The Haugen holiday newsletter

 Welcome to the annual Haugen Holiday missive in which I give an electronic run-down of the parole status of the various Haugen hooligans. (You richies who mail your Christmas cards and own private jets really impress me given the USPS has proposed its fifth postage increase since 2021.)

This past year in Haugenland was like most, a mixed bag of good and bad. Mom's husband Tom passed away just before Memorial Day in Missouri, so we navigated the whole death in the family thing and were fortunate to get her almost immediately into an assisted living center in Milbank, SD. She enjoys the newly-built facility as much as anyone can under the circumstances and has my sister and family nearby. She's had more visitors in the past six months from Canton and LeMars and sites in between than she ever had in Missouri, so that's good.

Nothing like the buzz kill of starting off a holiday newsletter with some death and destruction, eh? That's life. It ain't all Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce fairy tales. (Over-under on that fiasco is July 1 and I'm taking the under. You?) It seems when Aaron Rodgers "ruptured" his Achilles in Week 1, the NFL execs needed to find a new drama queen for the season, and since Joe Exotic was still in prison, they trotted out TayTay and Trav.

But we Haugens have our own young lovebirds. We call them Layla - Luke and Kayla. A year of wedded bliss under their belts, they continue to live in northern Virginia with Klaus, their German Shepherd. Kayla is food safety supervisor for the Wegman's supermarket chain (any of you remember the Safety Dance by Men Without Hats? Another reason '80s music was the best.). Luke is still a catcher of bad guys and if you're a psycho creep doing dirty deeds you just might run into him or his buddies someday.

This summer Stetson and Rylee upgraded from their loft apartment to a house just a couple blocks from the University of Illinois campus. But enough about them. The star of that union, the one who puts the bubbly in Champaign, the "Noise" in Illinois and the "Grand" in grand-daughter is Josie Jayne. Coming up on 2 years old in a couple months, she's already been accepted to MIT and qualified for the 2044 Olympic games 400-meter run, but remains humble, which you kind of have to do until you're at least potty trained. She's a heck of a singer though and likes her kitty and dogs.

Our other son, Kirk, tore his Achilles last month and while we love him to death he's become kind of an anchor on our financial situation so it's likely we'll send him elsewhere this summer.

The eldest child, Katie, and her boy-toy, Kwinn, will be tying the knot this March in Florida in an exclusive beachside affair. She continues directing all things west of The River for our congressman; while Kwinn continues searching for the gold nugget of his dreams.

As for Momma H, she's still working for the back-cracker. They have a new high-tech shock therapy machine she's trained on, so if you see me out and about drooling from the corner of my mouth more than usual, you'll know why. She also got a new knee this year - wore out the old one kicking me. And she saved her friend's life by giving her the Heimlich at lunch one day. Just the usual year for her.

Not much new with me. Still working for Senator Thune. It'll be 19 years in January, far breaking the record of my previous longest job tenure of 5. I'm also grudgingly facing down the big 6-0 in six months. Pretty much approaching the golden years with Dylan Thomas' words in mind: "Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Meaning? Stay out of my way.

As for the doggos, it was kind of a rough year for ol' Huckleberry, as he celebrated his 11th birthday with a few more aches and pains than usual. He continues to mostly ignore the new pup and has claimed my lap now that Stanley isn't around. Crazy Finn, the lab, isn't one of those guys who eases into the day, like me. He hits the ground running and doesn't stop until dark, but he keeps me somewhat fit.

And I'd like to throw out a special gracias to some friends who really made my year and kept me from going totally insane: Jeff & Jill, Steve & Dallas, Abby, Theiner, Carl and the Thursday night poker boys. Ya'll, with Cinnamon, Saphire and Sandee, kept a smile on my face, though I hide it well.

Finally, may your holiday season be safe, soul-filling and fun; and may the New Year bring you the courage to break your resolutions early! 

