The opportunity - we were hungry and had some cheese, fruit, crackers, and some salmon (an earlier stop at a salmon farm tourist trap).  So we made our way back to the car and searched for someplace to eat our humble lunch.

The town of Mount Cook is a tourist town, through and through - there are several hotels, each of which has restaurants, but with our own food and snow covering seemingly everything, we were trying to find the spot to have our lunch.

Luck was on our side as we discovered an enclosed picnic shelter, complete with a water heater (thank goodness for tea loving Kiwis!).  All we had to do was work our way through the five inches of snow in the parking lot, which for Minnesota’s is a piece of cake.

With our meal spread out before us, Melvin looked at me, looked at the cheese, the crackers, and the smoked fish and asked the obvious question: “Sooooo, do you have a knife?”

No.  No I did not.  Nor did Melvin.  For the cheese, each of us had our individual packs, for the salmon, smoked, but still very slippery and tough (smoked salmon in New Zealand is not the dry flakey smoked salmon that you would find in Minnesota).  So knifeless, we used the sharp end of the crackers to slowly hew away at the salmon.

There were a couple of methods that we employed, all that worked, some more so then others.

The first was the chisel method, where we would jab at the flesh of the salmon, making a cut by wedging the relatively dull cracker through the meat, down to the skin on the other side.  Crude, but effective, as long as you cut it far enough.  The second way was just to saw away at it until you made it to the skin or the cracker broke.  This was less crude, but also less effective.  Once you made it down to the skin on the other side, it was a matter of using the cracker to separate the flesh from the skin.

If you wanted to see two Stone Age men trying to cut up a fish with primitive tools, that was us.  We could have been featured in a documentary.  It was one of those experiences where you felt that you built up a bigger appetite then you actually cured.

As I cleaned up the mess, Melvin moved the car for the snowplow (timing, life is about timing) and we were on our way to see the story of Mount Cook - in 3D!

 We went back up and over the Lindis Pass, back through Omarama and on through Twizel.  Just outside of Twizel, we hit the spectacular view of Lake Pukaki.  Then it was down and through the trees, the big stands of pine that stood on each side of the road, until they finally opened up to majesty of Lake Pukaki again, with the giant of a mountain called Mount Cook standing in the background.

I’d been told that you can’t miss Mount Cook, when you saw it, you would know.  How true that statement was - for Mount Cook towers over the surrounding peaks.  We made our way on the very nice road - looking out on the lake and the seemingly endless number of rivers and streams that trickled into the lake from the surrounding mountain ranges.  They trickled into the lake now, winter time, but from the look of the rock strewn river bed, it is pretty clear that once the snow melt starts in spring, those little streams turn into mighty and violent rivers.

With each passing mile, the vastness of Mount Cook continued to impress, rising more and more from the surrounding mountains….it was truly a mountain among, well, mountains.

Lake Pukaki, in winter now - didn’t have the snow melt, and the approach to Mount Cook was a green rocky field, complete with cattle and sheep working their way through the rivulets and ponds.

We pulled into the lodge and visitor center, right under the shadow of the mountain, first to, ahem, relieve ourselves of some excess fluid, but also to see the Alpine Visitor Center and Museum, which partly told the story of Mount Cook and its history, but was dedicated to one of the most famous Kiwis, the first to conquer Mount Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary.

Hillary, a native New Zealander, spent much of his youth climbing the peaks of the South Island.  The most impressive, and most formidable, was his assent of Mount Cook, one of his practice runs for Mount Everest.

Hillary, in addition to being a mountain climber, was also a humanitarian who gave time, money, and resources to helping those less fortunately, specifically the Sherpa people - those sturdy guides that help with the assent up Mount Everest.  Hillary and his family helped to build schools and hospitals so that they might enjoy some of the comforts of modern society.

The museum also had a 3-D theater that showed movies every half an hour.  Since we were playing the tourists, we had to take our turn.  So instead of the dinosaurs, we chose, wisely, the movie about Mount Cook.

The issue was, we had to wait an hour for it to start.

Impressive Mount Cook

Impressive Mount Cook.  Closer.

Author and Sir Edmund Hillary (statue…Sir Edmund Hillary)

One of the workhorses of the mountain, a Massey….wonder if they had to split it every fortnight like the one we used to have on the farm….

 All roads lead to Mahnomen.

