The Huskers may not be quite ready for prime time in the Big 10. Taylor Martinez heard about those Buckeye players bartering memorabilia and decided to give it a go. Yeah, he was seen trading a couple of his jockstraps and a mouthpiece for a value meal at Runza.

The NCAA is coming down hard. Rumors are that sanctions against The Ohio State will include an anagramic punishment that requires the esteemed marching band to spell out “Oi, Oh” at halftime for the first five games of the season. They won’t be allowed to dot the “i,” but instead must fill the O’s with rotting buckeye nuts. Eew.

It's probably nothing, but I just saw Bo at the Men's Wearhouse being fitted for sweater vests. I hate to say it, but he looked damn good.

So, I guess we can refer to The Ohio State's cutting of ties with Jim Tressel as a form of divestiture, huh?

Tip for grads: When life gives you lemons, you don't HAVE to make lemonade. Just cut 'em up and garnish a cocktail. And another. And another. And another. Hey, life, send more lemonades, man. And while you're at it, some more vodka would be nice, too.

Tip for grads: Log out of your office email and back away from the computer now. You've worked here a week and your pathetic attempt to impress your new colleagues by sending dozens of emails on a holiday is just gonna get you beaten up in the parking lot after work tomorrow. Oh, and forget Plan B, too -- drafting dozens of emails today, sending them right at 8 a.m. Tuesday. You know what? Go ahead and wait in the lot after work tomorrow for a beatdown anyway. Might as well get this over with.

A father's marital advice

My oldest son is getting married this week, and I suppose it is incumbent on me to offer some marital wisdom to the couple. Not that they've asked, mind you. But since the father of the groom has few official duties beyond keeping the mother of the groom from making a scene, it seems the least I can do. (And once you see my advice, no doubt you will agree, "man, he wasn't kidding -- that IS the least he could do.")

I don't claim any special expertise in matrimony, though I have practiced it for nearly 28 years, and all with one woman, too. Big deal, though, right? I mean Maria and Ahnold put nearly that much time in, and look what it got them. But let's go ahead and start there, with their cautionary tale. (No, Ahnold, I said "tale," not "tail." Down, boy). Unlike Ahnold, I knew, as do all of you I'm sure, the first rule of a successful marriage, instinctively, without even being told by my own father: Don't boink the help. Not that we ever HAD any help, or ever will. But had we, I would have known not to boink it.

It's straight out of the 10 Commandments, after all, though Moses edited "boink" out of God's original and replaced it with "adultery."

So, let us build from that solid foundation, with some random thoughts and advice:

-- 1 Corinthians is a favorite wedding Bible verse. But let's be honest: Sometimes love CAN be a little impatient and unkind, occasionally pouty and muttering, sometimes downright bitchy. Sometimes love gets really, really quiet for hours, maybe days; glowers and glares; uses inappropriate names; or, in extreme cases, throws things across the room. Fortunately, love is forgiving and, after a few decades, forgetful, too, so love survives.

-- Pick your battles carefully, and don't be afraid to sound the retreat when you're getting your ass kicked.

-- Which reminds me, "Love Story" notwithstanding, love often means having to say you're sorry. Sometimes you even have to mean it, and other times you say it even though you don't mean it. But saying "I'm sorry" is never the wrong thing to do, no matter what. Never. Never. Never.

-- Marriage is not a contest in which one tallies rights and wrongs and keeps score. But if you insist on treating it as one, it's really bad form to put the scoreboard in the middle of the family room. I keep mine it in a password-protected file on my computer. (By the way, I'm ahead 12,217 to 12,118, though I have a feeling this could be a bad week for me.)

-- Don't go to bed angry, it's true. But also: Don't go to bed gassy. Actually, under the covers, angry is better than gassy.

-- Alas, marriage doesn't come with a 7-second delay. In lieu of such, remember: More important than knowing the right thing to say is knowing not to say the wrong thing.

-- Guys, don't call her "The Wife" unless you're willing to be called "Hubby." Or maybe "Dipshit."

-- The melody of love is indeed sweet, but the lyrics often make no damn sense.

