Alto's All-Time All -Viking Team

Assembling my all-time Viking lineup was more daunting than I had expected.  So many great players have come through this franchise that I didn't know who to include and who not to.  Players like Joe Kapp, Hugh McElhenny, Stu Voight, Sammy White, Lonnie Warwick, Adrian Peterson.  The list is pretty impressive.

What really didn't impress me was my memory.  I thought I could name every player at every position by sheer recall.  Without much research.  Man, was I wrong.  Looking up the past rosters was way cool and brought vivid memories back that I had forgotten.  Which was a lot.  Football is not individualistic, but in recent years it has become just that.  My team is 98% from the Super Bowl teams.  Most of them played together for most of those years and had deep chemistry.  I loved Chuck Foreman but I couldn't name his blocking back that opened up the holes.  But Bill Brown and Dave Osborn.  Now that was a backfield. 

I have picked obvious choices that all Viking fans would probably agree with.  I also picked one team - one year that was the complete package that shoulda/coulda won a champeenship.  So, here is a slight stroll down memory lane.

Coach- Bud Grant

OFFENSE

Quarterback- Fran Tarkenton

Running Backs- Dave Osborn and Bill Brown

Wide Receivers- Gene Washington and Paul Flatley
Tight End- John Beasley

Offensive Line : Grady Alderman, Ron Yary, Milt Sunde, Randall McDaniel and Mick Tinglehoff


Kicker- Fred Cox
Punter- Bob Lee




DEFENSE

Defensive Line : Alan Page

                              Carl Eller

                            Jim Marshall

                           Gary Larsen

Linebackers : Wally Hilgenberg, Roy Winston, Dale Hackbart

Secondary : Karl Kassulke, Earsell Mackbee, Paul Krause, Nate Wright


My pick for the most powerful team that probably should have had at least a chance to win the Super Bowl was the '98 team.  They went 15-1.  Players: Randall Cunningham, Robert Smith, Cris Carter, Jake Reed, Randy Moss, Todd Steussie, Korey Stringer on offense and John Randle, Dwayne Rudd, Ed McDaniel, Jerry Ball and Corey Fuller on defense, Gary Anderson, placekicker and Dennis Green, coach.  As a team, at least for one year, they crushed teams and, on the first FG miss all season from Anderson and an overtime loss (sound familiar?), didn't quite make that game against Elway and the Broncos.  As they say, the rest is hysteria.

 

A Timeline of a Lifetime of Pro Football

This is a chronological rendering of my life in relation to the team that I grew up with, cheered for, cursed at, loved, hated, disdained, abstained, wept for, laughed at and still follow: The Minnesota Vikings.  It hasn't been easy.  Nor should it be.  Being of strong, noble, stubborn heritage, as the moniker is identified with, I also wish to conquer and vanquish all who stand in the way.  Of course, every pro football fan feels the same way as each season begins.  But this year is different, isn't it?

1955-1960
The first few years were a barren time for football.  I rarely stood up at first but as I arose and took small steps, it became apparent : What the hell is football?  I had no clue, or for that matter, why I crap my white thingies.  As I matured, I knew that the word 'ball' combined with the word 'catch' hurt my head.  Maybe my first concussion.  At age five, I think I was introduced to a football.  Not quite sure of the bizarre shape and the way it bounces crazy.  Kinda fun till you fall on it.  Maybe my first spleen injury.

1961
A banner year.  Minnesota has a pro football team.  Yahoo.  We go 3-11 but win our first game as some guy with a women's name pulls off the upset.  Don't really know what is happening, though.  Probably better that way.  Where's my Corn Flakes?

1962
A crazy season for the home team.  We go 2-11-1.  Still not quite sure what that means but I remember hearing Dad mumble something about bums.  Not sure what that meant, either.

1963-1967
Ok, things start heating up.  I'm beginning to understand all the running, throwing, grunts, groans and crunching noises.  But what's with those obnoxious whistles?  I'm grasping what it means to cheer.  And boo.  Age nine: Cheering becomes quite fun.  Going 8-5-1, I think, meant we won more than we lost.  But isn't a tie worse than kissing your sister?  Yuck.  Age ten: Sundays aren't just for church anymore.  But now my newly born sister interrupts the game frequently.  Shouldn't she be sleeping?  Give her a bottle already.

