Ron's Big Life Update - May 2004

(Written Thursday, April 29th)

Well, Margaret's gone. It feels like I thought it would.

She was packing her stuff into boxes consistently over pretty much the entire month of April. In due time, the boxes completely took over the house - expected, and perfectly reasonable. Her last day of work was Saturday 4/17, and the ten days after that were spent with her packing and with me trying to spend time away from the house so I wouldn't be underfoot. We both had a pretty short fuse for the last two weeks - I just wanted her stuff gone, and she just wanted to leave. Also expected, and perfectly reasonable.

She rented a truck for the morning of Tuesday 4/27, enlisted a friend from work to help her load up her mini-storage locker, drove her car up onto the trailer behind the truck, drove everything all the way across town, and ultimately backed the whole thing up onto our driveway. No small feat, either. This was a 24-foot truck (the biggest you can drive without a trucker's license), with a trailer in tow. Margaret says it took a half hour just to get it backed into the driveway, with enough backs-and-forths to wear out the transmission on a lesser vehicle (and wear out the patience of a lesser driver). Fortunately, we live on a low-traffic street.

I ducked out from work after lunch, took care of some last-minute paperwork with our bank, and bought the pizza-n-beer bribes for our friends, who all came over after work to help with the moving. The friends were helpful, the weather cooperated spectacularly, and overall, a pretty easy loading experience. No one particular item that fought back, like a piano or a gargantuan TV, for example. What she packed, she packed well (she did work at a furniture auction house, after all), and what furniture she took was pretty light. Sent the friends home before news time, and slept like a rock Tuesday night.

Although the goal was to send Margaret off Wednesday morning, there was still quite a bit of her stuff scattered about the house - clothes, tools, plants, small stuff. So I played hooky from work and helped her pack and lug all day, during which a freak warm front moved through the area and sent temperatures to 90 degrees during the day. (What the heck?) We finally got everything loaded by around 9 PM, at which point we went out for a last dinner together. Nothing particularly significant about the dinner; we were there mostly to eat. Food! Now!

This morning, we ate breakfast, packed the remaining flotsam into her car in about ten minutes (inflatable mattress, pillows, hangers, etc.), and she drove off at about 8:30. The truck and car were completely full, to the last cubic inch, and I watched from the driveway as she carefully turned onto our street, carefully drove to the end of the block, then carefully turned left toward the highway. I don't expect to ever see her again.

And I feel almost exactly like I would have predicted: sad. No resentment, no bitterness, no regret. Just sad. My eyes welled up as I watched from the driveway. (I can't speak for Margaret. I'm sure any sadness was tempered by the pure adrenaline of driving the biggest thing on the road. She said that once you get the hang of it, it's a lot of fun.) About six months ago, I cried a bit the first time she seriously used the word "divorce", but this time felt different. Last time, while one half of the brain felt the usual emotions (hurt, sadness, worry, remorse, regret), the other half was racing through the unpleasant logistics (how to tell friends and family, where does Margaret go and how does she get there, how to divide things). This time around, all the baggage, all the ill will, all the bitterness that most people work so hard to forget, just drove off with Margaret. And all that's left behind is sad.

It's the same stupid sadness as when the cat (Pukehead) died last year. You cry a little because something is gone and you know you'll miss it. You don't remember the cat peeing in the corner of the basement, you just remember her sitting on your shoulder and purring. When we finally did put the cat down, I had no regrets whatsoever - we had always heaped as much affection on her as we could, every single day. And those are the memories I take with me - who cares if she peed in the basement and scratched up a few chairs? Margaret and I both have our shortcomings, but at this point I don't feel any compulsion to dwell on them. At the other end of the spectrum, I don't feel any "Oh what could I have done differently to save our marriage?" All that I feel right now is squarely in the middle, somewhere between looking for faults and glossing over them. It's a sadness that some good times that were sclhared with a special person are irretrievably gone, and there's nothing I can do about it. Just like when the cat died.

I'd like to think that the end of our marriage was as civilized as it could possibly be. We both think the settlement was fair, and there won't be any lingering feelings of "I got cheated out of ..." for either one of us. As Margaret heads back to Colorado, I genuinely hope she finds happiness out there. She hasn't been truly happy in years, and I hope she finds out there whatever was lacking here with me. (I'll probably hear from her now and then, if something interesting happens. I'll pass that along, naturally.)

So the two of us have now driven past the proverbial fork in the road. While Margaret heads west into uncharted territory, I apparently stay on the more familiar path to carry on without her.

I'd been saying for months that I'll certainly miss her, but I won't miss her stuff at all. God must have been giggling when he paired up the neat freak with the pack rat nine years ago. Not surprisingly, it's been a sore spot for years. (Let me just state once for the record that she had, perhaps, TOO MUCH stuff. It's not my place to judge, and it's just my opinion. I'm sure that our friends who helped pack her up have their own opinions.) I'll be making a run or two to Goodwill to recycle some of the clothes and books she left behind. (She left behind more clothing than I actually own. No exaggeration. But again, just my opinion.) Then, after our friends get to pick out what they want from the scrap lumber in the garage, the ultimate one-time-only cleansing experience, called...

"F*** It: It's Going In The Dumpster"

It's symbolic as well as practical. But the goal is *not* to completely eradicate Margaret's presence from the house - that would be callous and mean-spirited. Rather, it's a chance for me to properly dispose of some of the stuff that Margaret didn't like enough to take with her. For example, the animal faces made from Sakrete are more than a little creepy, and although I respect that Margaret put a lot of work into them, I don't want them prominently displayed in the backyard anymore.

It could be that Sakrete just wasn't Margaret's best medium for these things. She could draw beautifully, and our friends gladly snapped up some of the sketches she made back in college, rather than see Margaret throw them out. They're very good, and I hope Margaret takes up drawing again. (She never drew me, though. Too twitchy, she said.) Likewise for painting - she let me keep the Georgia O'Keefe copy she made that's been hanging in our living room. That thing is beautiful, and I'm thrilled that I can use it as the centerpiece for my new living room, when I eventually get some new furniture. (I'll also be keeping an old hair brush that she used to use - apparently, I have a sentimental streak. But not for the Sakrete animal faces.)

At present, I have enough furniture to marginally outfit a one-bedroom apartment. (Not a complaint, mind you. She wanted everything she took, and I glad let her take everything she wanted.) The house looks mighty empty, and I'll be soliciting input from my local friends on what pieces I should buy and where they should go. I have no eye at all for these things. Details to follow.

Actually, I'm a little concerned for the cat, Stinky. Suddenly, her mommy and all the good toys are gone. And I'm away from the house during the work day - what's she gonna do? I tried to console Stinky by telling her that mommy "was with Pukehead now", but to no apparent effect. I wonder if she even remembers who Pukehead was. I'm toying with the idea of a new kitten or two to keep Stinky company, but it seems way too soon for that. Additional details to follow.

(Written about three weeks later.)

Well, the morning after Margaret left, I had a dental cleaning. Well, something looked not quite right on the X-rays, and they told me I'd need a root canal on one of my lower front teeth. What?!? Could I be having a worse week? What was next - food poisoning for lunch? Apparently, something had caused my tooth to die. The dentist suggested a sudden blow to the tooth, like getting punched in the face. You'd think I would remember something like that, but no.

The test he used to check the tooth was pretty straightforward. He sprayed some stuff on a Q-Tip that made it very cold, then applied the Q-Tip to each of my lower front teeth: Cold! Cold! Nothing. Cold! Apparently, when you can't feel cold on a particular tooth, that's bad.

A week later, I had my first experience with any dental procedure that isn't a routine cleaning. I've gone 35+ years without a single cavity, and now my perfect-teeth streak is over. Fooey! For those of you who have never had one of these done, it's pretty straightforward (although not the most pleasant hour you'll spend in a chair): the dentist drills out the root, cleans it out, and seals it up with a UV-cured epoxy. The epoxy is very similar to what we used to assemble optical components, where you basically take your time getting everything in place, then you zap it with a light source for thirty seconds or so to cure it. Neat.

It's all done with novocaine, so you're fully conscious during the whole procedure. You can't ask questions, though, because your mouth is held in place by a little rubber guard. I do know that he had to drill down 20 mm (about 3/4 of an inch), and I found out that once you've had one of these done, you'll forever see a bright streak in the X-rays on the affected tooth.

The novocaine wore off in 2-4 hours, and actually I didn't feel any soreness or ill effects at all afterwards. My friends and I even went out for dinner, and I slept like a rock that night. Apparently, the whole thing is invisible to the naked eye, because I can't see a thing where he did his work.

In another week, I go back to get a crown put on the tooth (another fabulous new experience for me). If you don't get a crown, the tooth may discolor or get brittle. I'm sure that won't be nearly as much fun as the root canal...

And in the fine Gerber tradition of saving perverse souvenirs (like my wisdom teeth, Margaret's gallstones, and my emergency room wristband from when I had the bubonic plague), the dentist let me keep the actual files he used during the procedure. So I scanned them in for your viewing pleasure! They're actually quite flexible, unlike drill bits, so I'm not really sure what they're made out of.
In other news, the whole dumpster process went very smoothly. I called my trash company and ordered a 20 cubic yard dumpster, to be dropped off on my driveway on Thursday, 5/6. I would then have a week to fill it to the rim with whatever non-hazardous stuff I wanted, then they'd pick it up on Thursday, 5/13. Perfect!

Now I don't know how good your estimating skills are, but I really had no idea how big or small 20 cubic yards was. They said that 30 cubic yards was the biggest they had, but I balked when they told me the price. So I settled for 20, which was the "medium" of the small/medium/large dumpster hierarchy.

It magically appeared on the Thursday while I was at work. Just so you can get a sense of scale, it was about two car lengths long, about 8 feet wide, and about 5 feet tall. One of the sides unhinged to form a huge door, so you could deliberately ignore the printed warning and play inside the dumpster.

Saturday morning, I woke up around 9, got outside around 9:30, and loaded for pretty much the rest of the day. My mad Tetris skillz finally paid off, and I'd like to think that I was pretty efficient in getting everything neatly into the dumpster without going above the rim, like they wanted.

I should point out that I didn't throw out literally everything in the house or the garage. Margaret left behind a lot of odds and ends (clothing, a whole box of zippers, fabric, etc.) that I didn't want, so I loaded up the car with them and dropped it all off at Goodwill. Then repeated the whole process again with another full carload of Goodwill donations. Two full carloads, and that's just stuff Margaret decided not to pack. I then donated as much as I could to the Reuse Center, sort of a local buy/sell/trade place for old house items, like doorknobs, fixtures, cabinets, window frames, woodwork, etc. That took multiple trips, and the use of Kris's pickup for one of them. And at the end of the day, the Reuse Center gave the stuff a good home and took care of the stuff I donated, and I got the space back in my house plus a substantial tax write-off for next year. Everybody won, and I don't feel the guilt I would have if I'd thrown out some stuff that would have been of use to someone else.

So Saturday I loaded. Everything fit perfectly, and I even threw a pile of sticks and twigs on top to clean out the backyard. I knew that my next door neighbor wanted to get rid of a big pile of paving stones that came with his house, so we threw those on top of the twigs. Turns out, the twigs compacted nicely, and I actually had *more* room after we got rid of all the paving stones than before! The weather cooperated nicely, and I even got a little sunburnt. (Dang! Why can't I ever remember to wear a hat during these things?)