-- Marriage is a joyful journey, a veritable magic carpet ride, though often on a chunk of old shag torn up from the basement rec room, one that reeks of old teenagers' sneakers, vomit and cat pee. But hang on tight to it, and each other, for it's a wild ride.

-- You stand before each other on your wedding day healthy, young and vibrant. It's hard to imagine that one day, one of you will need glasses but refuse to wear them, while the other will need a hearing aid but refuse to admit it. So, when you go out to eat, one will read the menu to the other, while the latter deals with the waitress because, dammit, she talks too quietly. So, yes, love is blind, but also deaf. Sometimes, in fact, it's completely senseless.

-- Oh, and as long as we're on the subject, one day he may discover he gets a little winded leaning over to tie his shoes, while she discovers a heretofore unknown link between the acts of sneezing and peeing. This, too, comes under "for better or worse," four words whose meaning and scope cannot possibly be grasped on your wedding day.

-- Laughter is often the best medicine in marriage, but go easy on the pointing.

-- You are marrying someone who one day, if not already, will know you better than you know yourself. Some days this will seem the greatest gift of love, and others it will be aggravating beyond belief.

Finally, and not to beat a dead horse, or to flog a dumb Austrian as it were: You can get all of the aforementioned bulleted items just right, but if you forget Rule 1, it's all for naught. So, all together now:

Don't boink the help.

Godspeed to my son and his bride, and all who are marrying this summer.

In my day, possibly dirty lyrics were slurred and mumbled so as to leave a little mystery (remember "Louie, Louie"?), not to mention some plausible deniability if mom or dad asked, "what did he say?" The problem with music today isn't that it's filthier; it's that it's too clearly enunciated. Thank God my daughter protects my tender sensibilities by changing the car-radio station before I hear something I shouldn't.

Long weekend, son's wedding a week away, company here and more to come, lots to do. Got it started with my customary pick-me-up beverage: A thermos filled with half espresso, half sweetened condensed milk. Now, if someone can peel me off the ceiling, I'll get to work.

Tip for grads: Your new boss doesn't get why you snicker every time she mentions TPS reports. She's beginning to suspect she's hired a freaking moron. So, you might want to spend this long weekend repeating "TPS report" over and over again 'til you can do it with a straight face.

Tip for grads: Learn the lay of the casual-Friday culture at your new office for at least a month before you partake. And wait at least six months -- you know, after you're past probationary status -- before you break out the Bermuda shorts, flip-flops and mesh shirt.

Tip for grads: Had I thought to ask my first boss for my job description, he'd have gotten ominously quiet, glared at me 'til pee ran down my leg and barked "whatever the hell I tell you." Nowadays, HR drones labor over job descriptions, run them by the diversity office, legal counsel, etc. But look at yours, go to the bottom. Yes, there it is: "other duties as assigned." Sure could save some money around here by taking out HR, huh?

Tip for grads: Some bosses are hired specifically to be SOBs. They clean house; talk ominously of new paradigms while scowling at old employees; wear the grim smile of an assassin. But they usually don’t stay long; you’ll all feel a camaraderie if you outlast ‘em; and one day, if you’re lucky, that a-hole will get his, preferably in a hideous and very public scandal involving sexual AND financial misdeeds, both involving a goat.

Believe it or not, someday you'll look back on today and laugh. Maybe even tonight, though that depends on how much booze you have in the house. Hmm, better stop at the liquor store on the way home.

I think I'm gonna be part of the problem this week. It looks a lot more fun than being part of the solution.

Of marriage and minivans

If you notice an extra spring in my step these days, it’s because for the first time in about 20 years, there’s not a minivan parked in my driveway, and I feel liberated.

Oh, and, also, my son's getting married in a couple of weeks, exactly two weeks before my wife and I celebrate our 28th anniversary.

That's not a non sequitur: The reason I'm without a minivan is that I fobbed ours off on our son a couple of weeks ago after his car broke down for good. He couldn't afford to be choosy about his wheels, since neither he nor his bride-to-be have jobs yet. So, as I gave him the keys on the shoulder of Interstate 80 about seven miles west of Lincoln, thus ended my minivan years, unceremoniously, but, I hope, for good.