1968
Only seven seasons of life and our Vikings win their division.  I begin to hate the Bears, Lions and Packers.  "Hate is not a nice word", Mom would say.  "And booing is unsportsmanlike conduct.  Fifteen yards."  Ya, Mom is a crack-up.  It's only ten.  The Purple People Eaters arise.

1969
This year was a serious ride.  The Super Bowl?  Are you kiddin' me?  The Vikes are rolling and the 'Almost Football League' (AFL), represented by the Kansas City Chefs, er, the Chiefs, will be a cherry turnover.  Halftime: I am upstairs, in my room, door locked, doing homework.  "You come down here and watch the rest of this game", Dad yelled.  "What kind of sport are you?"  What's with all the good sport references?  We got whupped.  Can't I swear?  Can't I throw shit?  I sit and watch calmly, after which I go and pummel anything red.

1970-1972
Much pouting.  The Stupor Bowl loss still hurts.  Who cares?  The North Stars are more fun.

1973-1976
Three out of four years the Vikes go to the Bowl.  Nothin' to show for it except losses to Miami (I still hate, yes Mom, HATE you Greasy), Pittsburgh (ditto Bradshit) and Oakland (everybody hates, yes hates, the Raiders).  The term 'ViQueens' becomes popular.  My attention is turning towards girls.  That doesn't turn out much better.

1977-Present
Aside from a boatload of division titles, playoff appearances and playoff wins, Minnesota has not been back to the Super Bowl.  That might be a blessing in da skies.  I really don't want to be associated with the only team to go 0-5.  In 1981, I found myself in new football territory: Denver Broncoland.  Here was a chance to start fresh.  But the Norse Gods followed me and I had to experience three more Bowl whuppins by the Giants, Redskins and 49'ers.  So now, as of the '97 season, I am a combined 0-7 in Super Bowls.  How does that feel?  I almost got excommunicated to Detroit or Cleveland.  But wait sports fans.  The cloud was lifted as the Broncos won two consecutive championships in the '97 and '98 seasons.  Don't get me wrong.  I am still a Viking fan first and a Bronco fan second.  This year marks my 30th season as an alien (legal) football fan. 

So, here we go for another stab at a hopeful Viking season with Brat Favre, Adrian (what, me fumble?) Peterson, a high octane offense and a stout 'D'.  Our head coach, Brad 'Egghead' Childress, just may find a way, in spite of himself and his horrendous coaching decisions, to finally win one for The Land of 10,00 Lakes.  I wouldn't put too much money on it, though.  As Marlon Brando once said, "I coulda been a contenda".  Or is that pretenda?

PS  If the Vikes win a Super Bowl, I vowed to (gulp) get the above tatoo.  I guess I'll take some pain for the team.  Not that they haven't given me enough already.

With Heavy Heart

I'm typically not a bummer in my Musings, but today I will be.  A few weeks ago, I decided to help my friend, Mr. C., tackle the refurbishing of an old Victorian house here in Denver.  I tried to be upbeat and funny and will continue this approach in the future.  My Unhandy Man Chronicles, however, took an unfortunate detour.  Rick Carroll, aka Mr. C., passed away suddenly.  Doctors had found a tumor on his jawbone and neck about two years ago and he had undergone extensive surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation.  He still worked harder than anyone I have ever been privileged to know.  He would not stop "being productive", even though constant pain and treatments left him weakened.  He was a great chef, loved music, books, movies, camping, fishing, was way too intelligent and was one great surveyor.  We even went to Primus  this past Thursday at The Rocks, one of countless shows we enjoyed together. I have known this man for over 25 years.  He has left behind his wife Wendy, son Anthony and daughter Lexi.  We all pray for their strength during this difficult time.  We will celebrate his life, as he would want us to: party.  His spirit and heart will be with me and everyone he had known.  Peace.  Love.  Hope.  Rick, my friend, you will be sorely missed.