Well, at least Minnesota State Highway 59 and Minnesota State Highway 200.  And the Golf Course Road.  And we can’t forget Cemetery Road, the one that goes through the park.  Oh, and also the Boxcar Road, even though the boxcar was burned about ten years ago, it is the one that goes past the Catholic Church.

Anyway, this weekend, all roads lead to Mahnomen.

This weekend is Wild Rice Days, and not only Wild Rice Days, but it is the Mahnomen High School All School Reunion.  Those only take place every five years, and they are a very big deal.  Every class will have a float.  Well, most classes will have a float.  My class failed in that endeavor the last time around five years ago, but we kind of had an excuse, after all, who really celebrates an eleven year high school reunion.

Each class will get together.  My class is lucky in that regard, more than likely, we will move up north to one of the northern suburbs of Mahnomen, Bejou, to where one of my classmates is the barkeep and owner of the Lean-to Tavern.  Will the beverages won’t be free, the memories will be.

Wild Rice Days is a tradition in our little town.  The parade is the centerpiece.  It has all of the hallmarks of a typical small town parade.  The honor guard led the way, and they are followed by fire trucks, the police cars, the Shiners in from Fargo in their miniatures, and floats of every shape and sizes, also tractors and businesses have their entries.  Making their way up the back…due to their, ahem, exhaust, were the horses.

As a kid, I marched in the Mahnomen High School Band, tooting our horns and doing complex barn door style corners as we turned at Main and Jefferson Streets (right by the Catholic Church) and again as we turned off main at the Court House.

Dad was always an active participant for as long as I can remember…well; active is a bit of a strong word.  He and his fellow classmates, the Class of ‘47, would get an old 1947 grain truck, take the sides off to make it a flatbed, then put a picnic table on the back.  With ‘pop glasses’ and ‘adult beverages’ in hand, they would ride through the parade, waving at friends and neighbors, and generally soaking in the sights and sounds.

After the parade, there are a myriad of functions to attend.  Usually some games and carnival rides, and of course, the classes will get together.

In the evening, the Mahnomen County Deer Hunters will more than likely hold their game feed, probably either at the County Fairgrounds, or maybe by the park next to the Knights of Columbus Hall.

In the evening will be the street dance.  As a kid, that was the place to go.  It would have a live band, sometimes coming all the way in from Fargo.  The municipal liquor store would pull out the old beer truck, and you could get fried bread taco’s as you hung out with your friends, tried to impress the girls, and otherwise try to make a little mischief, but never too much….

We still had to milk the cows in the morning….

 Queen’s Day in Australia (though, while I’m a fan of 70’s rock and enjoy Bohemian Rhapsody, I’m still confused why they have one whole day dedicated to them), we fueled up outside of Queenstown and headed for Cromwell.

We drove up and out of Queenstown, past Arrowtown, and through the fruit growing region outside of Cromwell.  The vineyards gave way to the orchards.  The wineries gave way to the fruit stands.

We stopped for some fresh produce, and were amazed at the diversity.  They had the normals - banana’s, red and green grapes, apples, and peaches, and pears.  But they had the unusual ones too - the persimmons and star fruit and kiwano’s and tamarillo’s, and of course the Chinese gooseberry - better known as the kiwifruit, or simply, kiwi.

The fruit stand - really a store on the side of the road loaded with fresh produce, had free sampling and other treats as well - dried fruit and nuts, honey, and waxy honey comb.

It was all very good.

Then it was into Cromwell (can you think of a better English name) for a little brekky, past the gigantic fruit (all countries seem to have their giant statuary).  Through town and into the historic district we went.  When we got there, it was not only historic, but deserted.  Walking down the little hill into the ‘old’ part of town…there was nothing but a stray dog running down the street.  It was something out of a spaghetti western with the old town feel.  We walked to the café, located in the old feed and seed store, and ordered up our coffee and breakfast sandwiches.

The place was a museum.  Pictures of the English countryside on the walls.  Large seed chart hung on one wall.  And the breakfast and coffee were very good.

Soon we were on our way again, past the lakes and the mountains.  Past the pastures full of sheep and cattle.  Past the occasional dairy barn, standing amongst the dramatic backdrop of the New Zealand skyline.

Fruitstand outside of Cromwell (the town, not the dictator…)

Some of the fruits we saw in New Zealand….these outside of Cromwell

Vineyard, Orchards and Mountains

View of Old Town Cromwell…Felt like I needed a six shooter in my hand….