And thus marked my son's entry into responsible, adult, married life, for nothing says responsible, married adult quite like a minivan, even if it is 12 years old, has more than 150,000 miles on it and, like most vehicles of a certain age, has a number of little idiosyncrasies. Such as: The back gate won't open, and the door handle is missing on the left passenger side, so you have to reach around on the inside to open it. Sometimes, it won't go in reverse. But if you shift in and out of gear a few times and throw your back against the seat simultaneously (though that may be unnecessary, it feels right), it does eventually go backward, sometimes with a terrifying lunge. Also, the dashboard lights don't work, and to get the radio and windshield wipers to come you, you have to jiggle the key slightly. Finally, it has a measure of general wear and tear and some faint, unidentifiable odors that come from more than a decade of family use.

(I suspect the forensics crew from CSI could reconstruct our family history with a once-over of the van: some grains of sand from a couple of trips to South Carolina; a trace of cotton candy from trips to amusement parks; orange juice concentrate dried and sticky on the front seat cupholders, resistant to multiple attempts to clean it; residue of tears from tantrums and crying jags at the end of stressful, 600-mile days on vacation, most of them found on the driver's seat and steering wheel; hair oils on the ceiling from the driver levitating after a kid drove the van and left the radio on full blast; a fossilized french fry or two; and a pattern of unusual wear on the steering wheel, where I kept a death grip during drives through strange cities, or with fussy passengers in the back seat.)

None of the abovementioned flaws are critical. Some are annoying, some almost charming. Either way, I learned to live with them, to the point that I would be momentarily disoriented when I got into one of our other vehicles and found that, say, it easily backed up or that I could open the passenger door from the outside.

Which brings me back to marriage. Now, I know where you think I'm going here, and if you think I'm damn fool enough to draw some dangerous, ill-advised, smart-ass comparisons between married life and a crappy, broken down old minivan, well, then, clearly you've read my stuff before. So, let's get to it.

See, a marriage with a little history to it is not unlike my old minivan -- it's not exactly a well-oiled machine; it has some wear and tear; some days it runs a little rough, maybe burns a little too much oil, spews out some toxic fumes, sputter, jerks, shakes, sometimes stalls. Some days it's hard to get it into gear; other days, you feel like you're stuck in reverse all day. And on the occasional cold winter morning it might need a jump start.

Yes, I AM romantic, aren't I? Too bad I'm taken, huh?

But my old minivan was a known quantity, and reliable in its quirky way. For instance, once I learned the magic wrist action needed to jiggle the key to get the radio and windshield wipers to work, it never failed me.

And so it goes with marriage. None are perfect, but the ones that succeed do so because spouses recognize each other's quirks and idiosyncrasies -- some of which may grate and annoy, some of which charm and amuse. The latter need to outweigh the former, though not necessarily every day, or even every week, but for sure over the long haul.

So, in a way, I feel I am bequeathing to my son and his future wife a symbol of our own nearly 28-year marriage, perhaps even some essence of our partnership. Perhaps we can even call it our wedding gift to them, for my romantic sensibilities are matched only by my generosity.

Well, I think I've sufficiently driven this analogy into the ground and perhaps off a cliff. That wasn't so bad, was it? With luck, we'll still make it to 28 years after my wife reads it.

If not, I may need the minivan back, son, so I can live in it down by the river.

Tips for grads: What you know is important, but what's more important is knowing what you don't know.

Oh, no, it's a trick! This isn't Heaven after all. It turns out The Rapture is one of those time-share scams. Even worse, it's run by Jawiral Chukwa (that's JC!), a lawyer for the Central Bank of Nigeria. I don't think I'm ever gonna get out of here. So, whatever you do, do not go toward the light.

Ya'll who were left behind can put down those "To Hell With Heaven" picket signs anytime now. That bitterness will get you nowhere. Besides, shouldn't you be getting ready for the fire and brimstone that's gonna consume you? Maybe at least flame-proof your roof?

Would you believe it's the rainy season up here? Yes, of course it rains in Heaven. How else are the steak trees and bacon shrubs gonna grow? This morning we had a light chocolate drizzle. Looks like a beer thunderstorm may roll in tonight. Gotta remember to set out some buckets.

Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Well, a few of you, anyway. Turns out only six of us were Raptured. I know, I know -- why me? Probably somebody screwed up the paperwork, and some poor SOB who was supposed to go was left behind. I know some of you are doubters, which is probably why you were left behind, you know. But you'll see: I'll post a photo album on FB later today of Jesus and me hangin' out.

Favorite headline of the day, from AOL News: "Turkey Sex Video Scandal Forces Politicians To Resign." Alas, it's just about some scandal in Istanbul.

Ambivalence defined: Not being able to find your gym access card on a Saturday morning and realizing you may not be able to get in all weekend.

Forget the Pearly Gates cliche. It's more like the DMV up here. Worn industrial carpet, old furniture, surly bureaucrats. Take a number, get in line. Would you believe the damn TSA has jurisdiction over keeping contraband out? They just Tased a guy for refusing to give up a 16 oz. bottle of holy water. On the other hand, I'm glad to see one has to pass a spelling and grammar test. Yes, I think I'm gonna like Heaven just fine.

I'm headed out to case a few places -- Best Buy, Trader Joe's, some jewelry stores, etc. -- so I can draw up a plan for my post-Rapture looting spree.

On my way to work today, every radio station playing celestial music and instructions for tomorrow – “Proceed to nearest McDonald’s or Starbucks for processing (yes, The Rapture has corporate sponsors; be sure to grab commemorative travel mug). One carry-on bag allowed. No need to pack underwear; we go commando under the robes.” Etc. Oops, you didn’t hear that on your radio? Well, this is awkward; never mind then.

I can't divulge how, but I got ahold of the classified list of who’s being Raptured and who’s being Left Behind (how 'bout we call that Craptured?). Having made the list, JC no doubt is now checking it twice, so it's still unofficial. Still, interesting. Believer but Evil Asshat Pat Robertson ain’t gettin' called up, while Genius but Defiant Atheist Stephen Hawking is. Hard to say which one's gonna be more pissed, isn't it?

So, when do we get to call in and vote for who gets Raptured? And is it based on how much weight they lost, how well they sing, their cupcakes, or what?

The story about Arnold and his maid is titillating but hardly surprising. If you’d surveyed people on which politician was most likely to be, shall we say, doin’ the housework or, if you prefer, putting his schwarz in an egger, or if you’d taken a poll on which pol’s pole would be most likely to ... well, you get the idea, I’m pretty sure Arnold would have been No. 1. Hell, even Maria would have voted for him.

Tip for grads: Don't be afraid to step up and admit error, in both your personal and professional life, even when you know you're not wrong and, even more to the point, when others know it, too. This ennobles you, makes you look like a bigger person and may help someone else save some face. And the face you save today may look kindly on you in the future when you really need it, like when you really DO screw up.

Oops. I clicked on a Facebook link offering a pre-boarding pass for The Rapture. “Beat the traffic! Get to Heaven first, get the best seat for eternity and, WTH, spit over the side at the Left-Behinders,” it said. Now, I’m getting this spam from God – “Can you hear Me now?” “Are you praying to Me now? (Don’t lie, idiot; I know your heart ALL THE TIME!)” and “You have to see what I did to this sinner!! Click on this now!!”

Tip for grads: One day you may have a boss younger than you – not by a few years, but young enough to be your child. You see a callow punk. He sees a dinosaur wallowing in a tar pit. But it's on you to make this work. He's the boss, after all. You'll be OK. You know how to network -- start by taking him out for a drink after work ... Oh, crap. You didn't really just ask him what flavor juicebox he likes, did you?

Getting ready for The Rapture: Please remember, you WILL need to show a birth certificate to get into Eternity – even if you have since been born again.

If I were King of the media world, I would decree: No coverage of presidential "candidates" until they formally declare for the race. If my rule were in place, think of all the blovious Trumpian horsesh*t we would have been spared in recent weeks. Or the ongoing blather from Bachmann or Palin. You say that's arbitrary and unfair. But let me remind you: I'm KING of the freakin' media world! Fair's got nothin' to do with it.

Tip for grads: They say you should not dress for the job you have, but rather for the one you want. One caveat, though: If it's your boss's job you're after, don't go all "single white female" on her by dressing exactly alike; that's just creepy (especially if you're a man, natch). Another caveat: If your dream job is to be a circus clown, well, save that for the weekend, OK?