RICK CARROLL  (B) 12/25/63  (D) 8/17/10

                                                                

Head Case

 Photo of Hibbing Ski Jump Taken 2/20/38 by Al Heitman


As kids, we all have had our bell rung, our head scrambled, our 'he doesn't know if he's on foot or horseback' moments.  If you hadn't, you weren't playing hard enough.  Years later we might regret that head-butting contest with "That Guy Thor". Cranially speaking, an exciting and equally dangerous part of growing up in the Frozen Tundra was to go hurtling down an ice slide aptly named The Bumpity Bump.  Sounds kinda childish, doesn't it?  The name was coined by some Scandanavian joker, who, according to ancestors and next-of-kin, named it this, which in his native tongue Hurtinlongin Avter Servivinin, really meant 'near death experience'.

The foggy memory of my one and only descent into nightly nightmares, daily daymares and occasional bed-wettings (those were terror-tears, honest), was on one gorgeous winter day when I was five or six or seven or five or, around that time.  I was in the custody of my older sister and her girlfriend, Snookie.  The sky was its usual slate gray, overcast and dull with a hopeful chance of stray, sunlit particles being reflected by a passing plane.  The top of the slide was where once a long condemned ski jump had existed (condemned for no good reason, said local entrepreneur, ski jump owner and sado/masochist, Thijs Johansen).  The view was staggering.  On this hill, maybe 200 feet above sea level or the height of Mt. Kilimanjaro, whichever is higher, you could see another country.  No, not Russia.  Close though.  Canada.  If the clouds would break open and if you squinted just right.  You were so high that during migration, the Canadian geese could not achieve enough lift and slammed into this hill.  Not a pretty sight when all the town's dogs brought remnants home.  So that's where my official Indian headdress with authentic bald eagle feathers came from, huh?

Yes, quite a scene.  Look over there.  The Blessed Sacrament Church.  How glorious and comforting.  I wish I was in its confines, praying.  Praying that I might somehow survive this Bumpity Bump or whatever Pelle Lundqvist (joker) named it.  Or there.  The Memorial Building.  And there.  The town dump.  The snow and ice covering made it shimmer and move.  Or are those rats?  But enough of this panoramic diorama.  It was time to have some fun.  Fun and death were interchangeable in practically everything involving speed, downhill and ice.  Yes.  Claude Vorhinski was hosing down the slide with a thick water hose.  We waited, only a few seconds, until the water was now ice.  I tugged at my sister's arm for reassurance.  I looked at Snookie for reassurance.  I looked at Claude, thinking 'stop putting so much water on the damn thing'.  I glanced at the church's steeple and quietly said a prayer, something about if I survive, my comics should never go to H. Lindstrom.  He had way too many already.


"There you go.  Enjoy."  I swear Claude did the sign of the cross, even though we all knew the Vorhinski's were heathens.  Sending us to hell, I bet.  My sis had the most up-to-date sliding vehicle available: a new sheet of cardboard.  This beige, multi-corrugated sled was aerodynamically sound, smooth on both sides and wide enough to compensate our wool pants, wool jackets and Sorels.  Oh, and look at that ice slide.  "Grab on."  Interpreting this to mean hold on to something other than the cardboard, I grabbed my sister.  She shrugged me off with a "No, the sled".  With sis in the lead, behind her, Snookie and behind her, me, trying valiantly to grab onto the sled with frozen oven mitts, we all jumped on.  More precisely, we sat down and I held onto air.  As we went over the edge, all three butts on the inch-thick cardboard, I distinctly remember that my head, probably weighing in at half my body weight, snapped back and I was suddenly laying down with that slate gray, overcast sky looking down on me.  My melon hit every bumpity and bump as I leg-clamped onto Snookie.  My teeth were clinking, my eyes were being juggled and my neck acted like a Slinky.

After I was dumped off the sled, I tried to stand.  Only to get knocked down by other sliders.  I guess I was a little disoriented, I was told, and I tried to walk.  Suddenly, I was lifted out of the way.  "Get out of the way, kid.  You might hurt someone."

Opening my eyes, I was staring into glasses, a nose and a shiny metal thingy.  I focused and the glasses, nose and thingy belonged to our family doctor, Doc Adams.  He was pronouncing me good to go and have a great day but no roughhousing  and go have fun and by the way, did you hear? they closed the Bumpy Bump down, yes, it's a shame really, all the kids sure loved the speed and out of control, slamming into each other, yes sure sounded fun, I wish I was a kid again and I have another patient coming in, it was nice seeing you Joanne, and Mark, you have fun this Christmas vacation and oh, here he is, hi Thor, you back again so soon, not feeling too good, what a nasty bumpy bump on your head, no, not from the slide, oh, you shouldn't be head-butting, it's not so good on your head, we'll take care of that, did you hear about the Bumpy Bump?, closed her down, yup.