View of the cafe in Old Cromwell (the town, not the despot)

The Giant Fruit, not an American or Australian Original…

Viewing Heading up Lindis Pass

Glad we didn’t see this on Saturday night….

View Coming Down Out of Lindis Pass

Driving Across the Inter Plains of New Zealand

 The radio stations used to advertise mercilessly during the early summer months, enticing people to the center summer entertainment, the Red River Valley Fair.  Billed as the biggest fair between Minot and St. Paul (homes to the North Dakota State Fair and the Minnesota State Fair respectively), its entertainment shows were just hard to beat.

Listening to the advertisements as we milked cows, it sounded not only fun, but exciting.  Ten nights of some of the biggest names in the business, and good mixture to boot.  Martina McBride, Tracy Lawrence, Toby Keith, Bellamy Brothers, Alan Jackson and Tim McGraw were mixed with the likes of Iron Butterfly, Foghat, Foreigner, Ratt and a host of other 70’s and 80’s bands that appealed.

The country bands especially were the ones that we listened to day in and day out milking the cows.  In between the news, weather, sports and the jolly banter of Tom and Larry in the morning we heard the latest in country music.  And here these same people that were broadcast through that old one speaker wonder stuffed up the rafters were playing at the outdoor grandstand.

Our experience with live music was the band that they would normally get for the annual Wild Rice Day’s street dance.  In high school, I could only imagine the fun that the Red River Valley Fair must be, the rides, the games, but mostly, the bands.

Between my freshman and sophmore year in college, I bought one of the best tickets for summer - the Funtix.  The funtix allowed standing room seating, on the track, in front of the grandstand, for the whole weeks entertainment for a mere twenty bucks.

As we would say on the farm, that was a heck of a deal.

Sure enough, I put my twenty dollars to go use.  With thanks to my fraternity brothers, we would pile into a vehicle or two and drive down to the fair.  Most of us too young to get into the beer garden, we would head directly into the grandstand to enjoy the girls…I mean music….

This was after all, one of the highlights of the summer.  We would be in our best jeans and shirts, usually our boots as well.  Some of us would wear our best ball caps, other’s their Stetsons or straw cowboy hats.  And the girls, whew, the girls.  It was a smorgasboard.  Jeans, jean shorts, skirts, and cowboy boots.  Even the most citified of the girls usually managed to find a pair of cowboy boots.

And the women where there to have a good time and be entertained.

We saw some fantastic acts that year.  Some of them even up on stage.  Toby Keith, Tim McGraw, and Faith Hill were the three that stick out in my mind (I will admit, I missed Iron Butterfly).

That first summer at the fair especially, was time of change and innocents for me.  A lot change…and less and less innocents….but a fantastic use of $20….

 We wandered the streets for a while longer, looking for bars that might appeal to us both, and finding one local hangout that looked very non-trendy, while still functional.  We bought a beer at the bar and made our way to a corner high top table.  Looking over the crowd of locals…ok, transient locals who had made this their bar.  A DJ played a mix of music (literally, mixes of music - some good, some bizarre).

As we were downing our second beer, and I was watching a strange scene unfold outside of the large sliding glass doors where an obviously intoxicated girl fought with a big patio window that she thought for sure was a sliding glass door, Melvin suddenly said: “Hey, this is from Lafayette, Indiana!”

Melvin used to play football for Perdue University in Lafayette, so hearing that anything in this far flung place would have any connection to his alma mater I’m sure caught us a bit off guard.

But sure enough, right behind each of our heads was a big beer sign for “Ye Tavern Brew - The Beer De Luxe” from none other but the Lafayette Brewing Company, Lafayette, Indiana.

How a beer sign from Lafayette came to reside in a local pub in Queenstown, New Zealand remains one of those strange mysteries that the world may never know.

We walked the streets of Queenstown, stopping for an occasional sip of the amber fluid at several establishments.  We did get a good laugh walking past some of the bars from the night before…what an ecliptic mix of places.  We also got a good laugh walking past the backpacker lodging where behind the counter were shelves that sold soap for $1 NZ, shampoo for $2 NZ, deodorant for $1 NZ…and prophylactics for $4 NZ….they knew their market…

We stopped for one last beverage at an Irish pub before heading back to the Novotel.  We had missed Mount Cook driving into Queenstown, it was our intention to see it driving out.