Weird May so far -- we've topped 90 but still have the occasional evening temps in the 30s, so it's tough to keep house comfortable. Accidentally had furnace in basement and AC on the second floor running simultaneously last night. Warm air met cold air in the middle, and I had three inches of snow to scoop off the stairs this morning. C'mon!

It was well into the fourth hour of an emergency meeting of the International Association of Pachydermists when, finally, one sighed wearily, looked around the room at her colleagues and said, "Well, I think it's time we address the elephant in the room." (Thank you, thank you. I'm here all week. Try the veal.)

Tip for grads: A starving artist may be romantic, but a starving journalist is pathetic and a starving MBA contemptible. So, if you're gonna starve anyway, might as well be an artist.

Another sign of the coming Rapture (May 21, people; get your sh** together): Mike Huckabee, former Arkansas governor and Southern Baptist preacher, decides not to run for president in 2012 because he has no intention of being here.

Tip for grads: People sometimes quit jobs over "philosophical differences;" it sure beats admitting "I quit so they wouldn't fire me." But it's not always a euphemism. At one job, I was a Nietschean and my boss a Kierkegaardian. We argued over whether I was, as he believed, an incompetent fool or, as I believed, it was pointless to assess my work since life is without purpose or meaning. We compromised: He agreed I was without purpose, so I quit.

Tips for grads: In the first week of your first job, you'll find at least 10 things done in your workplace that make absolutely no sense in the 21st, or maybe any, century. Resist the temptation to write a 25-page memo to staff, and copied to corporate HQ, with your ideas. That's what the suggestion box is for. Yeah, it's that box covered in cobwebs and dust. Hey, see if you can find the key. It's been missing five years.

Tip for grads: Bin Laden spent years sitting on his butt in his house, stroking his beard, looking at porn, drinking erectile dysfunction syrup, watching TV and making all sorts of grandiose plans, yet never quite following through on any of them. So, don't even think of trying to convince your boss to let you work from home, 'cause Osama ruined it for all of us. Damn you, Osama. I think the terrorists just won.

A new self-help approach, sure to help you get ahead at work, maintain order at home and just generally rule your world. It's "The One-minute Asshole." Four times day, unload on anyone in your vicinity -- coworkers, supervisor, spouse, kids, fellow motorists. Just 60 seconds each time, then stop abruptly and act like nothing happened. Notice the looks of wariness, respect, even fear you command. Oh, it's time, here it comes: "Listen, you dumb jackwagons, get the hell off of Facebook and do something constructive with your lives! You people make me sick! Bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing, lurking social media addicts, your asses getting fatter, skin getting paler, brain cells dying, the longer you sit there and watch kitty videos and play Farmville, whine about the weather, post baby pictures and share stupid quotes and alleged witticisms ..." Oh, minute's up. Sorry 'bout that, all, but God, I feel good!

Another sign of the coming Rapture (May 21, people; get your sh** together): Newt Gingrich announces for president a mere 10 days from the Great Day. Just in time, ladies and gentleman, we have our Antichrist. “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Washington to be born?” Or, if you prefer: “Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

Tip for graduates: The corner office is traditionally the most desirable and vaunted space in the building. But the shrewd employee eschews comfort and prestige and stakes a claim on the office, no matter how cramped and apparently undesirable, that has a second exit -- and even better if it offers quick access to a stairwell.

I accept that life dishes out some pretty harsh medicine -- but why so often in suppository form?

The other day a cop shot a cougar in Kearney, a bit east of its usual habitat. Troubling. Worse, the government's hiding news that a sheriff strangled a charging koala in an Omaha yard and another pistol-whipped a rabid giraffe in a KC barbecue joint. I didn't want to believe all this unusual animal movement was a sign of the Apocalypse (May 21, people; get your sh** together), but then my hamster turned up in Niger.

Tip for grads: Stick around long enough, don’t get caught stealing anything more than Post-its, shagging the boss’s spouse or drooling on your keyboard, and you too might be management material. Money’s better, dress code and meeting schedule are worse, you have to pretend to care about dreadful things like end-of-month reports and you never again get to do the things you love and know how to do. Congrats, though.