I finished loading around 6, took a shower, ran an errand or two, then went to a poker game for the rest of the evening. Over the course of the evening, I won $1.50, and drank half a gallon of Gatorade to make sure I wasn't dehydrated. A good day.

The next morning, 47,000 people and I participated in Race For The Cure, a local benefit to raise money for breast cancer. We sent a few people from the office, and we chose the 5K walk - more like Casual Stroll For The Cure.

That night, my friend Eric and I went out for steaks (mmm...meat...), and by the time we got out of the place, the sky was kinda green and it looked like the world was going to end. Uh-oh. We drove back to my house (the original plan being to watch Simpsons and other Sunday night goodies), and it started pouring. Our TV festivities were postponed by severe weather updates, including a tornado warning! A tornado??? With 20 cubic yards of projectiles on my driveway??? That I would have to pick up from all over the county??? Thank God, we only got rain, but I was more than a little worried for an hour or two.

On Monday I called my trash place and told them they could have the dumpster back early if they needed it. It magically disappeared on Tuesday, and suddenly, my house and my garage were as empty as they would ever be. (I'd even cleaned out the rafters in the garage, making it even emptier than when we bought the house!) After having my garage look like the Reuse Center for the last 7 years, it's still quite a pleasant shock to see all the space I now have. And the inside of the house is just as sparse. I'm just going to enjoy the emptiness for a few more weeks, before I slowly start to repopulate with new furniture. (I also have to save a little $ for furniture; the dumpster and the non-insurance portion of my dental work were unexpected expenses, and I don't want to spread myself too thin right now.)

This past weekend, I went to a friend's wedding (as a guest, not as the DJ), and it was my first formal event without Margaret. A little strange for me, but certainly not the end of the world. I wound up talking with a group of friends that are all divorced themselves! I guess it's a lot more common than I would have imagined. And I found out that my whole divorce process was a lot less painful and a lot more speedy than what some couples go through. I guess it's a testament to Margaret's civility (and mine too, I suppose) that it ended so smoothly.

I talked to Margaret on the phone for about ten minutes just after she'd unloaded everything in Denver. She's staying in a house owned by her brother that doesn't have any appliances (oven, fridge, microwave, etc.), and it's in the bad part of town. It sounded like she'll be living out of boxes for the short term, until she finds a place of her own to buy or rent. It's got to be tough just uprooting and starting completely from scratch; I don't envy her at all right now. I'm sure she'd love to be able to talk to someone outside of her family (who's not me). If she's ever needed the support of her good friends, she probably needs it most right now.

As part of the decoupling process, I had to move some stocks around and close some brokerage accounts. Many of you may remember my $50 investment in Pinnacle Micro stock from a number of years ago, and how it doubled in value the next day. Well, the glorious yet tragic saga ends, and I attached a scan of the final transaction. It's a beaut.
Work still goes well at the law firm. There was one particular patent application that I was very proud of, where the invention was a method of selling items seen on TV. I even gave a terrific example of buying Ted Baxter's "conquistador boots" from a particular episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show! (That example got cut, though, despite my objections. Drat.) And I ran across a patent examiner from the 1970s with the superb name of Trygve M. Blix (pronounced "Trig-Vee"; I think it's a traditional Norwegian or Finnish name). And another patent written by someone named Boyd Hunter. Now say it like you're from New Jersey: Boyd Hunter! That's funny!

Crap From The Past also bounces along nicely. I'm getting emails regularly from people at other radio stations who love the show, including the top 40 station Kiss in Chicago! Who'da thunk? If I ever get rich or famous, I'll let you know.

This weekend, a group of 22 of us are going on a huge rafting/camping trip on the Peshtigo River in upper Wisconsin. It's about a 6-hour drive from here, and it's my first time doing any camping. Should be good!

While looking through some old papers, I came across a business card for the Manos Diner in Ithaca, New York. Manos: The Diner Of Fate. (with Food You'll Enjoy!) We ate there eons ago, and it wasn't bad!

(A last minute update)

Wouldn't you know it? Tonight I got a message on my machine that Margaret called (her stupid lawyer overcharged her), so I called her back and chatted for an hour and a half.

She sounds really happy, God bless her! The house she's in looks so bad from the outside that no one in his right mind would break in, so security's not really a problem. She got an oven/stove and a fridge from other houses that her brother has, so she's not cooking on sterno. She started work at a Home Depot in the nice part of town, and hopefully they'll pick her up as a full-time employee with benefits. Plus, she wants to take some summer courses for a teaching certificate. I tell you, I heard an enthusiasm in her voice that I haven't heard in years, it sounds like she's going through the same catharsis that I am. A fresh start for both of us, without necessarily wiping out all traces of the old partner. She's gonna make it after all. (Now throw your hat in the air! That clip from the Mary Tyler Moore Show credits was filmed on the Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis - just so you know.)

I got two good stories from Margaret to pass along.

When she got to her new place, she couldn't find the bathmat - it was in any one of a billion boxes. So she used the sports section from the paper. A few days later, she wound up with a nosebleed (mile high!), and bled all over her makeshift bathmat. Rats! A few days after that, she was visiting with her brother, who was used the Arts & Entertainment section of the paper as HIS bathmat. Ah, family!

And she thinks that the house she's in is haunted. Every night around midnight, she hears the kitchen cabinets opening and shutting, and hears cans being moved around - just like someone rooting around in the cabinets. She says there's always the sound of one can being knocked over. This didn't particularly bother her because we're both used to hearing the cats roam around and knock over things downstairs after we've gone to bed. Only now, Margaret suddenly realized, "Wait! I don't have a cat!" And she got a little spooked. She says every morning, she looks in the cabinets and the cans are right where she left them, all upright. And there are no footprints in the sawdust in the kitchen (I didn't ask why there was sawdust in the kitchen.) And it happens Every Single Night. Kinda spooky, but not the Jaws Of Hell Scary spooky, more like Oddball Curiosity spooky. Margaret said that at no point did anything scare the crap out of her, it just continually puzzles her where the noises are coming from. So Margaret - not exactly the superstitious type - was jokingly relating all this to her brother, just as she jokingly related it all to me. And her brother didn't joke back, as I'd done. Why not? Apparently, Margaret was the fourth person who'd heard the spooky sounds while staying in the house.

Cool!

So I'm happy to report her spirits are up (no pun intended), and she'd love to hear from friends and family.

Ron

Ron's Big Life Update - April 2004

Well, my divorce is final. December 22, 1995 - March 31, 2004. And less than eight weeks, start to finish, for the whole process; it must have been the marital equivalent of the "EZ" form. In the spirit of telling you way more than you want to know, let me hit the highlights from the whole ordeal.

First week - I was fairly dazed and stunned for the whole week, as those of you who remember the last letter can attest. Began the awkward process of telling people by composing the last letter, which went out to basically everybody I know. I told my mom on the phone, and everyone else found out via the letter. (Well, honestly, would you have really wanted a phone call from me with that kind of news?)

Second week - I decided that I didn't want to wear my wedding ring anymore. And with the simple gesture of washing it, drying it, and putting it in a little plastic jewelry display box (Margaret is a jeweler, after all), I took my first baby steps toward moving on. It took an entire month to get used to not having the ring on. And for a solid month, I had increasingly minor panic attacks every time I washed my hands, because I had always been paranoid about it slipping off in the sink. Margaret asked me if I wanted her to do anything to the ring, like melt it down or turn in into a pendant or something. No, just having it in its little plastic box feels right.

Well, the responses to the last letter started pouring in, and I got more feedback and support than I ever thought possible. For those of you that took the time to write back, I really do appreciate it. I didn't acknowledge the responses right away because the whole subject was still pretty raw for me. But I got divorce stories from casual acquaintances, friends I hadn't heard from in years, people whose wedding I DJ'ed (the irony is not lost on me), and all my co-workers (more than half of whom are divorced), who were all amazingly candid with me. I feel like I'm in some kind of secret club now.

I should also formally apologize for not acknowledging your responses when they came in. It may seem like the words flowed easily for me in the last letter, but after I got it all on paper, I had no desire to keep talking about my situation with anybody at all. I just needed a little time to myself, so to speak, and I didn't send out a single e-mail for over a month. I'm certainly grateful for all your letters, and I thank all of you for your support.

Third week - We talked to Bill, our accountant. He has kids a little younger than us, and we've always felt comfortable with him. (He was the one who helped us squirrel away a little savings while I was working in the heady telecom days. I told him that we wanted to "hunker down for the apocalypse", not knowing that I'd be out of work for 14 months, but sensing that something was about to give. Great guy.) He told us how we can divide things up. Basically, we assign a dollar value to all our assets, and move the assets around until her dollar value equals my dollar value. Easy. And not having any significant assets going into the marriage simplified everything - Margaret's entitled to half of everything, plain and simple. (It goes without saying that having kids would complicate the whole divorce process a millionfold.)

Fourth week - We both agreed to split things evenly, like Bill said, but we were still a little clunky on the process. Certain things were off the table (my car stays with me, her car stays with her, my DJ/music stuff stays with me, her tools/jewelry stuff stays with her, etc.), but we still needed a little help. We agreed that I would call a mediator, and he'd sit down with us and actually go through the dividing process. I found one here in town, and we agreed to set up a meeting a few weeks off, because he'd be on vacation.

Fifth week - Nothing happened. Waited for the mediator to come back from vacation.

Oh, I did buy a new set of pots and pans. Margaret got all the old stuff (which was nice stuff, mind you), I got to pick what I want. And I can now whole-heartedly endorse a 10-piece stainless steel set on Sam's Club's website. About one-third to one-fourth the price of the "show-off" set at Williams-Sonoma, and a more solid feel to the pieces. I'm thrilled, and Margaret's happy to get our old set.

Sixth week - The mediator had me prepare an itemized list of everything - bank accounts with amounts and account numbers, legal description of the house, net monthly incomes and detailed budgets, and so on. Then found out that there was a small miscommunication between the mediator and me, and he thought he'd be representing me as my attorney. Margaret had her own attorney (that's how the whole process got started), but I felt that I didn't need one. After all, we know what we have, we agree that she gets half, and neither Margaret nor I saw the need to duke it out in court. You can get through the whole divorce process without an attorney (it's called "pro se" - I learned a new word!), so I basically fired the mediator and told him to bill me for the work he'd done thus far. I do work at a law firm, and I wasn't too worried about getting taken.

We also had our house appraised. A real appraisal costs real money, and neither one of us wanted to waste any money, so we called Jan, the original realtor who sold us the house. She loved us back then, and said that she'd be happy to give us an estimate. She stopped by, looked around, and in all of ten minutes, gave us a reasonable estimate that we could both live with. The house was a good news/bad news situation. Good news - it's worth a LOT, compared to what we bought it for in 1997. It's gone up in value 70% in less than seven years! Bad news - since I planned to buy out Margaret's half of the house, it was gonna hurt real bad...

Seventh week - Since I now had everything documented to the dollar, I put it all in Excel. Is there nothing Excel can't do? I've used it to assemble and document mechanical budgets for computer hard drive air bearings, and to visually simulate an alignment procedure for telecommunications laser diodes, and now - to put together my divorce settlement. Amazing.

Less than an hour later, I had it all on paper. I keep the house, my car, my IRAs, and my checking account, and she gets everything else. Our "apocalypse" savings, my 401(k), our stocks (including the desiccated remains of my fantastic Pinnacle Micro investment), all signed over to Margaret. She'll be doing very nicely once she gets settled.