The latest scores

Here are my most recent reads - very average (as the Haugenometer score below them indicates). But a couple quotable quotes I enjoyed:

"The Big Bad City" by Ed McBain (1999)

6

"The End of the Night" by John D. MacDonald (1960)

7

"Like most small-bore, pretentious men, Riker Owen shows the tendency to strike an emotional attitude and then, using that prejudice as a base, draw vast, unreasoned, philosophical conclusions."

"Boone's Lick" by Larry McMurtry (2000)

7

"There was no sign of Ma, and no sign of our mules, either, but there was plenty of sign of Sheriff Baldy Stone, a short man who had grown very round in the course of his life."

"Fuzz" by Ed McBain (1969)

6+

"Her face was spanking pink from the cold outside, and she exuded health and vitality even though she seemed quite upset by her husband's disappearance."

Meanwhile, in the world of rock n roll ...

 This is a cool story: Rock Gods Call Him When They Need a New Thunderbolt

“He’s very enthusiastic,” Jagger said, “to the point of being too enthusiastic, sometimes.” At one of their earliest meetings, Jagger remembered, “I said, ‘Look, I can deal with this, but when you meet Ronnie and Keith, you have to dial it down a little bit.’”

And there's this: Pussy Riot on the Run From Vladimir Putin

“Have you seen our schedule?!” asks founding member Maria Alyokhina, huffing a strawberry kiwi vape, who also goes by Masha.

“There’s no time for poisoning!” says her bandmate Olga Borisova with a laugh.

I'm c'raven' more House of Usher

 Wifey and I are about halfway through the Netflix series, The Fall of the House of Usher. My wife screams about three times per episode.

It's not going to be for everyone - gory, gruesome, scary, weird. But I have to say, it fits Edgar Allan Poe to a T.

While the Fall of the House of Usher was only a short story, readable in about an hour, the TV series is eight one-hour episodes. So there's not really much of a plot they are sticking to. I almost feel like they took the name Usher just so they could cash in on Poe's name.

Still, the writers very much stuck to the genre of Poe - macabre and spooky. I'm really enjoying it, mostly for that reason. Some of the names of the characters are cleverly pulled from Poe works, like Pym and Grampus. Probably something only nerdy English majors would notice.

My mind also wonders to weird places like: What would Poe's review of the series be? He was initially best known as a literary reviewer and one of the most critical. He would slice and dice people up with an acid tongue. I suspect he would do the same with this televised effort.

But I won't. I'm liking it.

Poe influenced many famous writers and is credited with inventing detective fiction. He literally invented an entire genre! That's crazy to me. 

I'm 90 percent certain my next tattoo is going to be a raven. If this series ends on a high note, it may be sooner rather than later. It's got me jazzed about EAP. Hey, it's better than a Taylor Swift tattoo, right?

Anonymous quote I ran across ...

 "I'd rather be the oldest guy in the gym than the youngest guy in the nursing home."

And, let's hear it for the girls

 Xochitl Gonzalez wonders: What Did Hip-Hop Do to Women's Minds. From The Atlantic:

I’d heard these songs hundreds of times over the years, but that day—as a woman in her 30s making a playlist for a man who’d recently had a baby girl—I was suddenly hearing them anew. The volume seemed turned up for every mention of “hoes” and “bitches,” like someone had taken a sonic highlighter and run it over every verse about devious, promiscuous, and generally disposable women.

Boys not being boys

 Jonathon Haidt is increasingly worried about boys. From American Institute for Boys and Men:

Boys are in trouble. Many have withdrawn from the real world, where they could develop the skills needed to become competent, successful, and loving men. Instead, many have been lured into an ever more appealing virtual world in which desires for adventure and for sex can be satisfied, at least superficially, without doing anything that would prepare them for later success in work, love, and marriage.

Since we're talking music

 Let's talk about the greatest: Prince.

And his impact on that gal Travis Kelce is dating.

“Swift seems to have studied Prince and learned some invaluable lessons.”

The Old Curiosity Bookshop

 What wonders they hold as they vanish.

Read this, then go buy a book.

From the bookshelf ...

 What I'm reading: An Ed McBain 1969 novel "Fuzz: An 87th Precinct Mystery". Only 95 bucks at AbeBooks, but I got my paperback edition for $4 at my bookstore.