Tip for grads: Sorry our office urn coffee doesn't meet your college coffee shop standards. Yes, the first 500 cups are a bitch, but after that, it goes down fine. And no, you cannot bring in your cappuccino maker. Maintenance has specific rules on electrical load per cubicle, and our division cannot afford to cross them again. We already have a 3-week wait for bulb replacement, thanks to Greg's use of a blow dryer at his desk.

Tip for grads: You may inadvertently hire on with a sketchy outfit. If you see your boss escorted out doing a perp walk, that's a signal it’s time to consider other career options. But if a SEAL team has just rappelled down the building, kicked in your lobby windows and you're staring down the business end of an AR-15 assault rifle, it’s a tad late to wander over to the copier and see how those resumes are coming.

Tip for grads: It's just a job. Repeat as needed.

Never mind not being able to see the forest for the trees. Some days you can’t see the trees for the leaves, or, even worse, the leaves for the petioles, stipules and lamina.

Tip for grads: Sooner or later you'll get named to the office Social Committee. Do not misinterpret this. It is not a reward. You really pissed somebody off, and you really need to find out who, because if you don't get this fixed, your next stop is the Strategic Planning Task Force, and then you'll be chairing the Subcommittee on Organizational Structure, by which time you'd better have your resume updated.

Celebrating the awesome privilege of being married to a mother

I owe my wife about 15 hanging flower baskets.

It's an inside Mother's Day joke between us. For years, I would give her a lame little homemade "gift certificate" to pick out a hanging basket of her choice. But somehow we rarely got around to actually choosing one. We laugh about it every year; well, I laugh, and I sure hope she's laughing, too.

I suppose that's sort of symbolic of mothers' lot in life -- loved and appreciated, though not appreciated nearly enough. (Yes, I realize some may see this anecdote as symbolic of a husband's cheapness, unreliability and laziness, but this is my blog, so I'll decide on the symbolism herein, OK?)

I know some great mothers -- not just mine and my wife, but also women who I knew in high school or college who, if you had told me 30 years ago would bear children one day, four words would have come to mind: Ward of the state. (As for contemplating fatherhood for us man children back then, are you kidding me? Most of us are just damn lucky that a woman looked at us, sighed heavily and said, "A fixer-upper for sure, but I think I can work with this.")

I suppose most women gain a greater appreciation of their own mothers if they become one. And I believe many men do so, too, if their wives become mothers.

See, I love, love, love being a father. But I love just as much being married to a mother. I think they're two different things, though I'm not sure I can articulate it.

Watching the woman I fell in love with 30 years ago give birth to and raise our children, having her life molded and changed by them as much as she's molded and changed theirs, is quite simply the most remarkable experience of my life. It's a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth.

I don't want to overstate this. I don't sit there and stare at my wife adoringly for hours on end as she mothers our children. And if I had tried, it wouldn't have lasted long. No doubt, she'd have snapped at me, "for God's sake, quit sitting around and help me out, would ya?" I would have said, "I'm just adoring you as a mother." And she would have responded, "No, you're not, you're just trying to get out of work. Adore later, take care of that diaper now."

I know the Hallmark view of mothers' love is gentleness, softness and warmth. It is that, for sure. But "fierce" is the word that comes to mind. The fiercest force there is, and not to be trifled with.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night -- as I'm sure other dads do, too -- and find my wife wide awake, clearly worrying. Sometimes she can't articulate why, though I know: Perhaps it's a specific worry about a specific child, or perhaps it's a more general fretting for all of them. I turn over and go back to sleep, confident she's on it.

I have come to believe that a mother's worry, especially the overnight, sleepless kind, must have a cosmic power; it rises into the atmosphere and is transformed there into positive karma for children. Not just her own children, but children everywhere, including those who don't have a mom. I can only hope a father's ability to sleep through mom's worrying counts for something, too.

I cannot sufficiently express my admiration and love for my own mother, or for my wife as the mother of our four children. But you know what? I'm gonna try. For starters, I think I'll give my wife a gift certificate for TWO hanging baskets this year.