And actually, I can't complain either. Suddenly, all my equity is in a house that's a little less affordable than I thought it was, but it seems to be a solid investment. And it's only got eight years left on the mortgage until it's paid off.

Margaret agreed to my Excel masterpiece, then I faxed it over to her attorney with instructions to draw it up as our settlement. A few days later, it showed up in the mail, I signed it, Margaret signed it, we mailed it back, and about a week after that, the judge signed it. Poof - we're divorced. No more attorney, nothing else to sign, no more court dates, nothing. I divorce thee I divorce thee I divorce thee. (Then I throw a sandal at Margaret, and we're done!)

Eighth week - We'll be meeting again with Bill, our accountant. He'll help us sign over what needs to be signed over, and that's it. Some minor paperwork, some removal of names from shared accounts and documents, and we are decoupled.

Eight weeks, start to finish, and no court appearances at all for either one of us. And I probably could have cut that in half if I hadn't screwed up the mediator thing. Maybe next time...

So the next phase is getting Margaret and her stuff on the road back to Denver. She'd been packing steadily, and I watched with delight as the house got depopulated on a daily basis, but that seems to have stalled. Apparently, Margaret filled up her mini-storage locker. A short-term glitch, to be sure, and we're both confident that she'll be out by the end of April at latest. It looks like she may move into one of her brother's houses in Denver (he buys 'em cheap, fixes 'em up, and resells 'em). She's mentioned one house in particular that he's not allowed to sell for some time (capital gains tax penalty), and that'd be a nice smooth transition for her. It doesn't seem like she's intentionally dragging her feet - she doesn't want to be here anymore, and I really don't want her around anymore.

In other news, my first TV appearance went very well. They shot maybe 20 minutes of footage, but used only about eight seconds of my interview on a local piece that KARE11 did on The '80s. Had you seen it, you would now know that "Purple Rain" completely dominated the airwaves for six months in 1984, and that I could do Rubik's Cube in one minute and nineteen seconds in eighth grade. I'm just thankful that I wasn't backlit.

My friend Kris noticed that Boston Market's "Ham Carver" sandwich is seasonal. Seasonal? Like strawberries? Is there a ham harvest at some point? Kris also noticed that at one point, Burger King had removed the simple cheeseburger from its menu. You couldn't order a plain cheeseburger. Oh, they'll cater to the fancy-schmancy bacon cheeseburger-eaters, but what about the simple, honest, hard-working non-bacon cheeseburger-eaters? Who looks out for the little guy? Makes me sick.

One of Margaret's watches died recently. She did not appreciate my rousing rendition of "Ding Dong, The Watch Is Dead".

We recently had a problem with static on our phone line. This had also happened a number of years ago, and back then I traced the problem to a jack that we'd installed on a cinder block wall in the basement. Basement wall damp, terminals corrode, bad news. We'd also run into a heap-o-hurt when we had a dial-up connection on our computer at home. Grounding problem, 60 Hz hum, you name it. I eventually got a cable modem just to get rid of the phone problems caused by the dial-up. And at one point, we had a second line for Margaret's jewelry business, which never rang once.

So the lesson I took away from my previous experience is that the problem is always inside your house somewhere. And since we'd just replaced a phone upstairs, in addition to painting the kitchen and moving around the wall phone there, I assumed that I goofed somewhere. Fair enough. The symptom we noticed is that the first few seconds of a phone conversation were almost completely inaudible, then less static after a minute or two, and the static would be almost completely gone after about five minutes. Talk longer than five minutes, and just about no static at all. I dunno why, but it was reproducible.

This is a particularly frustrating symptom, because during the course of rewiring a jack, you can be on the line for a few minutes, and voila, no more static, problem solved, put away the screwdriver. The next day, though, back to static. So over the course of two days, I bought two different jacks for two different phones in the house. I installed one of them, and before I could install the second, I just gave up and called the phone company. Guy came out the next day, determined in ten minutes that the problem wasn't in my home wiring, or in the line that comes into the house (I couldn't diagnose that one myself.) Nope - the problem was somewhere up the block and it took him about three hours to fix. At no cost to me, either. And I found out that the Radio Shack clerks are non-plussed when you try to return a phone jack that you bought at Home Depot. (Woops - my fault.)

The town of Bloomington was doing some road work on an intersection near the house. Not a particularly busy road, but one that was all beat up and needed widening and sidewalks. So, a big project, with new power poles, and some of the fancy right-turn islands so you can turn without a green light. Nice. Except that one day I noticed that there was a new power pole planted in the pavement on one of the right-turn lanes. Curb ends, two or three inches of drive-able pavement, then a pole. They even put a little red cone in front of it, so you wouldn't drive into the POLE IN THE ROAD! How can this possibly happen? In all my years of pavement observations, not once have I ever seen a pole deliberately placed IN the road. About two months later, it wasn't there anymore, so either the pole was moved, or the lane was moved. I guess it really doesn't matter which...

If you're thinking of cutting your hair so it's a quarter of an inch long (like mine), or if your hair has departed of its own accord (also like mine), I can confirm that washing your head with a steaming hot washcloth feels great. Those of you not currently enjoying hairlessness will have to take my word for it.

I got through the winter season without getting a cold, for the first time in recent memory. I attribute that to some of the advice they gave during flu season: Drink lots of water, and wash your hands a lot. Well, right after I started working here last October, I discovered the fridge in our break room, with a water dispenser and an ice maker in the door. Once I found the collection of large, inviting glasses, I was hooked. Mindful of a friend's kidney stone problems (not that I have any myself), I started drinking about 64 ounces of water every work day, spread out over the whole day. I slosh, therefore I am. And with the constant trips to the men's room caused by drinking 64 ounces of water, I end up washing my hands about once an hour. Problem solved. Now I'll live forever.

Work is going well. I had a recent dream about writers' block, though, and I found it a bit disconcerting. From these letters, it may seem like I would never be short on words, but there are days when they just don't flow. And no words means no $. Great - I can add writers' block to the ever-present list of nightmare topics, like the exam is about to start waaaaaay across campus and I can't remember my locker combination and my pencil is in my locker!!! AAAAAAA!!!! Well, it's scary to ME. Or, my record is about to end and I don't have another one cued up! AAAAAAA!!!!! Again, scary to ME. I get that dream a lot, actually.

So many of you probably have no idea what a patent engineer like me does every day. So I've attached an example of an actual patent for you - U.S. Patent Number 6,368,227, titled "Method of swinging on a swing". This is a real patent, and it issued in 2002. It's an extremely simplistic example of what I write every day, but it's written correctly and in the proper style. (That's what makes it so hilarious to me.) It was written up by a Patent Attorney that worked for 3M right here in St. Paul, and as I understand it, this was a birthday gift to his son, Steven. This particular case is legendary among us patent people.

The last page just kills me: "The patent is hereby amended as indicated below. As a result of reexamination, it has been determined that: Claims 1, 2, 3 and 4 are cancelled." There were only four claims to begin with, so after reexamination, this patent essentially went POOF and disappeared.

I'd certainly mentioned the unbridled joy of New Pants Week, from about three years ago. It's been a tough act to follow, but I think I have a worthy successor: Nu Shooz Week! I am the new best friend of the Rockport store at the Outlet Mall outside of town. If I have learned nothing else in life, I can say with certainty that one should never skimp by buying the cheapo brands of paper towels, orange juice, razor blades, or men's shoes. This may be accepted as fact.

We've had a long-standing tradition at the Gerber house, which will most likely come to an end once Margaret leaves. At Margaret's insistence, we've been keeping a corner of the backyard designated as a compost pile. If old fruit gets squishy, we toss it onto the compost pile. Well it didn't take me long to figure out that if I stand on my back steps and hurl the aged fruit over the garage, I can get it to land fairly close to the compost pile. And with that monumental discovery, the tradition began. I would wait with excitement as a bag of apples sat and sat and sat, well past the point of, "I'm not eating THOSE." Then, on a glorious day, preferably free of precipitation, the fruit tossing! O blessed event! Apples were my favorite, with a weight about equal to a baseball. (Did I ever tell you my little league pitching story? It's brief: My first day as pitcher. I looked great in warm-ups. Good speed, good accuracy. I was my own personal Goose Gossage, if they ever let him start a game. Come game time - BIG problem. The pitcher before me left a giant trench where you're supposed to put your left foot at the end of your delivery. EGAD! No landing strip! The inning started, and I threw 32 balls in a row, every one of them squarely over the plate, and every one 12 inches too low. Walked eight consecutive batters before they took me out. We lost, of course, and I've never pitched another baseball to this day. Softball doesn't count.) So apples were the best. The little tangerines were super-light, so I could get incredible height with them. Unfortunately, my downfall was half a watermelon. Watermelons, I should point out, are kinda heavy. Well, despite my mighty toss, the watermelon landed squarely on the garage roof and sat there for about two days. And because the next door neighbors were getting married and having the ceremony in their backyard, I thought I should climb up on the roof and take the watermelon down, lest it end up in their wedding photos. And now, it's all coming to an end for two good reasons - (1) I don't care about the compost pile; that's why I pay people to cart away my trash every week, and (2) I probably won't buy more fruit than I can eat. End of an era, I tell ya.

And finally, the band is calling it quits after a final gig next week. We played a few gigs under the name "It Figures", which nobody really liked. Many of you offered suggestions and comments, and I will list a few that didn't make the last letter:

The Kickbacks
Moronic Pentameter
H Bar [who wouldn't love a band named after Planck's constant?]
The Roxx
Papercut
DAMFINO [a truly arcane reference to a boat in a Buster Keaton movie, pronounced DAM-F-I-NO]
Booksmart
Faux Pas
Gin and Juice Boxes
We Ran
That '80s Band
The LXXX's

And there was a great deal of affection for the name "Au Gratin" from last time. A few of us from the band may continue to play together, but it probably won't be the usual boogie-blues covers we've been playing. (Lynyrd Skynyrd, BTO, Stevie Ray Vaughan, etc.) I'll keep you posted.

(From the Former Mrs. Crap:)
In the words of Torgo, from MST3K's "Manos: The Hands of Fate": "Watch me go. Vroom."

And with that, wish us luck as we enter the final stage - Margaret moves out.

Ron & Margaret

Ron's Big Life Update - February 2004

Margaret and I are splitting up. Divorcing later this year. I didn't know how to break the news gently to all of you, so I thought you'd appreciate directness.

We got married in December 1995, one day after I got my Ph.D. in Tucson. (It was a truly perfect match - we were born only six days apart, and even had the same shoe size.) We'd planned to do it in April '96, but in a spur of the moment decision, we drove down to city hall on a Friday afternoon with my parents in tow, telling them that it was "happy hour", and we had to get there by 5. They had no idea what we were doing until we ended up in the waiting room with maybe 15 other couples, and some women were wearing wedding dresses. A spectacular start, and looking back, I wouldn't have changed a single thing. (Well, just one thing - I still regret that my brother was already on a bus headed back to St. Louis by the time we decided to get hitched that Friday. If I had even the slightest inkling that we'd rush down to city hall, I would have certainly kept him around.)

When we got married, neither one of us wanted kids. That's a big issue, naturally, and we had talked about it quite a bit beforehand. Eight years later, I still don't want kids, but Margaret seems to have changed her mind. It looks like the nieces and nephews have gotten to her, now that they're old enough to have personalities of their own. She feels that if there's any hope at all of having kids, it's probably not with me.