I must admit that sleep didn’t come easily that night.  Jumping off the bridge had gotten to me, combined with some of the other events of the days.  Too many things to think about.  Too many things to comprehend.

Over one million people had jumped off that very bridge since its inception; it wasn’t particularly brave or courageous.  But it was me jumping off that bridge.  It was sedate; middle of the road me that made the plunge.  If I could jump off a bridge, something that my mind told me was preposterous, what else could I, or should I dare to do, dare to dream, dare to achieve.

When sleep came, it was one of the best rests I’d had in a very long time.

The alarm went off at six o’clock, and we were out of the door of the hotel by seven o’clock, ready to fuel up and hit the road. With any luck, we’d be having breakfast in Cromwell.

The scenery was as spectacular the third day as the first, and today, we would actually get to see some of the things we had missed that first night that we sped along the river racing to Queenstown.

 From the hotel, we started down the street to find our fine dinning location for the evening - Fergburgers, we were told this place had the best burgers not just in Queenstown, not just in New Zealand, not just in the South Pacific, but quite possibly, the best burgers in the world (and perhaps in the galaxy…the folks at In and Out and a few fine greasy burger joints in Wichita, Kansas might disagree, but digress…).

On our way, we passed by the waterfront again, Maritime Park, along shores of Lake Wakatipu…and were drawn in by the smells of frying fish.

There, in a little hut, in the cold night air, was man frying fish.  And not just any man, but a very grumpy man who seemed angry at the world.  The hut was surrounded by people demanding fish.  His fish. His fried fish.  Paying him good money for his fried fish and chips.  And he seemed very angry about it.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We would like your special please.” I said.

“And some oysters!” Melvin chimed in.

“You want some oysters?” I asked

“I think so, what kind of oysters are they?” Melvin asked me.

“What kind of oysters do you have?” I asked the man (standing right in front of Melvin and myself).

“Bluff oysters.” The man said…glaring at us.

“Are those the good ones you were talking about?” Melvin asked me.

“They are.” I said.

“Give us a dozen of the oysters.” Melvin said to the man.

I had Bluff oysters one of my nights in Auckland.  I’m a fan of oysters, and these were very good.  Not large, but meaty and with a lot of flavor.  We were looking forward to some good fish and chips and some good Bluff oysters.

When our order was called, we sat on one of the picnic tables and ate the fish and chips.  They were very, very, good.  The Bluff oysters were, well, not good.  Not good at all.

We finished our fish and the oysters (we shared an order…an appetizer) and headed to the infamous (not just famous…IN FAMOUS!) Fergburger.

Walking into the place, I felt very, very old.  This place was packed with kids.  Twenty year old kids.  Sometimes, I still envision myself being young.  I didn’t here.  My age came up and smacked me in the face.  These kids were being born when I was contending with girls in the eighth grade.

We ordered our beer (I didn’t see soda on tap…only beer) and our burgers (a classic ‘Fergburger’ for me…a ‘Big Al’ for Melvin) - and while Melvin went outside to grab a seat, I waited patiently in line, while being pushed around like I was in moshpit waiting for our burger.

Soon enough, our order was called and I went up to grab it.  “We need the receipt.” One of young ladies working behind the counter glared at me.

“But its outside with the other guy.” I said.

“We need to see the receipt.” She said with some intensity in her voice.

The other cute girl that had taken our order looked at us both and said, “Aw, he’s kind of cute and looks honest.  Go ahead and give him his burgers.”

Without tasting the Fergburger I will tell you that this place is the best place to grab a burger in the universe.  The burgers might not be quite as good as Bill’s or Jack’s in Wichita…but the service…ah the service…

Taking our burgers outside, I watched as Melvin unwrapped his ‘Big Al.’  The ‘Big Al’ is comprised of two large beef patties, two eggs, two pieces of bacon, cheese, beet root, lettuce, tomato, raw onion, garlic aioli on top of two grilled white rolls.

You would not want to meet a ‘Big Al’ walking down a dark alley….

My Fergburger was very good.  Just a good burger on a good bun with top notch tomato, lettuce, and cheese.  Basic, simple, and great with my beer.

