Hella Kids

This morning I finished All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. Everyone on the planet has heard of this classic, published 97 years ago, but I had never read it. It was an incredibly heavy book (emotionally heavy; the book itself is just 179 pages). 

The story is based on Remarque's own horrendous physical and psychological ordeal in the trenches of France during World War One. The reader is truly left with a sense of how horrific and utterly senseless war really is. It should be required reading for every world leader. 

But that assumes every world leader can read.

"The only good thing to come from war is camaraderie."

On a lighter note, my part of this big world woke up to cotton candy fog this morning. "Thick as pea soup" as my mother used to say, although I don't remember her ever making pea soup, In fact, I'm not sure what pea soup even looks like. I'm guessing it is thick and green, which is nothing like fog. 

A better descriptor would be "Thick as Campbell's mushroom soup." That's definitely better. Opaque and gray-ish. It resembles two-day old phlegm but it tastes great. Or should I say, M'm! M'm! Good!

But these murky mornings are welcome here. As we inch closer to spring, hour by hour, fog forms like the ghost of winter, slowly fading, melting, releasing its death grip. It actually feels satisfying to turn on the fog lights as one ventures out and about. 

Speaking of, I drove my son to jazz band this morning; he has jazz practice every morning at 7:30 AM. I give him credit, because jazz is meant to be played at midnight, when you finally find the pocket and the atmosphere of a smokey nightclub is just right; capturing that groove right after breakfast is impossible, but you do what you have to do. 

As I headed home, navigating the roundabouts, I approached a rusted out Dodge Durango from behind. I could see white lettering stenciled on the back window and being the curious type, I had to inch closer to see what it read:  

"HELLA KIDS IN THIS BITCH" in capital letters (a fancy, dancing script to give it a classy touch). 

I am too old to understand this vernacular, so I had to look it up. It turns out "hella" actually has its roots in 1970s and 1980s slang in the Bay Area of California. I'm not so sure about that because I grew up in the '70s and '80s, and I never heard of the word "hella" until No Doubt came out with a song called "Hella Good" around the turn of the 21st century. 

I presume "hella" is an adverb; roughly meaning "really" or "very." If so, the phrase "hella kids" doesn't make a lot of sense to me. "Hella kids in this bitch" obscures the meaning even more. The "bitch" part could mean the Durango itself, or perhaps it refers to the driver of the Durango, who could be pregnant. 

Regardless, the essence of the meaning, I am guessing, is a redneck/white ghetto interpretation of "Baby On Board."

Either way, I give Durango credit for spelling everything correctly, because the "t" is silent in "bitch," and it is frequently overlooked. 

Hella well done, Durango.

The Blind Assassin

 This is a quick post for book lovers, because only book lovers know the feeling I have right now: a feeling of contented exhaustion after finishing a great novel. 

As usual, I am late to the party. The Blind Assassin was published 26 years ago, but it was new to me, and I had no idea what to expected when I opened to page one; maybe something about a professional assassin? Maybe some secret agent man shit going on? 

Nope, not at all. Essentially this was a novel within a novel with three different, yet interwoven stories twisting around each other. 

I admit I had the thing figured out about 3/4 of the way through, or at least I thought I did, but then the last 125 pages had me second-guessing myself. Awesome storytelling.

Margaret Atwood turned 86 years old last November and she now has a brand new fan. Hey, it is better late than never!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and there's dog shit everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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