(from Margaret:)
The correct word for MY feelings about having kids is "VACILLATED". As in I would begin thinking, "I wonder what it would be like to have kids? Probably about the same as raising a puppy, only it takes longer and you can't have the psycho ones put down." Then I would be forced into close quarters with some OTHER PEOPLE's horrifically ill-tempered and ill-behaved spawn and I would immediately react by loathing anything under 4'6'' for the next six months. Then I would begin thinking, "I wonder what it would be like to have kids?" But now, even the horrible brats seem to have potential to me, and it's been that way for a while. It doesn't help that of all the fathers out here about our age, the only one who actively wanted children was my brother. (And if you ever met his dogs, you'd see that he was very well-prepared for fatherhood.) Every other husband was issued an ultimatum or an "accident" and just had to deal with the results. Some said, "Hey! This is great! Why did I fight it for so long?", while others resented the outcome and buried themselves in 60- to 70- hour work weeks to avoid their own children. If I am going to have children, I want a WILLING partner in crimes against humanity. And Ron is not it. That's all. No big drama.

(back to Ron:)
Needless to say, it's not a decision that happens overnight. We'd talked about it quite a bit over the last few years, and while Margaret's been hinting more strongly each time it comes up, I pretty much stand firm. I just can't see it. I know it must sound selfish, but the few grains of happiness I get out of life are from things that would most certainly disappear if I had kids, like the radio show (which recently turned 12 years old. Mazel Tov - next year it gets a Bar Mitzvah).

Everyone says that once a baby shows up, life as you know it is over. The same people tell me that the new life that replaces it is wonderful and the most rewarding experience in the world, but I just can't see it. Instead, I see the screaming kid in the restaurant, or the kid behind me kicking my seat in the airplane. (Which just happened AGAIN on a quick visit to Florida - details later in the letter.) Everyone says that it's different when it's your own kid, but to me that just means that I can't leave the restaurant or get off the plane - it becomes my responsibility, and my problem. Forever. The word that keeps springing to mind is "trapped", and I know that after six months, or a year, or two years, I'd probably walk out on Margaret and the baby. A horrific thought to me, but very plausible.

Sounds dark, and kinda stupid now that I read it over, but it should be very apparent that I am not in any proper mindset to become a daddy. Heck, I even get annoyed when Margaret leaves sawdust all over the house - imagine how I'd react to The Permanent Mess of kids - finger paints, the woodburning set, all the hideously loud and obnoxious gifts that we sprung on the nieces and nephews!

Margaret says that once everything's finalized and signed, she'll move back to Denver to live closer to her family. I'll stay here in Minneapolis with the house and my good job, my good friends, and the one remaining cat. (Of course, I'll pass along her contact info when she eventually settles down.) Until then, she'll be in the house with me. And don't feel like you should hesitate to call us because one or the other might pick up the phone - we're certainly not at each other's throats, and never have been. We just drifted in different directions. My goal is to make her last few months here as pleasant as possible (oddly similar to the last week on earth for our cat, Pukehead, who died this past May). Naturally, she can have whatever she wants from the house. And to our friends in town, don't quit calling us; we still go places and do things together, and there's probably less tension between us now than in the past few months, now that everything's out in the open. We don't read each other's e-mail, if that's a concern for you. She'll be here for at least another six months while the papers go through and if anything, we should all spend MORE time with Margaret while we can; she probably won't be visiting too often after she leaves...

I can't say that I agree with Margaret's decision to leave, but she's made up her mind, and I'm in no position to stop her. She's probably the most headstrong woman I've met in my entire life, and undoubtedly the most beautiful and creative. (And every single one of you knows that I'm not just saying that...) I'll miss her terribly...

Sadly, I had just picked up my Valentine's Day present for her right before she told me. It was a framed print of a series of pictures that were on the dedication page of my Ph.D. dissertation eight years ago. I never even got to write out the card, which would have said that I loved all of her, one photon at a time.
Many of you know that Margaret loves dogs. I don't particularly like dogs, and it's been a running joke for years that I'd get a divorce before I got a dog. I also used to say that I'd get a dog before I have kids. Well, it looks like Margaret can get all three now...

...in other news...

In the nonsensical language of karma, my yin and my yang have sprinted off in opposite directions. So I suppose that on average, I'm doing fine, like the guy standing in a pail of ice water with his head on the stove.

The radio stuff just keeps getting bigger and bigger. I'm on the Board of Directors at KFAI now, and while it's not like I get to decide Who Lives And Who Dies, it's still fun to be involved in some of the decision-making process at my station. I don't really want to Decide that much anyway.

"Crap From The Past" just turned 12 years old, and it did it on the day it hit -24 degrees F, and -43 degrees F with the wind chill. That's some serious cold, and I'm relieved that our cars started. If you've never experienced -40 wind chill, imagine your nostrils freezing up on the very first breath you take outside. That's crazy cold. Three days later, it warmed up a bit, then snowed 14 inches. I take great pride in shoveling off my driveway (by hand - none of that wussy snowblower stuff), and I shoveled four different times over the course of the whole storm. That's Minnesota!

About two months ago, I stopped for some take-out from my favorite pizza place in town, and I ran into a local TV journalist there. Keeping in mind that TV people are probably not too fond of "Hey everybody look it's the guy from TV!", I politely introduced myself as a radio guy and complimented him on the work he does for the newscast. All true, since I watch his station every night at 10. Turns out that he'd heard of "Crap From The Past", or at least someone he works with had heard of it, which surprised me to no end. We exchanged a few emails about '70s music. Nice guy.

Wouldn't you know it - about a month later, his editor (news director? I don't know the names of the hierarchy) assigned him a five-minute piece on the 1980s as a decade: what was it like in Minnesota? It was part of a '60s/'70s/'80s series of pieces, and he got the '80s. Apparently, my name sprung quickly to mind, and he actually brought me down to the station and interviewed me! On tape! With video! A first for me, and I got to show off my huge collection of Prince records and some other local music from the '80s, as well as my first-generation CD player from 1983. (It's a Philips, and it has a European plug on it. It still works, and it probably weighs close to 40 pounds.) I have no idea if my clip will make it into his piece (it is only five minutes and he did talk to a lot of people) but I was pleased as punch to help him out, and I got to see the inside of a TV station. Neat! Plus the more people I know in the world, the better.

(For those of you here in Minneapolis, the '80s piece will run on KARE 11 on Tuesday, February 24th, on the 10 PM news. I still don't know if I'm in it, but it was a blast just to help put it together.)

My grandmother turned 93 in January. 93! And since my mother was heading down to Florida to visit her, I thought I'd take a weekend to visit them both. I flew out on a Friday and back on a Sunday. Amazingly brief, but long enough to recharge the batteries. I spent many hours walking around outside in short sleeves. No particular activity, no particular destination, just the mere act of being outside in short sleeves in January felt very very good. I took my mom to a Colombian restaurant that we'd discovered the last time we visited, and I think she actually liked it. Who knew?

A fine trip, marred only by some stupid two-year-old sitting behind me on the plane, kicking the seat. I'd like to think that I scared the bejeebus out of him, because at one point, I turned around and scowled at him. Eye contact and everything. I think I even grunted a little. I also scowled at the dad, sitting right next to him, with no discernible effect. Stupid parents...

And I discovered to my dismay, again, that another record store in south Florida closed. Everywhere I go, this keeps happening! This time, the casualty was run by an old guy who had a store full of cool old records. Maybe 10 CDs in the whole place, but thousands of cool old records. Now, just a vacant store front. Apparently, the old guy wanted to give the business to either of his two kids, and neither one wanted it. I've discussed this at great length in some of the previous Big Life Updates, and it just saddens me even more.

We did our taxes, and because I was unemployed for most of 2003, our income was laughably low. So low, in fact, that after deductions, it was effectively zero. Now if I was living on the street, there would be nothing funny about it. But since I still have my house and a good job now, I can laugh. Zero! 2003 sucked rocks.

My band still doesn't have a proper name, which is starting to cause some headaches. (We're a four-piece cover band. We play bars n stuff.) We got one gig under the name It Figures, but that name really does nothing for me. I've suggested about a bazillion others, but the rest of the band doesn't seem to share my tastes on band names. For example, behold my list of most triumphant suggestions, in no particular order:

Fly Monkeys Fly
Catch And Release
Bait And Switch
Quote Unquote
Squeeze The Shamen
The Punch Cards
Trial Size
Wind Chill
Control-Alt-Delete
Schrödinger's Catbox
Aruggio
The Skeleton Keys
Au Gratin
Rocket Science
Vic 20
Paper Or Plastic
Dad I'm In Jail
Fries With That
The Perforations
Forty Finger Discount
Paper Scissors Rock
The Dotted Line
Deep Bass Nine
The Stick Figures
Rush Limbo
Dot Matrix
Brimstone
Fold! Spindle! Mutilate!
Därt Börd
Plus Tax
Gravel Pitt
Pyridium
The Cavity Creeps
Spinnell [sic]
Plum Igneous
The Three R's and Marti
Mudflap Girls
Don't Encourage Us
Older Than Rose
The Dryer Sheets

I didn't say they were the greatest names ever - they're not "Comatoast" or "The New Originals" - but you'd think something on the list would have stuck. If you've got potential band names rolling around in your head, I'd love to hear them. I'll certainly pass along any suggestions to the rest of the band and maybe, just maybe, one will click with the four of us, all at the same time!

And just for giggles, some impossibly horrendous band names (just imagine them on the marquee):

Owner's Nephew's Band
Tour Cancelled
Open Mike Night
Sold Out
All Ages Show
Closed For Repairs

And so it goes.

Happy Valentine's Day to all of you! It's a good time to tell that loved one how you really feel. Except if you want a divorce... that can wait a few days...

Stay well!
Ron & Margaret

Ron's Big Life Update - December 2003

Well, it's not Christmas yet, and Hanukkah is still going on, so it's still appropriate to wish everyone a happy holiday!

You all heard from us in October, and really not much has changed since then. I did come up with the ultimate Hanukkah gift for the Dungeons & Dragons fanatic: a 20-sided dreidel. But aside from that, and one particular patent infringement case that I looked at involving Christmas lights, where I spent two days mapping out the wiring diagrams to eight different light nets so that I'll never want to look at Christmas lights ever again, not much going on. It's just like on TV: "Patent Law And Order".

As the temperature out here heads up into the 30's and the snow cover melts, I'm reminded of an incident from this past summer. For the past two years, Margaret had been telling me about an albino squirrel that lived in our neighborhood. She said that it did all the normal evil things that little evil squirrels do (like eat whatever's in Margaret's garden), only it was completely white from its evil nose to the tip of its evil poofy tail. Well, this past summer, while I was eating breakfast and staring out the window, I got a chance to see the albino squirrel in our very own backyard. Sure enough, perfectly white all over, and it jumped around and ran across the power line and ate acorns and plotted evil just like all the other brown squirrels in the neighborhood. Cute, though! And not at all evil-looking. I got to watch him for a good ten minutes until he'd had enough of our backyard, and then he left to go be an albino squirrel in our neighbor's backyard. Naturally, I gave Margaret the full report and she approved, although with the slightly condescending look that said, "Silly New York City boy." (I first got a taste of that look when Margaret found a passage in a book describing a particular bird, "known as the Upside-Down Bird to children everywhere and adult New Yorkers.") I thought about what the white squirrel's name might be ("Earl The Squirl"?) and if his squirrel friends ever made fun of him for being completely white, and then went on my way, happy that I'd gotten to witness one of life's more interesting mutations and one of my block's more interesting fuzzy creatures.