View of the fish shack

The Fish Shack - a popular place

View of Queenstown at twilight

Melvin eating the ’Big Al’

Are Fergburger’s customers all young because the old ones die?  They must die happy…

 We were told there was one last thing for us to see, sorry; there are dozens of things for us to see, but one last ‘must do’ thing in Queenstown, the gondola.

Where in a town of ten thousand people would you find the gondola?  We could see the darn thing going up the side of the mountain with the visitor’s center at the top…but where does it leave the town from?  We took a few wrong turns, adrenaline and testosterone still thick in the car.

“Let’s just park at the hotel and walk to the gondola.  Carrying a side of beef.” I said, eating an empty glass coke bottle.

“Let’s turn at the next corner - it leads up.  We’ll bust our way through the trees to reach the summit with this stubbed nosed Toyota if we have to.” Melvin said eating bits of metal and stone he had found on the side of the road.

If we would have been thinking logically, we would have just followed the signs.  To the cemetery.  Where else would you find the gondola?

We parked the car and made our way to the entrance, where we were waited on by a young, beautiful blonde.

I love this country.

We hopped in the gondola and I proceeded to open one of the windows and hang an arm with my little video camera out the window, with Melvin snapping pictures as we went up.

“A winery and a gondola ride.  My wife is going to hate me for this.  We can’t tell her.” Melvin said.

We swung our way up the mountainside, looking out over the beautiful mountains that surrounded us.  Words can’t describe the snow capped, rugged mountains that reflected back on us from the waters of Lake Wakatipu.  The Remarkables on one side, the Eyre Mountains on the other, and in the distance, the Garvie Range, and Queenstown nestled in between them all, perched on the shoreline.

It was like something out of a fairy tale.

The gondola continued to make its way up the mountain side, through the thick, tall stands of pines standing nobly against the rocky mountain backdrop.

We were surprised to see a clearing through the trees, an open area cleared of trees next to the path that the gondola traveled, as we marveled at it, we continued to move up, suddenly, a platform, sticking high above the trees came into view…this was the bungee jump that overlooked Queenstown.

“Want to go again?” Melvin asked.

Adrenaline still pumping through my body, I replied, “No.  No thanks.”

Finally, we rolled into the big bay at the visitor’s center midway up the mountain.  While it was impressive to see a big building perched high on a mountain, after the jet boat and the bungee jump, it was a bit relaxed, and we probably needed that.  In the cool of the southern hemisphere winter’s day, we looked out over the mountains and the lake below us.  Soaking in the landscape.

This too was a place for thrills, with a concrete luge and a base for hang gliding.  But we had had more than enough thrills for the day.

Now it was time for something a little more sedate - we watched the slowly setting of the sun behind the mountains surrounding Queenstown from the snowy reaches behind the town.  Peaceful, serene, and the perfect end for the adventures of the day.

We hopped a gondola back for the base of the mountain.  Exhausted and hungry from the day behind us, we were looking forward to another good meal in Queenstown, and looking forward to what the night may bring.

In the Gondola, heading up the mountain

View of Queenstown from the Gondola

The Remarkables, with Queenstown in front

They are Remarkable

Corny?  Very.

View looking down on the other gondolas, note Bungee jump

A view at the top…and the chair lift going higher…

 We drove back into Queenstown, and I’ll admit, my heart was still racing.  We stopped to get some pictures of the Kawarau River Valley - with the wineries clinging to the land between the mountains and the river gorge, it was breathtaking in its beauty.

Clinging to the far side of the gorge was an Italianate winery, complete with long winding driveway butted right up against the massive drop off into the river far below.

I hope they had erosion control.

We had to stop outside of the little historic town of Arrowtown, both to sample the local wine as well as to face the fact that we both probably needed a little wine to calm our adrenaline fueled bodies down.

The place was impressive.  A good mix of stone and wood, like something transferred out of the hill country of Italy…and the view - the patio opened to a lake that was surrounded by snow capped mountains.

“What can I do for you guys?” the man behind the counter asked.

“We would like to taste some of you wine.” Melvin asked.

“Fantastic.  Which ones?” The smiling man said…a little too familiar…

“Whatever you got that’s good.” Melvin said.

“Okay….” Said the man, realizing that we were like too desperate hombre’s coming into the winery, and that we probably clashed with the other finely dressed patrons swirling and sniffing their wines in their finest wine tasting clothes…

While Melvin and I were in our grungy gear from the jet boat and bungee jump, the later one less than an hour earlier.