This is the new and improved Bumpity Bump

-- Recent Listens --

J. Geils Band
The Morning After, '71


Forget the crappy 'Centerfold' and 'Freezeframe', which made huge green for this Jewish, Massachusetts, blues/rock band in '81.  The real deal was 'Whammer Jammer', off this, their 2nd LP.  Magic Dick's harmonica, sounding like no other mouth could, hit high, vibratory, staggering runs, Peter Wolf's barren vocals, tight, bittersweet odes to lost love, gained love, leave me alone love and live shows made JGB one helluva fun band.  Listen to their first ('70) and this one back-to-back to give you a feel of their power.  And, if you're in the Boston area, Aug. 14, 2010, you might want to check out JGB and Aerosmith at Fenway Park.  Blow your face out.

Fleetwood Mac
Fleetwood Mac, '68

This first LP, lovingly referred to as 'dog and dustbin', is steeped in the Brit Invasion blues/rock.  Instead of relying on all blues redos, Peter Green and Jeremy Spencer (both guitar, vox, writing) wrote 8 of the 12 tunes with a sincere and ballsy recklessness that still rocks.  On this revamped CD, there is 19 tracks of various takes and masters that give you the feel of being in the studio with them.  Songs like 'Long Grey Mare', 'My Heart Beat Like a Hammer' and 'I Loved Another Woman' prove that early Mac was not 'Rhiannon' or 'Landslide'.  Thank you Peter Green.  The first three Mac had Green at the helm and all are worthy of repeated listens at maximum volume.

The Lounge Lizards
The Lounge Lizards, '81

The cover gives you an idea as to why they described themselves as 'fake jazz': white shirts, skinny ties and '50s hair.  Sax man, John Lurie, incredibly harnesses his punk/no wave/rock/jazz/everything else licks in a rambunctious display of challenging tunes, such as 'Ballad', 'Wangling' and 'Demented'.  Lurie is a monster as is complicated guitarist Arto Lindsay.  A wild and wooly ride.  Not ordinary.  Extraordinary.

Arcade Fire
The Suburbs, '10


You know you're in trouble when "the critics" all claim a band is "the best" and they receive all "the awards".  Arcade Fire did that in '04 with 'Funeral', a bleak, depressing trudge through, well, a funeral.  How fun is that?  The 3rd CD from this Canadian, "critically acclaimed" group is as bland as a bowl of cream of rice.  I like the idea of violin, cello, xylophone, glockenspiel, mandolin and hurdy-gurdy as much as the next indie snob, but with only a few exceptions, this release needs a lot of honey, cinnamon, butter, pecans, milk and raisins to make it more palatable.  And way more fire.

Slade
Whatever Happened To, '77

Just looking at my 8-track copy of Slade's 1972 classic, "Slayed?", gives me the glam bumps.  How could you not like original classics such as 'Gudbuy T'Jane', 'Mama Weer All Crazee Now' and 'How D'You Ride'?  Seeing them about 10 times in concert in those early 70s made me a die-hard fan.  In the 70s.  So, I felt some allegiance to purchasing this, their 7th.  No silly song titles or playful lyrics, this one romps and rolls with hard rock ferocity without sounding dated.  Other than scoring 17 straight Top 20 hits in those 70s, their 'Merry Xmas Everybody' (single, '73) is the most iconic Christmas pop song in the UK.  I wonder if I can get that on 8-track.

Manning The Home : The Unhandy Man Chronicles

I bet you thought I had some kind of grisly, horrific, life-threatening, bloody hangnail or something.  It has been awhile since I talked at you, but no need to send me a Get Well card.  Yet.  I was asked by Mr. C. to aid him in refurbishing an 1888 Victorian home here in Denver.  My first question was directed towards Mr. C.  "What can Unhandy Man do you for?"  Mr. C. responded with a question.  "What can you do?"  Me: "I dunno" (I've known this man for over 25 years.  He knows all my weaknesses.  All my weaknesses).  Mr. C.: "We're going to lay a hardwood floor down.  Have you ever done that?"  Me: "Nope" (doesn't sound like fun).  Mr. C.: " I haven't either but we can learn together."  Me: "Will it hurt?" (I hurt already)  Mr. C.: "Laying the floor or learning?"  Me: "Both."  (double hurt)  Mr. C.: "Maybe you can paint."  Me: "Will that hurt?"