Later that day, as I turned onto 76th Street, I noticed a flat squirrel in the right lane. Not an unusual occurrence, since 76th Street is pretty busy, except this one was white all over. Yep, it was unmistakably Earl, and he was now completely flat, with his little limbs extended outward just like you see in the cartoons when a cartoon animal expires. (I half expected to see little X's where his eyes were.) Drat.

Now as fables and tales go, I realize that this may not have the deep moral and philosophical implications of, say, The Boy Who Cried Wolf or The Littlest Giant. In fact, I'm having trouble drawing any kind of conclusion at all from The Tragedy On 76th Street. Well, maybe it's this: In the spirit of this holiday season, try to respect and admire all of the neighborhood's creatures, regardless of the color of their fur. And do what they taught you in driver's ed - aim for the brown squirrels.

Good night and God Bless,
Ron and Margaret Gerber

P.S. from Margaret: For those who are curious, The Upside-Down Bird is also known as the White-Breasted Nuthatch, it climbs on tree trunks in an upside-down position in order to get the bugs hiding in bark crevices that right-side-up birds miss.

Ron's Big Life Update - October 2003

So why has no one done "Queer Eye for the Straight Girl", in which five stereotypical lesbians demonstrate the joys of flannel, Melissa Etheridge, and really short hair to a stereotypical straight woman?

Well, HI again. The last time you heard from me, it was nothing but bad news. (Cat died, no job, bleh.) Seeing as how Karma owed me big, I think this installment of the Ron Big Life Update will be considerably more upbeat.

First up - I got a job. And not just a jobby-job - this is a really good job! I'm now working as a patent engineer at Altera Law, an intellectual property law firm here in Minneapolis. I write up other people's inventions. (I went through the process about 30 times for my own inventions, so I got pretty good at it. At present, I think I'm up to 13 patents to my name as an inventor.) Because I don't have a law degree, the firm can charge less for my hourly rate, and that savings gets literally passed on to the clients. I'm actually quite valuable at this firm, and they'll probably be looking for a few more PhD's with good writing skills over the next few years, as they plan to become one of the foremost IP firms for the dozens of medical companies here in town.

It's an astoundingly dignified job! I have an office, not a cube. Not only do I have a door, I have a super-heavy wooden floor-to-ceiling door! As an engineer in the capacity of my former jobs, there is literally no hope of ever having a door, let alone an office, unless you go into management - not for me. I don't just have one of those little computer print-out name tags on my office door, I have a real order-from-the-place-that-makes-signs nameplate! I don't just have a window, I have gigantic windows on a full wall of my office, looking out over trees and stuff. After 14 months of unemployed tedium, I have earned it.

Although I was one of the nicest-dressed engineers (am I not tres chic?), I didn't quite have the wardrobe required for a law firm - tie is just about mandatory, and the only serious ties I had were red ones for interviews. (We don't count the Jerry Garcia tie or the '70s throwbacks.) Dang - I needed more clothes, and I really hate clothes shopping! So this past weekend I trudged out to a men's store at the Outlet Mall (God I hate the Outlet Mall...), and bought a whole bunch of shirts and ties. I hadn't bought a shirt with pins in it since I left Tucson! And in order to keep my sanity (my wrinkle-free without ironing sanity, that is), I bought the shirts with some polyester in them. Not that I stay up late worrying about these things, but about 10 years ago I'd worked so hard to make sure that everything I owned was nothin'-but-cotton. Oy! I did notice that the shirts are a little on the shiny side - maybe a little TOO shiny under the wrong lights - and if wear them without ties, they do look a wee bit pimp-tacular. Next time, maybe I'll spend the big bucks at Brooks Brothers...

So this past week has been the biggest Fashion Thing since May 2001, when I celebrated New Pants Week. Ah, the unbridled joy of New Pants Week! In hindsight, that was even better than the current New Shirts Week, which doesn't seem to have the same punch. And in my new threads, my friend Carla called me the "man in charcoal".

I've been at the new job since the beginning of October, and it's been the best first few weeks I've ever had at any job. It appears that at 35, I am the youngest person at the entire firm. A strange tradition - it seems like I'm always the youngest person in the department at whatever job I have. I dunno why.

The place is literally the exact opposite of my summer job, which I mentioned in the last letter. (From June through September I was working at a music promotion company, and it was T-shirts every day, music cranked up all day, hours start late end late. A great job, and I'm very grateful they let me work there for the four months.) It appears that law firms are quieter than libraries. Or at least small law firms - Altera has 5 attorneys, about 6 paralegals, maybe 3 patent engineers, and about 4 admin people. Very much unlike the Seagate environment with 5000 people under one roof and not a single moment to yourself.

I need to thank all of you for your support over the last 14 months - my time between jobs has been unquestionably the worst 14 months of my existence, and I'm grateful for such considerate friends and family. So I'm back to work, and it's a career change that most likely won't crash and burn every 18 months like my optics jobs! Stupid telecom...

Margaret's been working also. About a month ago, she started work at Rose Galleries, a furniture auction place way across town. She found an ad in the paper, went in for an interview (where she bluntly spoke her mind - in stark contrast to the last few interviews she had), and got the job! So far so good - it takes her about 90 minutes to get there by bus, and she's been getting a lot of reading done.

That's the BIG news from our end. And now the smaller news, in sorta chronological order.

At the beginning of the summer, I got to DJ a wedding way up in the northern part of the state. When we hear people talk about goin' up north to the cabin with the boat on the lake, they're talking about places like this. Beautiful terrain, four hour drive from Minneapolis. And a really great party, but it was outside, literally right next to a lake, and at the beginning of summer in Minnesota - the Great Mosquito Factory In The Sky was working overtime for us. After a four hour drive back home, we still had mosquitoes in the car, and all over my equipment and tux. My neighbor saw the car the next day, and remarked that I'll be OK in a day or two when they die off. Unless they start to breed...

The high point of the drive was a little place in Rice, Minnesota. The sign read, "Live bait, mini-storage, deli".

My summer job, which I described in the last letter, was working for The Conclave, a convention for radio people that's held every July here in Minneapolis. We had 800 attendees this year, and the highlight was a live appearance by Willie Nelson. There are lots of famous people in this world (like Hank Aaron, Nelson Mandela, Charles Nelson Reilly, ...), but few of the stature of Willie Nelson. One of my responsibilities was to print up badges for everyone, so I printed "Willie Nelson, Country Music Hopeful". Sadly, that got nixed.

The other highlight of the summer was a wedding in Boston in early September. Many of you might remember Seth, my college roommate from the University of Rochester. Well, he got married to a lovely woman named Gami, who has a PhD in physics from the U of R, and they both live in Boston as "Dr. and Mr. Maislin". Since I had an excuse to go out east, I decided to stretch it out to a week and fly in and out of New York, just to see family there.

I wanted to fly Sun Country Airlines, a little niche airline that's based here in Minneapolis (just because they're NOT Northwest), and they only fly into the New York area at Kennedy Airport, not Newark or LaGuardia. I figured that was good enough, and an airport wouldn't last very long if it weren't convenient, right? AAAAaaack - what was I thinking? JFK was literally 100,000 miles from mom's house, with $3.2 million in bridge tolls! An unfortunate start to the week, although the flight was very pleasant.

As timing would have it, the week I was in New York was the very week that mom began a vacation of her own. (She was visiting her friend, Mickey, in Arizona, and then her mother, Min, in Florida. The Mickey and Minnie tour!) Margaret and I got to stay in mom's house, but we never actually saw mom. The closest we came was leaving obnoxious post-it notes all over the house. For example, one of my favorite things to do is rummage through mom's fridge and throw out all the expired salad dressing. (Mayonnaise from 1993? That's gotta go!) I do this every time I visit, and it's a tradition at this point. This visit, I went through the vast medicine closet and assembled a giant pile of outdated drugs. I left them on the kitchen table with a note, "Careful! These are expirated!" What's not to love? And besides, I think mom misses us a little bit less now than before we trashed the house.

Driving around New York, I got to hear a little bit of the last days of "Blink 102.7", which in hindsight, may be the least successful big-market radio experiment in history. It was an extremely uncomfortable mix of Entertainment Tonight-style reports (Wow! J Lo did something!) and light rock (Wow! Celine Dion songs!). Every single thing they did sounded like a train wreck, and I, the rubbernecker listener, was glued to the radio. About two weeks later, 102.7 changed format and the "Blink" experiment came to an end, just five or six months in. What a mess! I believe that somebody is currently writing a book about the history of 102.7 FM in New York, and that will certainly be in there.

We picked up our college friend Charles from NYC and drove up to Boston. (We've done this before; it's part of the driving-to-Boston tradition.) One of the big thrills for me about the drive to Boston is that if you plan your route correctly, you can drive the entire length of the Saw Mill Parkway - a seemingly ancient highway that extends north from New York City through Westchester County into the odd void of New York State east of the Hudson River. It was probably built in the 1200's when the indigenous New Yorkers stacked some rocks along a cow path. Since then, it's been paved and the speed limit has been upped to 55, but not much else has changed. It's got to be one of the most dangerous highways in the whole country (outside of Boston proper). For most of the highway, the entrance ramps have no merging lanes and a "stop" sign at the end. (Really.) You have to somehow accelerate from 0 to 55 in about ten feet before you get rear-ended by the cars coming around the blind curve right before your exit. It's a life-threatening experience, and to me, it's more thrilling than any of the rickety wooden roller coasters at some of the NY amusement parks. And truth be told, I only braved it because I got to drive the whole length of it all at once without getting on or off; that's a lot of left-lane driving - the equivalent to clutching the roller coaster safety bar with both hands. But what a ride!

The rest of the drive to Boston was pretty uneventful, and I only got lost once trying to find our hotel. Boston is so incomprehensible that even MapQuest just throws up its hands and gives up. Once we got there, though, a good time had by all indeed. The weather couldn't have been any more perfect, and we found our way around very nicely on the T. Walking around downtown, we counted 12 Dunkin Donuts shops. Twelve, all seen in one day by us tourists. We also had some pretty terrific seafood, not at the Dunkin Donuts.

The wedding was a good time, as expected. Seth and Gami had the DJ do a rather untraditional thing - an open mike after dinner, during which guests tell stories, wish well, and the like. I, not one to retreat from a microphone, thought I'd convey a little story. I could have told the embarrassing story of The Laundry from when we were college roommates, when Seth would wait until his dirty laundry reached the light switch, then go the bank, take out a whole roll of quarters, and take over the whole laundry room for the day. Nope, didn't tell that one. Instead, I talked about the first radio show I ever did, in November 1986. Seth was there with me in the studio as I tried to push all the buttons correctly and sound like I knew what I was doing, even though I didn't. We had a lot in common - Seth and I were both musically inclined, and he and I both had a knack for writing. (He is currently one of the world's foremost indexers, and even gives seminars on the topic.) I can't remember my exact wording, but I said that Seth and I both share an appreciation for the beauty and precision of words and music. Seth was right there as I began my radio career 17 years ago, and I'd like to think that every time I turn on the mike, there's a little bit of Seth in there. And every time I leave it on just a little too long, well... that'd be Seth...

