut extends out a foot, as long as it doesn't sink a foot below the belt.

Yesterday was Flag Day, one of my favorite holidays (not quite at Arbor Day level). In honor of this widely-recognized celebration, there was a band playing some of America's favorite tunes outside before the game. They dusted off such classics as "You're A Grand Ole Flag," "Stars and Stripes Forever," "America the Beautiful," and of course "God Bless America." Pretty standard stuff. However, to my absolute confusion, they closed their red white and blue set with a lovely rendition of R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly." Wha? I guess I must have missed the ceremony where R. Kelly was named the United States' official spokesman and symbol. Not that I'm against that idea.

Now that Adam Eberhardt and I are holding down the fort at 1212 Como pretty much by ourselves, we've decided it is time to host a Hutch reunion party. We're tossing around a few dates, and if anyone has a preference, please suggest it to me. Spread the word around and I will post the final plans on here at a later date. The potential dates are: Friday, July 1, Friday, July 8, Friday, July 29 and Saturday, July 30. August has not been ruled out, but we can only plan ahead so far. Get back to me. Remember, this is a Hutch reunion party. All other guests will need to be cleared before being admitted. (Plus, you might be out of the loop. But then again, we'll all be hammered beyond recognition.) Peace.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Valbowskis

I've been on vacation a few days, and it hasn't exactly provided me with a wealth of material, but I'll try.

What do you think it feels like to go to bed thinking, "Man, another day of transcribing Maury tomorrow for closed captioning." I just wonder.

"I've been cheating."
"You've been what?"
"With your sister."
"What? How you gonna play me like that?"
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry? You're sorry? My sister! Why you gone do me like that?"
"Honey I'm sorry."
"Oh no don't you honey me."

And so on...


I've come to the conclusion that I will refuse to buy pairs of pants that are given names. For example, you will not see me strutting around wearing "Hayden." What does that even mean? It's been common for women's slacks in the last few years, but I had yet to have seen it in the men's section until this week, when I discovered the trend was spreading without boundaries. No, I will not don "Raphael," you won't find me wearing "Zeke," and I most certainly will not put on a pair of "Ricky." What do you name completely sane, normal jeans for normal people? "Steve?" I'd probably go with that.


Hutch gossip: McDonalds drive-thru is now open 24 hours a day...

P.S. I've been told I need to add rankings to this thing, as that was the trademark of the Valbo over the years, so if anyone has ideas, I'd be happy to entertain them.