What I'm reading next: The great Larry McMurtry's "Boone's Lick"

Just a reminder, you don't need to drop $28 on the newest 2023 release. You can go to a used book store and pick from volumes of great books from great prolific authors for $3-$4 each. The ones below from my most recent visit to my local used book store were written in 1957, 1960 and 1969.

Or, at least, mix it up a little. Give a new author a look AND check out the old masters too. 

Chris or Jamey? Who ya paying to see? (UPDATED)

 Chris Stapleton is coming to my neck of the woods for a concert this spring. I'm not trying to be contrarian here, but I haven't bought in (especially at 200 bucks a ticket) to all the hype. For my money and my Alexa time, I prefer Jamey Johnson.

They both have interesting back-stories, song-writing backgrounds and paid their dues to become stars. Stapleton is the hotter commodity right now, but outside of "Tennessee Whiskey" there's not a lot there for me. Lots of the same sound, same voice. While his CMA duet with Justin Timberlake was fun to watch, his song "Parachute" belongs in a middle-school play. 

Stapleton seems like a really nice guy, a good man, and I'd rather listen to him than any of the Bro Country Justins and Jasons, but for as hot as his star is burning right now it's got to burn a lot longer and with a more diverse catalog of songs than just growly, sad blues. 

Johnson, a former Marine, comes off the opposite to me. I'm guessing he's a nice guy, but seems grouchy and distant in the concerts I attended. He shut one down a couple songs early in Deadwood because a couple guys got into fisticuffs at the front of the stage. Come on, man, toughen up, don't be such a wimp. Think Waylon or George would've fled from the stage? I expected more from the "Somewhere between Jennings and Jones" singer.

Yet I find Johnson's voice better with a better range of songs. I had a friend tell me, when Johnson sings about the ups and downs in life you know he's been there.

Whichever you prefer, they're still in the 90-plus percentile of the rest of the performers out there. 

UPDATE: Here's a story singing Stapleton's praises.

Finished: Ryan Howard's '56 Days'

 At first glance I thought this book was written by former Phillies player Ryan Howard but I guess not. It was good anyway. Nice job, Catherine Ryan Howard.

It does the flashbacky thing quite a bit, which I don't usually like, but the author made it work; and cleverly so in some instances where she replayed the same scene but from the viewpoint of the other main character. I hadn't run into that before. Kudos for making Haugen jealous he didn't come up with that idea.

No one even knew they were together. Now one of them is dead.

56 DAYS AGO

Ciara and Oliver meet in a supermarket queue in Dublin and start dating the same week COVID-19 reaches Irish shores.

35 DAYS AGO

When lockdown threatens to keep them apart, Oliver suggests they move in together. Ciara sees a unique opportunity for a relationship to flourish without the scrutiny of family and friends. Oliver sees a chance to hide who -- and what -- he really is.

TODAY

Detectives arrive at Oliver's apartment to discover a decomposing body inside.

Can they determine what really happened, or has lockdown created an opportunity for someone to commit the perfect crime?

The book starts just before the COVID pandemic hit in Ireland and then continues as they went into lockdown. I was skeptical I was going to like that too, but Ryan Howard did a good job. She was on point with how the pandemic was handled early on, the confusion, the fear, and wasn't preachy about face masks and didn't get into the vaccine argument. Again, kudos for deftly handling that.

The best were the twists. Not just one, but two or three. They whapped me alongside the head like those tortilla challenges on Tik Tok. Impressive.

I'm feeling generous today and going to give it an 8- on the 10-point Haugenometer. That's pretty much in line with the 4.1 of 5 by the Amazonians. And I didn't bother to check those goofy Goodreaders.

Speaking of the ol' ball and chain ...

 My celebrity crush has alway been Jennifer Love Hewitt. Her smile, her curves, her personality. If I had a hall pass it would be with her. (If my wife had one it would be Herb Dean, go figure.)

Anyway, it dawned on me a while back that I'm already married to JLH.