We also went bowling in Boston, with the proper 10 pins. None of that crazy 9-pin stuff for us. Besides, you can't throw the ball as high with 9-pins, as I recall.

One of our Boston friends had us over to her house, north of the city, right on the ocean. Whatta place! We wandered around on the beach and Margaret collected a bag's worth of seashells and beach glass. I was surprised that you can take home the shells, because the California beaches that I saw strictly prohibit removing anything at all. Cool! Shells make Margaret very happy. And they had a brand new kitten, named O.C. (orange cat) - kittens make Ron very happy!

So we drove back to NY, dropped off Charles, and retreated back to mom's house for a day or two. I thought I'd visit some of the old record stores in Rockland County while I was there, and boy was I in for a shock. Tapeville - the primary source for used records and old 12" singles - closed in May. (The Italian restaurant next to Tapeville, where mom used to get take-out all the time, also out of business.) Pic-A-Disc, the indie store that would always order the strange, pricey foreign singles with rare B-sides, had a big "Liquidation Sale" sign in the window. The word "liquidation" was tucked under, but it looked like he'd be unfolding it soon enough. The store opened during my senior year in high school, and I'd visit every time I was home from college. I talked to the store owner for quite a while, and he attributes a lot of the downturn in business to teens; teens just don't go to record stores anymore, like I used to do 15 or 20 years ago. Historically, teens have always driven the entire music industry, and the current generation just doesn't buy music - they download the individual songs that they want, and if they want a full album for some reason, it's right there at Target or Wal-Mart. There is no more niche market of teen music collectors, and the little stores are suffering for it. I was really affected by talking to him - I mean, we've all heard that music sales are down, Napster, blah blah etc., but this struck a really unpleasant chord for me. All the stores I used to love as a kid, the stores that pointed me down the musical path that I walk all these years later, are going away. Certainly, I don't buy as much music as I used to (at least in stores), but the reality that nobody was following in my proverbial footsteps was quite a jolt to me. I ended buying quite a bit of stuff at Pic-A-Disc, knowing that the next time I'm back out east, the store probably won't be there. Very upsetting.

Moving on... I've always wanted a stage name - a cool fake name that I can use on the air, like one of my former colleagues from 98PXY named "Rocky Martini". Well, this trip out east has provided me with one. From now on, I shall be known as "Pip Helix". Yes, Pip Helix. My friends and family may call me Pip, but I'm Mr. Helix to all else.

And just where did I come up with "Pip Helix"? As the Palisades Interstate Parkway feeds into the George Washington Bridge, the road goes through a cloverleaf and passes under itself, and the little green sign posted atop the underpass, identifying the road that's overhead, reads "PIP HELIX". I love it.

So I threw Margaret a surprise birthday party when she turned 35 on October 16th. She wasn't surprised at all, but it seems like she had a good time anyway. We all signed a card that said "All your friends think you're old!", which got a laugh, but laughter probably masked the Evil Eye...

[rebuttal from Margaret]

There was no evil eye, mostly because I certainly don't feel old, unlike my cranky gray-haired spouse who is always railing on about "Damn kids!" "Damn Rock and Roll music" "Things just aren't like they used to be - why, back in my day.." "Oy! My lumbago is killing me!" Maybe it's the difference in lifestyles. He wears a tie, I'm still catching the bus with a backpack. I also spent the entire summer resurrecting the ghost of my first bike which I found "as is" on E-bay after two years of looking. Next summer, maybe I'll learn how to skateboard. My new job is great! All my mad skills I have accumulated over the years about old books, furniture refinishing, jewelry repairs, etc., well, at this job, they really ARE mad skills! And there are two dogs at work, so it's like I have dogs, only I don't have to put up with Ron whining and scratching! I don't know why Ron is the way he is, but I'm ALWAYS ironing my clothes, I keep the ironing board next to the t.v. and do them when I have nothing good to watch, but Ron refuses to let me iron his shirts for him unless it's for an interview. Even then, there's usually a shouting match because I refuse to let him leave in a wrinkled shirt. He won't let me iron his suit, either. The woman who had the house right on the beach was on no ordinary beach, she was right on Marblehead! And the mussel shells on her beach are cobalt blue! The locals call them "Periwinkles". My 90 minute bus ride is the alternative to 60-90 minutes in a traffic jam. I'd rather teach myself to knit than grind my teeth, so bus it is! Stinky is getting fat from not chasing Pookums, and she won't chase us instead.

[/rebuttal from Margaret]

Lumbago?

"Crap From The Past" bounces along nicely. Apparently, it's bouncing in the right music collector circles, and somehow, I've managed to enter the innermost sanctum among pop music geeks. I now own MP3's of every single song that's ever hit the Billboard Hot 100. All of them, going all the way back to 1955. And now that I have every song that's ever hit the pop chart, EVER, I don't really know what else to collect. It kinda takes all the fun out of it...

And that's about it from the land of ice and snow. Stay warm, and Happy Halloween!

Ron & Margaret Gerber

Ron's Big Life Update - July 2003

[Written Friday, May 23, 2003.]

Well, I'd been holding off since December to write another installment of the Ron Big Life Update, in the hope that something interesting would happen. And as of mid-May, still no sign of interesting. But the last few weeks have given me more interesting than I really cared for, so here's the long-awaited Big Life Update from Minneapolis, conveniently complete with Bad News and Good News.

Bad news first - we had to put one of our cats to sleep, due to chronic renal failure. (That's her kidneys.) I will explain.

Margaret and I have had our two cats, Stinky and Pukehead, since we got married over 7 years ago. I graduated from grad school, we got married, I got a job, we moved across the country, I got a new car, and we adopted the cats all within the space of one very busy month in early 1996. The jobs have come and gone (and I'm really not THAT attached to my car) but the cats have been with us the whole time.

Well, last week we noticed that Pukehead wasn't herself. A trip to the vet determined that her kidneys were shot - some protein or other in her blood had a level of 200, and it should have been only 25. The vet told Margaret that Pukehead had less than a month to live. Egad! Margaret and I agreed that we'd give Pukehead the Best Week Ever then have her put to sleep while she's still happy, rather than watch her health and happiness deteriorate slowly. My mission was clear...

The biggest symptom we noticed was that she was weak, and couldn't jump up to her usual spots, or go down into the basement to use the litter box or visit me while I was on the computer. So we moved a litter box and another water dish onto ground level so she wouldn't have to negotiate any stairs. She had no interest in the usual cat food or water, which panicked us a bit. Fortunately, she'd been drinking the leftover milk out of Margaret's cereal bowl for years, and we found that even with no appetite for her conventional food, she'd still devour a small bowl of cold milk straight from the fridge. (And as I type this, I realize that we should have gotten some whole milk for her, rather than the skim milk we usually drink. Rats!)

We thought we'd try another Pukehead favorite - turkey. Whenever Margaret roasted a turkey, we could always count on Pukehead getting the crazies, and following Margaret around with eyes as big as her head! So Margaret cooked a turkey, and Pukehead even ate a few pieces. Not up to her usual turkey consumption, though (when she was healthy, she'd probably have eaten her own weight in turkey if we'd let her.) It was the only solid food she ate at all during the last week. And to add insult to injury, I left the Tupperware container of cooked turkey on the counter overnight, rendering the rest of the whole 11-pound turkey inedible for all parties concerned. (Doh!)

Both our cats have been primarily indoor cats. When the weather's nice, we put Stinky out on a leash and let her wander in the yard, but Pukehead didn't like the leash and we generally kept her indoors. She could easily jump from the floor to the top of a 5-foot-tall stack of records in the basement; with no leash she'd have exited the yard in a heartbeat.

Since the weather outside was beautiful, and we saw that she was fairly immobile inside, we thought we'd completely indulge her and put her outside. Best Week Ever indeed! We'd plunk her down on the patio in the backyard, and she'd slowly make her way to a new corner of the yard while we essentially babysat. It couldn't have worked out any better - when she was inside, she slept constantly and was basically an uncomfortable blob. But outside, she came alive and wandered around with the curiosity of a kitten. She moved slowly, and we made sure that no other wildlife would bother her when she was resting, but being outside made her Happy with a capital H.

And that set the tone for the last week. Neither Margaret nor I was working (I'll get to the employment situation later), and we devoted ourselves to giving our sick little cat the Best Week On Earth. The cycle became a comforting routine: We'd wake up Pukehead, carry her over to a cold bowl of milk straight from the fridge, she'd drink, she'd wander over to the newly-located litter box and take care of business, then wander over to the backdoor where she'd wait for us to let her out into the Great Outdoors. Then we'd go out with a book and keep an eye on her for an hour or so until she got tired. Then we'd carry her back inside, more milk, and back to sleep for an hour or two on a comfy pillow in the sun. A good life indeed.

Margaret and I spent about a week spoiling Pukehead. If I understand that factor of 7 thingy correctly, then the one week that Margaret and I put in translates to about 7 weeks for Pukehead. It must have felt like Fantasy Summer Camp for her, and she purred her way through most of it, despite her obvious discomfort. She really didn't seem to be getting worse, but she had already lost a lot of weight by the time we had her diagnosed, and she had existed only on milk for about five days. We knew she wouldn't have been able to hold out much longer without any solid food, and we decided to have her euthanized before she got much worse. We agreed that we'd have it done on Thursday.

It was cold and rainy on Thursday morning, but Pukehead was determined to go outside anyway. So I threw on yesterday's clothes and a jacket and grabbed an umbrella, and followed her out into the backyard. I sat on the bench while she explored a bit in the rain, but she gave up quickly and wandered over to the bench, where she jumped up next to me and crawled up onto my lap. It was the only time that week that she'd sat on either one of us (it was always a sure thing when we watched TV). I sat for an hour outside with her in my lap, cold but dry under my umbrella, with no sounds at all except the falling rain and a faint purr from Pukehead.

Once Margaret got up, we rounded up everything we'd need to take Pukehead to the Humane Society. It turns out, the only thing we needed was a big pillow; Margaret drove, and I held Pukehead on the big pillow in my lap in the passenger's seat. Wouldn't you know it - Pukehead absolutely loved the drive! She was purring the entire trip, and watched in amazement as the scenery zipped by at 60 MPH. From the parking lot, I carried her in on my shoulder, and within about two minutes' worth of paperwork, we left her in one of the cages at the front desk. She was still calm when we left, and we like to think that the end came quickly and painlessly shortly after that, while she was still marveling at the magnificent drive she'd just had.

(For those of you that aren't pet people, I apologize for the letter thus far. This is therapeutic for me, and it feels good to get it on paper.)

In dealing with the past week, I couldn't help but think about when my father passed away five years ago. He was 70, and I guess technically Pukehead was also 70 if that factor of 7 applies. When my father was sick, I felt it was my responsibility to make him and the rest of the family as comfortable as possible - a role I found myself again playing this past week. I'd forgotten the feeling of powerlessness that you have when a loved one's health is failing, and how much it hurts. Yes I know, this time around it was only a cat, but the cat's been around for as long as I've been married and I'm going to miss it. This is the same cat that sat on my lap (or on the back of my high-backed desk chair) while I edited down every single "Crap From The Past" show every week for the last 5 years, and wrote every single Big Ron Life Update. I'm going to miss Pukehead, and so are Margaret and our other cat, Stinky, who lost her playmate. Seven years of joy certainly outweighs our short period of grieving; we'll mourn, and we'll move on.