Thus began a new phase in Unhandy Man's life.  The Unhandy Man Chronicles.  It'll be a lot like one of my favorite books of all time - 'The Martian Chronicles' by Ray Bradbury.  Discovering and settling on a foreign planet will be simple compared to what I'm up against.

It is quite a house, this old behemoth.  Charming in a way that says "Come in, my fine lad.  Have a seat.  Care for some tea, perhaps?"  Ah, no thanks.  "How about a cookie?  Just made them."  Well, I gottta get to work.  "Raisin Oatmeal.  With milk."  Well.  "Oh come on.  Sit down in this ancient, rickety, leather rocker.  Relax."  Well, sounds comfy.  Ok.

"What are you doing down there?"  Mr. C. is standing over me with a bemused and baffled look. 
"Sitting on an old, rickety................ floor."  I had sat down on the dusty, musky, dank and dusky 122 year-old wood floor.  "Yup.  They sure don't make floors like this anymore."

As I was professionally getting up, so as not to hurt my back or any other vital organ, I rolled onto my knees and Yoiks!  A sharp pain struck my right knee.  Something bit me?  Suddenly, the floorboards rumbled.  I paused.  Something whispering.  I can barely hear it.  I forgot about the wet, sticky sensation of my right kneecap that will clearly become infected and fall off like my cousin Vinny (no, really, I do have a cousin Vinny and something of his did fall off).  I got closer to the floor.  With my good ear.  There it is again.  I swear, like 'The Amityville Horror'.  If this house is a-talkin', I'm a-walkin'.  I put an ear as close to the floor as I could.  At this level, you get a peculiar perspective on things like, a black, shiny spider, coming at me full-throttle.  And it looked cool, legs all churning.  And that whispering.  The spider now stopped in front of my nose.  I went a little cross-eyed.  A rumble.  A scrape.  I heard it again.

"Now what are you doing?"  Of course, Mr. C.  Looking down at me again.
I deftly jumped up and slyly limped to the bathroom to pull a small nail from my kneecap.  I turned on the water, flushed the toilet and tried to stifle my little-girl scream.

And that was just the first half-hour of my encounter with my personal 'The House of the Seven Gables'.  I had just read this 1851 "classic" novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne.  A boring, non-horror, supernatural-less book I have ever read.  This house, built in the late 17th century (is that like the 1600's?), with a spooky (yawn) history.  Anywho, it was supposed to be scary but wasn't.  I tried not to limp around as we looked at all the rooms and the impending workload.  My jeans were getting stickier.

"Quite a house.  Beautiful.  So, what do you think?  Do you want to help?"
"Sure.  I'll give it a shot.  Speaking of shots, I forgot.  I have to go get The Wife from the hospital.  Ya, I think she needed her shots.  Ya, that's it.  Pick up The Wife.  At the hospital."

And off I went.  Unhandy Man pulling up his jeans.  Ready for the work ahead.  All the excitement to see a house become beautiful again.  With our own hands.  But first, to the hospital.  For a shot.  Can't renovate with only one knee, now can we?

TO BE CONTINUED ! ! !

On The Road Again

Many questions have been asked about my long and illustrious career as a much sought-after guitarist:
Were you self-taught?
What was your first guitar?
What was the most gnarly on-stage antic you pulled?

Please, please.  Calm down.  Just because I'm retiring today, yes today, right after this press conference... What?  I thought this was the friggin' press conference.  I was told by, like everybody, my manager, Roi..... Roi, where are you. man?  My guitar tech, Jorge.  Tell 'em.  Mom?  Even my mother knows, well maybe not me Mum, but....Hey.  Don't push me, bub.  Don't you know who I am?  Take your hands off me, you nitwit.  Where are my bodyguards?  Please.  Don't touch those.  Help.  Help....................