“Here, try this one, it is one of our finest pinot’s, and think you’ll like the quality blends of smells and tastes…see if you can smell the oak…” He said.

I took the glass that he handed to me and chugged it.

Melvin looked at me unapprovingly.  The man behind the counter winched.

“Hmmmm, not too bad, but I’m more of a Riesling man.” I said.

“Oh, we have a very lovely Riesling.  Here try this.” He said.

Both Melvin and I tried the Riesling.  Doing the proper etiquette, I swirled and sniffed it….and my nose hairs puckered.

“Wow.”  Melvin said. “Wow.”

“That smells like sh…” I said, quickly correcting myself to something that might sound a little more sophisticated…”That smells like fueling up our Massey 510 combine on a hot day back during wheat harvest.”

Melvin and the man behind the counter looked at me out of the corner of their eyes.

“I’m looking for the right words to describe it…”Melvin said.

“Like gasoline! Right!” Said the man behind the counter…me not bothering to explain that is exactly what I meant.

“Can you use that word to describe a wine?” Melvin asked.

“Oh yes, some of the best Rieslings have that smell.” The man intoned.

“Reason I don’t like Rieslings….” Melvin muttered to me.

A few more tasting later and I bought a bottle or two of the pinot gris, figuring if I chugged it, it couldn’t be that bad.

“You aren’t from New Zealand?” we asked the still to perky man behind the counter.

“No!” He said, “I’m from Wisconsin!”

“Fantastic!” I said, “One of my favorite socialist countries in America!”

The man behind got a weird look on his face….

“I’m from Minnesota.  Sorry, I love Wisconsin, just need to poke fun at your guys.” I said, adrenaline still rushing through my body, wanted to follow that up with some statement like ‘we could take you pansy-arsed state any day of the week….’ But I held my tongue.

And the wine is pretty darn good.

We loaded up the car, I think much to the relief of the well groomed people staring at us through the big glass windows of the winery, and were back on our way to Queenstown.

View looking up the Kawarau River

Winery on the far side of the Karawau River

A Closer View of the Winery Across the Karawau

Amisfield Winery…High Class place, with some low brow customers….and a badger…

Another view of the Amisfield Winery, Great pinot gris

 As they got Melvin off the boat, he charged up the stairs…making it to the number sixteen before he stopped, looked back at the river, up at the bridge, shook his head a little and carried on.

“Well, that was good.” He said.

“Yup.” I replied.

But you could tell that both of us were very much on an adrenaline high.

“You only made it to sixteen.  I made it all the way to twenty.” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Melvin asked.

“I made it to twenty before I stopped and had to look around to clear my head.” I said.

“I was counting.  Saw that it stopped at twenty.  That’s all I was doing.” Melvin said somewhat defensively.

“No problem.” I said.  “No problem.”

We charged back up to the top, took one last look down the viewing platform, then Melvin raced to the car to get our gear - we needed our wallets to get the video and pictures!

They had a couple of small television screens set up to view the video’s with headsets to listen to the audio to make sure that you knew what you were getting.  In truth, the adrenaline is still pumping so strong that they could have put up a video of boxing kangaroo’s and said that it was the bridge jump video and I think people would buy it.

“Well, how did I do?” I asked the guy setting up the video.

“I’ve seen worse.” He said with a little bit of mock seriousness in his voice. “We call yours the Indian dive.  You just kind of fall off.”

“Well, I did grow up on a reservation…hey, wait a minute, are you the Englishman that we were making fun of up in the booth?” I asked.

“Darn Americans.” He said with a bit of a bit of wink.

We paid for the whole lot - the pictures, the video, the postcards, and the small section of the bungee cords and we made our way to the parking lot.

I don’t know of very many things that are completely safe (over one million jumps with no accidents) and yet are so very freeing.  You want to talk about facing your fears, building up confidence, and overcoming your own feelings of doubt - try jumping off a bridge…or at least the one at Kawarau Bridge.

To the folks at AJ Hackett and specifically to the men and women who put up with my nervous jokes and banter, thank you for giving it right back without destroying the confidence and courage.  There is some leadership lesson in what you do, helping people jump off the bridge that society tells them not too, and you do it with class.

Even if you dingy is “Inept.”  A joke that is in my own mind, but funny none-the-less.

Oh, and for the record - my underwear - nary a streak.