I have three favorite pictures of Pukehead - (1) Standing in the bathroom sink, and (2&3) Happily immersed in a big box of Styrofoam peanuts. Born circa 1993, adopted Feb 4 1996, died May 22 2003.

[Written June 29]

So yesterday we went to a Twins game. We had no agenda for the day, so we drove into downtown about five hours before the game and planned to just wander around until game time. Plus, you get a great (free!) parking spot on the street if you get there insanely early. It was a great plan, and we even stopped for a snack at an outdoor café on the other side of the river. Until... it rained cats and dogs on the walk back. Big, fat, cold raindrops, lots of wind, and all while we crossed back over the river on the scenic, uncovered bridge. Soaked to the bone, we shivered our way through the entire game. And for you baseball fans, I abused the concessions stand at the Metrodome: I "ate for the cycle" - a hot dog, a pizza, a BBQ sandwich, and an ice cream sandwich, all in one game. I probably could have eaten a pretzel, but I was cold, wet, and running out of cash.

And strangely enough, we also got soaked at a St. Paul Saints game less than a week ago (minor league baseball). You'd think we'd bring an umbrella to these games, but no.

"Crap From The Past" still continues to shock and amaze. This past April the show even got some press from Minneapolis's very own City Pages! I even got a picture! You can't see the top of my essentially-shaved head, but you can see my hexagonal glasses that I wrote about in the last letter.

I noticed that my old band, Thinland, released a CD a few months back. I played drums with them for about a year and a half, and we parted ways 2 or 3 years ago. No hard feelings at all. They even thanked me in the liner notes, although they thanked me dead last; apparently I was the least useful contributor on Earth to their sound. But it's nice to be acknowledged at all, and I genuinely hope their album does well.

Remember when I had The Plague two summers ago? (I really did have The Plague.) I may be one of the few people out here that can look at the recent Plague outbreak in New York and say, "Pah! I had that! It's nothing three weeks of doxycycline can't cure!" Well, I unearthed a photograph of the actual bunny that gave me the plague. The picture was taken on Margaret's mom's farm in Yuma, Colorado, about three hours east of Denver. The bunny was, in fact, cute, so it's hard to summon up the proper amount of hate that such Diseased Rodent deserves. Stupid bunny...

I suppose I should discuss my job situation. I was hoping to have some good news by now, but nope. I got laid off last August from ADC Telecommunications because telecom crashed and burned, taking ADC with it. Since then, it's been one disappointing interview after another, including a local law firm (where I'd be a patent engineer), a local college (where I'd be the department chairman for their school of broadcasting), my alma mater Seagate, and an optics company on Long Island, among others. Especially grating is Seagate, where each job requisition will pull in literally hundreds of resumes, some of which are certainly more qualified than I am. It's frustrating to know you're not qualified enough to do your old job.

So optics in Minneapolis is essentially gone. I still have a handful of leads, but they're not going anywhere, and there's certainly no growth in the optics field out here. The situation in other fields seems to be just as bleak - I have four good friends who all got laid off in April. Four! And I don't know all that many people!

The worst part of being out of work is not having the regular routine to your day. Weekdays and weekends all bleed together, and holidays completely lose all meaning if you have no job. For a while, I took on some heavy lifting at Margaret's old store, Williams-Sonoma, and helped them unload the truck twice a week. While we were in no danger of running out of money, I needed some kind of signpost on the weekly calendar. Plus it was cheaper than joining a gym!

And one small novelty item from W-S. When you're dealing with hundreds of boxes a week, you learn pretty quickly what the little icons on the boxes mean. Like an umbrella means it shouldn't get wet. Or a little martini glass means that it's made of glass. Or a hook means that you shouldn't use a hook. And so on; it's not rocket science. So imagine my confuse-ment what I ran across this very strange icon on a box of pasta imported from Italy. No idea. So I scanned it in, and here it is, for your baffle-ation.

I'm not at Williams-Sonoma anymore, because I actually found a pretty cool summer job - I'm working at a small music promotion company here in town. I'm helping them out with preparations for a radio conference, which takes place here in July. Plus I'm handling some of their day-to-day responsibilities, like tracking playlists from a lot of the Midwest radio stations. I get paid for talking to radio people on the phone and playing music at work! The main benefit of my working there is my sanity (regular hours and all that), but an unexpected bonus may be knowing all the regional program directors! Cool!

So I'm actually enjoying my summer job. It's like summer camp for me, where I get to decompress from everything from the past few months and even get paid a little for it. At least I know I'm going to enjoy the rest of the summer, even if I don't get rich in the process.

My mom retired this past week. She's been an elementary school teacher since before I was born, and has taught the lower elementary school grades at her school in The Bronx for something like 15 years. And now she's done, just like that. Mom has always had her summers off, but the rest of us had our routines to act as the signposts for her schedule. Not this time - it's just her and the house. Well, based on the past year or so, I know firsthand that retirement scares the daylights out of me, and I hope my mom will cope well with going from strict routine to no routine at all. I heard some good advice from other retired teachers, and a good answer to "What will you do after you retire?" is "Not this." I'm sure she'll enjoy NOT teaching every day, and in due time she'll figure out what to do next.

And now a rebuttal from Margaret:
Well, this is indeed an unusual Big Life Update in that I, the wife, have no rebuttal at all this time.

Ron's Big Life Update - December 2002

First up - happy holidays!

Okay, it's been since April since you heard from Margaret and me. A bit has happened since then, so I'll give you the end of the story first: I'm out of work, Margaret's working, we're in good health (no emergency room visits for either of us), and the house, cats, and cars are all just fine. Families on both sides are well also, so this would be a terrifically upbeat e-letter if I had a job. (And if you don't have a thing for details, you can stop reading now. If it's the fine print you want, read on, and I'll lead you through everything roughly chronologically.)

April 2002 - My radio show of the last 10 years, "Crap From The Past", made the finals at the NFCB's Golden Reel Awards. My show was one of four finalists in the category of Best Local Entertainment/Music Series. Fame and fortune did not immediately follow. Surprisingly.

May 2002 - My brother Kenny flew in for a weekend, and boy did he pick the right weekend! In the span of two days, Kenny went to an ADC party (all funded by the employees) over the border in Wisconsin, complete with a live band (ADC employees), a few deep-fried turkeys, and a whole lot of seafood. Margaret adopted a crawfish. ("No, honey, it's food." "But I want one!") We took it home in a big coffee can, and she kept in the backyard in a huge flower pot that held around 30 gallons. She came up with a name after about two days of deep thought: Claude. Claude lived happily for a few weeks, which is a few weeks longer than anybody would have guessed. Margaret attributed some human qualities to Claude ("He looks happy today."), and all were amused until Claude passed away a few weeks later. And no, we did not eat him.

One day after the Claude-adoption party, Kenny got to attend the bestest party ever, thrown by us: Cinco De Mayo, Gerber-style! The menu was straightforward - microwave burritos for everybody, and you had to eat five (cinco) of them. For the record, only Kenny and I had that many. And for dessert, a mountain of Little Debbie snack cakes. I vote, Best Party Ever.

The rest of May was dull.

June 2002 - Started off DJing a wedding in Hibbing, the hometown of Bob Dylan, which is about 3-1/2 hours north of Minneapolis. I was the DJ and Margaret was a guest, so I'd have company on the road - a good thing. When it came time to load up my car, I had a flat (dang!), so I took all of Margaret's junk out of her car and replaced it with my junk, and off we drove. About 30 miles into the drive, the muffler gave way and started dragging on the ground. Long story short - Margaret, after years of experience with her Pinto and '83 Accord, successfully climbed underneath the car and tied up the muffler with some bailing wire and a large piece of cable. It made noise like a jet engine, but it didn't drag on the ground, and we were able to get back on the road after a delay of only about 90 minutes. We made it up to Hibbing, and I got the equipment set up and ready to go with a whole 9 minutes before the ceremony started. Sweet!

Now normal people would have rented a hotel room and driven back the next morning. But not me - I had another DJ gig the next morning at 9 AM. So we drove back, and I pulled into the driveway about 4:30 AM. The next morning, left at 7:30 with the same noisy carload full of equipment, and did my gig. I don't remember much about the second one, to be honest. Later in the day, we got the muffler fixed properly, and I bought two small compressors that plug into the cigarette lighters, one for each car. Then I got my tire patched and we lived happily ever after.

Last weekend in June - My cousins threw a surprise anniversary party for my aunt and uncle, who were married 35 years! Margaret and I took a weekend off and flew to Washington DC for the party. (DC in June? Not hot & sticky at ALL!) It was a major affair, and they invited around 75 people to the restaurant, including family members I'd never met before, and my 91-year-old grandmother who flew up from Florida. It went flawlessly - my aunt cried, and my uncle (a lobbyist who has never ever been at a loss for words) was at a loss for words. Magnificent. There's a special place in heaven for my cousins, who arranged the whole thing.

While out in DC, Margaret and I had a few minutes to kill at some point, and wandered into a dollar store. Since I have a strange fascination with off-kilter food, we found ourselves in the cereal aisle. (Recall that last year, I mailed four boxes of Kaboom cereal to my house in Minneapolis from my sister-in-law's place in Tampa. Ate two, two left.)

This store in DC carried a whole line of not-quite-right knock-offs: Corn Pops became Corny Toots, and Frosted Flakes morphed into Frosty Flakes. And just like Kellogg's had Tony The Tiger, this off-brand had their own trademarked spokesman for Frosty Flakes: Berg. Yes, Berg. (Because frosty means cold with the iceBergs, I suppose.) This Berg creature was a trademarked character, and I can only imagine the fine line of Berg products that blossomed from Frosty Flakes...

There's a particular Italian restaurant here in town that my friends and I go to for lunch on Wednesdays. It's a long-standing tradition, well over 2 years at this point. When they bring out the check, they always leave a handful of Dum-Dum lollipops, and we go out of our way to avoid the "Buttered Popcorn" flavor. When one of our little group said that he likes the Buttered Popcorn Dum-Dums, the restaurant gave him a huge bag of just Buttered Popcorns that they filtered out from their assortment. The novelty wore off quick (2000 nasty lollipops - ack!), and the bag sat untouched for a few weeks until Weimin, a co-worker, discovered that he likes them. We gave him the whole bag, and all was well for a few months until he got a toothache and had to stop eating them. And just for the record, the official Dum-Dum Pops website said that they stopped manufacturing the Buttered Popcorn flavor as of Nov 2001. Apparently, nobody likes them at all.

July 2002 - For the first time, it was legal to sell and use sparklers in Minnesota, so we threw the Best July 4th Party In History. Keep in mind that my family never got to play with sparklers or fireworks of any kind, so we never got past the pyromaniac phase of development. Much to Margaret's dismay, we set fire to EVERYTHING on our concrete patio (Woo-hoo!), and when we ran out of stuff, we sent some friends out to buy more! Unfortunately, the only place that was still open was Walgreen's, and they returned with a package of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Which worked quite well, actually. And we left a permanent stain on the patio.

End of July - Margaret found a nice set of Oster clippers, like the barber uses. She suggested that she cut my hair, using the logic that I didn't have very much of it and no one would notice if anything bad happened. (The same logic that says that since I don't have any cavities, that even Margaret could be my dentist.) The first time we tried it, it came out OK. Pretty good. Looked just fine. Nice job.