I wake up in sheets of soggy sweat.  Hope it is sweat.  Just another bad dream for the 36th or 37th rated guitarist in the world.  It was just another poll, but.  Which one was it?  Oh ya, the Happy Canyon Ranch Annual Fest and Fun in the Sun Poll.  Never heard of it.  I sat up in bed.  Not a sound.  Took out an earplug.  Still no sound.  Hmmm.  Might want to see my doc about that again.  Ack.  Coff, coff.  A little nasal tweak and I'll be as good as a newborn.  There that ought to do it.  That damn crazy Hanz and his crazy drink, what'd he call it?  Oh ya, The Crazy Hanz.  Crazy, man.

I looked around my room.  Just another hotel in the long list of plenty.  Where was I?  Tremont?  Fremont?  I couldn't tell ya.  I just do what I have to do and try to do it well.  Hard sometimes to get up for every gig.  Day after day.  That dream still lingered in my cavernous melon.  Oh, well.  "I can't help 'bout the shape I'm in.  I can't sing I ain't pretty and my legs are thin."  Man, that says it all.

I pulled my carcass up and fired up the laptop.  Was it really time to hang up the pick?  I need some reassurance.  That poll.  I googled it.  Let's see.  Nappy.  Having a nap, fuzzy.  Curled or coiled hair.  A diaper?  What is this shit?  Nappy?  Do I need to call somebody that cared, somebody that actually thinks for me, somebody that could answer any of my deepest questions?  But my Mom wasn't home.  I think she was out at a Built To Spill concert.  Again.  Christ.  How many times does she need to see that Doug or Dave Martsch or March?  And a woman her age.  I mean. Spill  is cool and all, but I could play crop circles around him.  I am the true Spaceman.

I retyped.  Happy.  Canyon.  Ranch.  Ok, what is this crap?  A retirement home?  It had better be for rock- crazy, mad axemen, like myself.  A ranch could be cool.  We could ride out on Arabian horses and ride around, up around the bend, just ride, man, with the wind blowing in our faces.  Chuck Berry, Steve Miller and all the dudes from Slade and, hey, maybe it's in Arkansas and all the Black Oak guys, Jim Dandy to the rescue, will be there playing.  Ya, that'd be cool.  And the girls.  Maybe women.  Ah, who cares?  It'll be like old times.  Me opening for Brownsville Station, that Cub Koda was one crazy bastard.  Me opening for Arcangel.  Whatever happened to those dudes?  I think, Minneapolis band.  Real good.  Me opening for, ah, who am I shitting?  I never got to headline anything.  Unless you count that one scuzzy day at Sturgis in, I don't know, the mid 80's.  That totally sucked.  I totally brought my A-game and they threw shit at me.  I threw it back.  I think I broke my nose at that one.  Ya, good times.

Back to that poll.  This one looks kinda cheesy.  I mean, Jimi Hendrix first?  Shouldn't this be about the living?  I mean, come on.  Stevie Ray, Duane, Rory.  They can't even open for me.  Ha.  That's pretty clever, huh?  Ok, ok.  Scroll down.  Yep.  There it is.  Right after Mark Knoffler, that Dire Straits dude.  That's kinda impressive.  But, should I hang it up?  That dream was too real, man.  I know some guys are going solo and doing intimate small clubs and unplugged and shit.  Billy Squire, even.  "Lonely is the night.  When you find yourself alone."  Ya, I find myself alone a lot.  I don't know if my biggest song would translate solo.  I think it hit #84 in Tokyo.  "Got Rocks (in my boots)  Got Rocks (in my head)".   Yup, that song about that little lady that cast me aside like a rock.  Kept kicking me down that road till I was out of her life.  "I got rocks in my pockets.  I got rocks in my boots.  I got rocks in my head for loving you".  Ya, that probably won't sound so hot solo.

So, now what?  Waitin' for that call.  The call that says the show's cancelled.  Due to no ticket sales.  Due to the fact that nobody wants to hear the 36th or 37th best guitar god in this world.  Uh uh.  Nope.  I ain't givin' it up.  No way, Jose.  It's me or the highway.  Somethin' like that.  You'll have to pry my Strat from my arthritic, withered, calloused, shredded, old man hands.  Yup.  And I wouldn't mind going to that fun in the sun fest and totally destroying.  I'll prove that, dammit, next year I'll make it to #35.  I can only go up, right?  Rock on, my friend.