Tell me I'm wrong:

35 years, uff da

 Today is my 35th wedding anniversary. Kind of a big deal, mostly due to the fact that somebody has been married to ME for 35 years. I wrote kind of a long, sappy deal but wasn't happy with it so deleted it. In short:

Anyone who knows my wife knows she's special. Ya, every husband is supposed to say that, but everyone else agrees so I must be right, "as usual" (she'd say sarcastically). She cares more than the average person, laughs more, talks more, hugs more. As the doctor she works for says: "85 percent of the patients come to see me; 15 percent come just to see Nancy.)

Before I turn this into another long, sappy deal, just watch the video or read the lyrics below. Pretty much sums up my situation word for word. FYI, Climax Blues Band is a sorely underappreciated group, as was their lead singer Colin Cooper.

When I was younger, man, I hadn't a care

Fooling around, hitting the town, growing my hair

You came along, and stole my heart when you entered my life

Ooh, babe, you got what it takes, so I made you my wife

Since then, I never looked back

It's almost like living a dream

And, ooh, I love you

You came along from far away, and found me here

I was playing around, feeling down, and hitting the beer

You picked me up from off the floor, and gave me a smile

You said, "You're much too young, your life ain't begun, let's walk for a while"

And as my head was spinning around

I gazed into your eyes

And thought, ooh, I want you

Thank you, babe, for being a friend, and shining your light in my life

'Cause, ooh, I need you

As my head was coming round, I gazed into your eyes

And thought, ooh, I want you

Thanks again for being my friend, and straightening out my life

'Cause, ooh, I need you

Since then, I never looked back, it's almost like living a dream

Ooh, I got you

If ever a man had it all, it would have to be me

And, ooh, I love you

Finally, a responsible adult, kinda

 It's usually not a big deal when somebody buys a new vehicle, but it kind of is in my household; as I'm the guy that buys one and drives it until a tow truck has to pull it from my driveway to the junk yard or I get pulled from it with the jaws of life. This stingy Norwegian gets his money's worth. 

So it was a bit of a surprise to wifey and kids yesterday when I traded in two vehicles: my 2002 Dodge Ram clunker with 204,000 miles on it; and my cherry 2006 canary yellow Mustang convertible. 

I traded it for a used 2017 Ford F-150 pickup, with low miles and all the bells and whistles.

To which my wife reacted: "This is much more responsible."

So, now, after 59 years of life and 35 of marriage I am finally responsible, in her eyes.

And she has a point. I've had three Mustangs, and they tend to go fast. Sometimes, you just gotta let the horses run, right? And sometimes when those kids in their RX-7s and Camaros pull up to the stop light next to you, it just might be more than the average old guy can resist to not maybe race them to the next light. But, I will say, in my five years with the latest Mustang, I never received a ticket while driving it.

Maybe I never exceeded the speed limit, or maybe I've gotten better at avoiding HiPo's. Only God knows. Well, actually I know too, but I'm not telling.

Another reason wifey is glad I don't have the Mustang, I suspect, is because I have an aversion to wearing seat belts. I know, I know. But if our most precious possessions, our children, don't have to wear them on school busses, why do I in my own car? (It's a column for another day and a frequent argument I have with a co-worker who, I guess, likes having me around.)

Little known secret: ever since a head-on highway collision in a Mustang when I was 21 (it wasn't my fault, the drunk guy came over the hill in my lane) I've envisioned that I will indeed die via car accident, probably flying through the windshield and in mid-air thinking: "I guess I should've worn my seatbelt".

Gosh, that was dark, Haugen.

Anyway, the latest Mustang had just kind of run its course with me. It's basically undriveable in the snow and the CD player didn't work - two important reasons for getting a new vehicle. Also, as a convertible, it was kind of a pain the butt, always making sure I wasn't leaving something on or under the seat when I parked somewhere. Like a gun, or a billfold, or a Prince CD.

So I've been looking. But the trucks I found that I liked where all white. Nothing wrong with white, but when you've owned silver, red and yellow Mustangs and a purple Miata, I've got a reputation to uphold. I didn't want to look like an electrician. Nothing against electricians, I just don't want to look like one. Shocking, huh? Get it, shocking?