The second time she tried it, I heard "Oops" after about 15 seconds. OOPS?!? Without even looking, I grabbed my keys and drove over to my barber, where I explained everything up until Oops, and asked him to fix it. We laughed and laughed, and he fixed it, but it came out mighty short. Plus he gave me a little paper temporary tattoo, the same one that he gives little kids when they try to cut their own hair and mommy brings them to the barber to fix it. Did I mention that my hair was now mighty short?

Well, chronologically, we were up to mid-summer. I think it's time I brought you up to speed on my job situation.

By April, I knew my job (as an optical engineer) at ADC (a telecom company) was in jeopardy. WorldCom, one of our biggest customers, filed for bankruptcy sometime in early '02. Adelphia, a cable company and another big customer, made headlines when charges were filed against its top management for embezzling millions. Great. I ain't no Harvard Business student or nothin', but I figured out that if all of your big customers go bankrupt, then you're in deep trouble.

And that's what was happening at ADC. We figured out when the layoffs come, down to the day. They started on Aug 1, 2001, and continued like clockwork (plus or minus a day) every three months, to coincide with the beginning of every fiscal quarter. Aug '01, Nov '01, Feb '02, May '02. Like clockwork. And somehow they kept me around through all of those.

Until August 1, 2002. They let half our building go, a total of about 75 people. They let the other 75 go three months later on Halloween, thereby eliminating all of photonics from a company that had essentially bet the farm on photonics. I predict there won't be much left of ADC in a year or two.

So the days got a lot longer for me in August. The first two weeks were great. The weather was gorgeous, and I put a whole lot of effort into planning some Crap From The Past shows, which came out sounding spectacular. After two weeks of not working, though, I got a bit restless and underfoot, since the house belongs to Margaret during the day and I'm not really supposed to be there.

End of August was the Minnesota State Fair, always a highlight of the summer. There was the ever-present food on a stick, and this year's novelty item was deep-fried macaroni and cheese on a stick. Ish! But still better than last year's deep-fried candy bar on a stick. Margaret and I showed up extra early on a Thursday to beat the crowds and to see the llama judging. She likes her llamas.

Aug 31 2002 - I got a new pair of comfortable Rockport shoes that I've worn every day since. Black, slip-on, no laces, dignified enough to wear to work, although the work thing wasn't much of an issue for me.

By September, I had plenty of time to fill, so I started doing more work at KFAI, the all-volunteer radio station that runs "Crap From The Past". I even got to host a morning show, which increased my visibility at the station about a hundred-fold. Miraculously, a show called the Friday Night Poker Party decided to call it quits after a 7-year run, and I (after a slow but thorough selection process) inherited the Friday night time slot. Blam - from graveyard to prime time, starting at the beginning of October. So CFTP now airs on Friday nights from 10:30 to midnight, and normal people can listen now, and I'm not dopey on Mondays for the first time in 3-1/2 years. (Not that I need to get up on Mondays right now, but I will presumably have a new job at some point.)

End of October 2002 - I didn't have anything better to do, so we rented a van and drove to Margaret's hometown of Yuma, Colorado. (Recall that during our last trip to Yuma last summer, I caught the bubonic plague from a diseased bunny. Now that cases of the plague turned up in New York, I don't look as crazy as you thought, eh? Somewhat of a trendsetter, I must say...)

So off we drive to Yuma in a cargo van the size of Connecticut. At least that's how it drove. We filled it up with stuff from Margaret's mom's house, and drove back. All pretty uneventfully, actually. And because Margaret's mom takes pictures of the oddest things, I now have pictures of the actual bunny that gave me the plague. Stupid bunny.

November 2002 - I told my barber to give me the shortest haircut ever. He did. It was plenty short. A few weeks later, I took the plunge and cut my own hair with the adjustable clippers that Margaret found over the summer. My hair is now about 1/4-inch long all over my head, and I've rendered my barber obsolete. I feel kinda bad about that because I really like my barber, so I'm trying to get some friends to go there and replace me.

For those of you that haven't seen me in a while, there wasn't a whole lot left on the top of my head anyway. Rather than go down the comb-over route, or the unwieldy Gallagher/David Crosby route for that matter, I'll be keeping my hair supa-short from now on. You won't even miss it when it's gone.

And I figured that as long as I was updating my image, I may as well get new glasses. My old frames are circa 1991, and the little round glasses are fine for Harry Potter, but Margaret voted them off the island. Intrigued by a small mom-n-pop optical shop that we discovered way across town, I decided to get new frames. And not just any new frames. Margaret always said that I look like my grandfather in his wedding picture, so I brought in my grandfather's wedding picture from 1936, and had them copy the frames and lenses. As you might imagine, the small staff there went bananas over it, and my job was probably the highlight of their month. I now have a pair of rimless glasses, with sorta-hexagonal lenses. The guy at the optical place had been doing this for 30 years, and he immediately recognized the design as frame xxx, manufactured by company yyy, located right here on page zzz of their catalog. (I forget the specifics, but he sure knew his stuff.) My new glasses look pretty cool, I must say, and the shape of the lenses exactly matches an antique pair of sunglasses that Margaret already had - apparently this was a very common shape back then. I'm hoping they won't look as dated as my last pair in 10 years, but after 66 years, I'm not too worried.

And another item to make me feel old. I was talking with a friend who's 8 years younger than I am. He said he used to listen to Rush back in high school. I told him that I used to listen to Rush aw well - those Canadian guys could rock! He said no, he meant Rush Limbaugh. I was verrrry disappointed.

And a friend noticed that you can go into any restaurant and order a "kicker". It can be a drink, an appetizer, a rack of ribs. Darn near anything. But it's always on the menu...

Last year, as part of the holiday festivities on the radio show, I did a show devoted entirely to the work of pop songwriter Holly Knight (punnily called "Silent Night Holly Knight"). She's not a household name, but her songs were huge in the '80s: "Love Is A Battlefield", "The Warrior", "Better Be Good To Me", "The Best" (that Tina turner song that shows up in TV ads), and over 20 others. The show came out great, and I've been in touch with her since then.

This year, she agreed to do a phone interview with me, and on the Dec 6 show, she sat in for the entire 90-minute show on the phone, talking about her career and all sorts of interesting music stuff. I was in heaven, as you might imagine, and the show came out great. I'm a bit awkward for the first 10 minutes because I'm inexperienced as an interviewer, but she was terrific start to finish. It was certainly a high point for me, and I think Holly enjoyed it as well. Can you imagine - she had all sort of media attention about 15 years ago, and out of the blue, this radio guy does a serious 90-minute interview with her because he thinks that she deserves more recognition for her body of work from the '80s. Must be pretty cool, and I only hope that my radio work is remembered in 15 years.

In a strange development, my radio show is now heard on *2* radio stations: KFAI in Minneapolis, and GoldRush Radio in Lawrence, Otego, New Zealand. Yep, CFTP airs on Saturday nights at 7 in New Zealand! The station there doesn't have a website, but I think they're a community-run station just like the one here in Minneapolis. What a hoot!

So it's mid-December and I'm not working, but Margaret is. When my benefits ran out in October, she got a job at Williams-Sonoma, a high-end kitchen store at the Galleria, an uppity mall just over the border in the uppity suburb of Edina, about a mile from the house. The hours aren't bad, her co-workers are pretty nice, and I appreciate the effort she's putting in. I'm not altogether comfortable with the role reversal - the laundry is done and the house is spotlessly clean, but the food is not as good as when Margaret was cooking. And I've noticed that Margaret's co-workers are the most attractive women in the state, all somehow squashed together under one roof. She pointed this little factoid out to me, and I had to check it out with my own eyes. It's true, although I don't understand how. (Powers at work that are far greater than my little brain can comprehend.) It's fun to go visit, knowing that I'm the only straight guy in the store who wants to be there...

I've gone on a few job interviews so far, but nothing yet. Each time I get my hopes up, I get crushed like a bug. Which is why I haven't written lately - I'd been hoping for some shred of good news so I could end the letter on a happy note. But no.

(and now, a word from Margaret:)

...And now, time for the rebuttal. The car would have been fixed much faster, but we had wasted time trying to find a garage in a crappy, awful, little town called NORTH BRANCH that no one should ever, ever visit. You would think two city slickers with a busted car and a credit card would be any small-town mechanic's ..., um, "dream", but this horrible blight of a town just kept telling us, "Well, we always close at noon, and it's almost noon. Bye." So, I used a coat hanger, a tomato paste can, and some JB Weld to fix the muffler. It lasted five minutes, then back to the soothing strains of jet wash rumbling out from under the car. How can a lowly imported four-banger sound like a cargo plane? There were two ironies that morning: 1 - I had to argue strenuously with Ron that he couldn't take "all that crap" out of the back of the car. ("Oh, come on, there's an empty can in there! And a coat hanger! Why do you drive around with all this crap in your car?") 2 - since we would be traveling through some long stretches of nothing, I had taken the precaution of putting "deer whistles" on the front grills of both cars. They are supposed to emit an ultrasonic shriek that scares deer from running across the highway. "Good for blank hundred feet" the package said. All the way up, and all the way back, I really don't think the deer ever got a chance to hear the whistles because they had been deafened by the muffler about 3 miles before we got near them.

When we went to Washington, D.C., we stayed in the outskirts and drove into town to rendezvous with the family. Every time, we passed a street called Gibbon. Every time, I did my best imitation of one. Ron said it got old. Not for me!

Ah, Williams-Sonoma. It is very, very strange. The rest of the country is in the grip of a recession, but not at that location. It's the #1 selling location in the U.S., no qualifiers, #1. It's even doing better this year than it did last year. The doctor/lawyer neighborhood it's located in is apparently recession-proof, also, as a small "boutique" mall, we are the only ones with any kind of real parking. So people who drive up from Iowa to do Christmas shopping hit the Target across the street, then shop in the snooty mall because it's easier to get to than a "real" mall. For all their huge money-making, Williams-Sonoma refuses to pay benefits to full-time employees, claiming that we are "casual" employees even though we work full-time and don't choose our hours. Hmmm... I also don't think they hire straight men. Demographically, the employees are a bit abnormal. But all very nice and friendly.

Ron's new "do" makes him look a little like Matt Lauer from one of the morning "news" shows that I can't figure out what their purpose is. If you're going to work, you don't have time to waste watching someone else's weather. If you're not working what do you care what the weather is anyway? Oh, well, I'm complaining because we can't afford cable anymore and broadcast is a Vast Wasteland. After cable, even PBS sucks.

Ron forgot to mention that on the way back from Yuma, we were forced to spend the night in Iowa and were subjected to the local election ads. Oh my god, Iowans are not nice at all! Their ads were the worst, slanderous, most mudslinging collection of exaggeration I have ever seen. The Saturday Night Live skits didn't even come close to the real things we were subjected to. Oh, yeah, the hotel was across the highway from some kind of bar called "The Icky Nickel" located in the midst of some stockyards. I'll let you speculate.

(back to Ron:)

So at the end of the year, all goes well except I'm unemployed. (If you've got an extra engineering job in Minneapolis, then we need to talk.) Looks like the Emergency Room Competition will end in a tie at 0-0. Could be worse, I suppose. Here's hoping that you and yours have a warm and fuzzy holiday season, and we'll talk to all y'all soon.

Ron & Margaret Gerber