When my dealer, who also takes my Skittles during our Thursday night poker games, told me he had just the baby coming in, I leaped. It's metallic silver. The CD player works. It's got some giddy-up and I traded the two cars to make some room in the driveway. The changing cars around to get out of the garage was becoming a pain in the rear.

Now the problem is the truck will barely fit in the garage. Looks like I'll be spending my weekend figuring that out. 

But I like it and it gave me something to blog about, way too much as you probably agree.

Safe driving everyone!

In the game of life, be a Tom, not a Bill

You've probably seen the news where a U.S. Senator has led the charge for it to be an even uglier place. They've dropped the dress code of suits and ties and now allow shorts and sweatshirts on the Senate floor. 

While I won't harp on him (enough others have), when your crowning career achievement is to make the Senate an uglier place, you didn't have much of a career. Welcome to Walmart.

I'm with Mark Twain, of course, that clothes make the man. They don't have to be expensive or chic or trendy. But you dress appropriately for the occasion. 

Oddly enough, one of the biggest changes and things I still grapple with after turning from Lutheran to Catholic 25 years ago is the dress code. At the country church I grew up attending, men wore suit coats and ties. And this church was surrounded by corn fields and attended by farmers who wore coveralls and wife-beater shirts Monday through Saturday. They recognized the significance of their venue, of whom they were honoring. They weren't feeding the cows.

Catholics are much, much less attentive to that philosophy and it still bugs me. Blue jeans galore. T-shirts. But not me. You can take the boy out of the Lutheran church but not all the Lutheran out of the boy. You won't find me in blue jeans in church.

My son as a teen wanted to wear sandals one day to church. I told him: "Unless your name is Jesus, you don't wear sandals in church." I was a mean dad.

Don't get me wrong. I can dress like a slob. Catch me on the weekends and you'll see. Often times the same shirt a couple days in a row. Baseball cap, almost always. 

But, elsewhere, I'm generally known for dressing spiffy. Rarely suit and tie, (those are just for special occasions), but I've got my own style. If I had to categorize it, I'd say it trends toward 1970s college professor hip. You know, turtle-necks, mock turtle necks, solid-colored button-down shirts, with sport coat, sweater or vest, sometimes even the always-classy sweater vest not just anybody can pull off.

I like to dress nice and for the occasion. I dress differently for a night in Deadwood than a night at boxing. But I have outfits for both. Fedoras for some, bucket hats for others. 

Shoes too. Not quite an Imelda Marcos situation (Google it, kids) but getting close. 

Am I judgey about how others dress? Yes. Sue me. I figure, if somebody doesn't care about an event they are attending, they don't care how they look at it. I've seen high-ranking government officials in ripped blue jeans at important events where I'm wearing a suit and tie; and I find it disrespectful. It tells me they are more interested in sending some kind of message (look at me, I'm cool) than sending a message to the people the event is honoring (I'm honored to be here and took a few extra minutes to dress nicely to show my respect). 

And it's not like you have to spend a lot of money to look good. I'm still wearing coats and sport coats handed down from my dad. Goodwill has them too.

I remember a friend 30 years ago, lived a couple houses down from me. He didn't own a suit coat at the time, but he was going to a funeral. He stopped by the house and asked if he could borrow one of mine. I said sure. I respected the respect he was showing the deceased and his willingness to overcome any little bit of embarrassment to ask. 

I'll quit my rant for now and send you young'ns to the Google machine again: In a world of Bill Belichicks, try being a Tom Landry.

When the ban isn't really a ban ...

 I'm against book bans, but let's not over-hype the problem. 

Here are some interesting findings from a couple researchers who looked into claims of censorship.

As it turns out, almost three quarters of the books that PEN listed as banned were still available in school libraries in the same districts from which PEN claimed they had been banned.

Let's not cry wolf. It doesn't help the cause.

Finished: Robert B. Parker's 'Bye Bye Baby'

 This is a continuation of the late RBP's Spenser series but written by Ace Atkins, chosen by Parker's estate to do so. This is Atkins' tenth and he does a really good job of keeping the characters and dialogue in sync with the original author. There are only subtle differences a long-time reader of the series would notice.

Carolina Garcia-Ramirez is a rising star in national politics, taking on the establishment with her progressive agenda. Tough, outspoken, and driven, the young congresswoman has ignited a new conversation in Boston about race, poverty, health care, and the environment. Now facing her second campaign, she finds herself not only fighting a tight primary with an old guard challenger but also contending with numerous death threats coming from hundreds of suspects.

When her chief of staff reaches out to Spenser for security and help finding the culprits of what he believes to be the most credible threats, Garcia-Ramirez is less than thrilled. Since her first grassroots run, she’s used to the antipathy and intimidation women of color often face when seeking power. To her, it’s all noise. But it turns out an FBI agent disagrees, warning Spenser that Garcia-Ramirez might be in real danger this time.

Some of the clever, thought-provoking lines I marked-up, as I tend to do, include:

"With age comes wisdom, but for some age comes alone."

"I wasted time, and now doth time waste me." (He likes to drop Shakespeare quotes on occasion.)

And, a reporter explaining why he doesn't read the comments posted below stories he's written:

"Sometimes people get up in the morning, take a shower, grab a cup of coffee, and head to an office. Other people get up out of their cages and start screwing with people. You know what? I think most of them are just lonely and sad."

Amazonians give it a 4.4 of 5; Goodreaders a 4.1; and the Haugenometer a 7 of 10.

How ya doin'?

 Some time ago, albeit gradually, I started taking the "How ya doin'?" greeting more literally.

I know it's basically a perfunctory greeting. To which you're supposed to respond: "Fine. How are you?" Most people don't really want to know how I am. They don't have any real concern for my well being. Sure, they usually don't want me dead or injured, but they don't really care if I'm having a good day or not. They don't want the details. They just want to move on to the business at hand.

Most days I'm doing great and respond as such.

But other days I'm not. And I have to admit it's kind of fun to make some people uncomfortable by responding with the truth.

"Oh, so-so. The dog puked on the carpet first thing this morning, then I got a speeding ticket going to work and my wife is mad because I forgot to take the garbage out. But, the day is young."

Or to my "How ya doin'?" they respond: "So far, so good."

Then I remind them of the story in Magnificent Seven (the first movie, not the lame remake) about the guy falling out of the seven-story building and at every floor below they heard him say: "So far, so good." They look at me like I'm a nut, which I'm fine with (never end a sentence with a preposition).

But, really, most days my head has a three-ring circus going on inside it. There's the clowns in one ring, the acrobats hanging on by their fingernails in the center ring, and the lions eating the lion-tamer in the third ring. And I like to make people aware that I'm not always okay.

If for no other reason, it's that I suspect most other people are not always okay either, and it might give them a little relief to know they are not alone. Everybody has crap going on in their life. If they say they don't then they are liars.

Now I'm not into over-sharing the details. But often times, my response leads to an actual conversation about things that are going on in their life and they want to know a few more details of mine.

It actually works out pretty well that way.

If people don't like that, then maybe they should try a different greeting, like: "Hello."

More on 'Miami Purity' and "what is noir?"

 Polly Stewart discusses one of my all-time favorite books, "Miami Purity," with another crime writer, Alex Segura. Very interesting. I really like his definition of "noir."

It’s where a character is painted into a corner by their own design, like their own mistakes or choices have put them in an impossible situation. And it’s usually relating to some kind of primal urge. It’s not like a plan that goes awry; it’s that they’ve made a mistake based on lust or greed or vengeance. They’ve chosen poorly, and now must pay the consequences. And that’s the story.

And the thing about noir is that there’s never a tidy resolution. You don’t get the happy ending where they kind of ride off into the sunset; it’s usually pretty bad. Miami Purity is very much a noir, a neo-noir, in that bad things happen to people because they make bad choices. And I find those kinds of stories fascinating because it feels like real life, where few things are tidy, and few things are resolved easily.

"They’ve chosen poorly, and now must pay the consequences." I like that.