Going to bed with visions of badgers, wolverines and Nittany lions (oh, my!) in my head. Also, Spartans and JoePa. 'Course, I dream of Spartans and JoePa every night -- masked, sweaty, half-naked, carrying swords, wearing coke-bottle glasses. Sure wish I'd quit that dream; it's kinda freakin' me out. Actually, though, who knows what visions I'll have tonight? I pounded down, like, eight boilermakers in celebration.

Oh, crap, I just found out the Big 10 plays basketball, too. I’d hoped we were done with that.

I don’t know if it’s the heat or the humidity. I mean, really, who gives a damn? All I know is CSI-Lincoln is forecast to hit 117.3 by 3 p.m. today. CSI? That's Crack Sweat Index.

I assume what they say about cats is true, but take it from a guy who's tried it a couple of dozen times now: There's only one way to skin a hamster.

Huskers celebrate our entry into Big Ten Friday with first sports competition – submarine races down the Missouri River against Hawkeyes. GBR!

Advice for political candidates: Swear off those dangerous, foolhardy historical references. Take up algebraic allusions instead. For example, “the economics of Obamacare can best be explained as -2 [-3 (x-2y) + 4y].” Pause for dramatic effect and nod authoritatively. If you screw up, fact-obsessed but math-stupid reporters will never know.

I don't fear random drug testing in the workplace, but I'm terrified my name might come up for one of our office's new random competency hearings.

Oddly enough, Hollywood made the same mistake – the director shot three scenes of “True Grit” before realizing he had John Wayne Gacy playing Rooster Cogburn. The clown makeup probably should have given it away sooner.

Michele Bachmann is in Milwaukee today to pay tribute to Jeffrey Dahmer, then Chicago tomorrow to celebrate Richard Speck and, finally, traveling entire country the rest of the week on a Ted Bundy appreciation tour.

I've been warned I won't go far with this attitude, but at this point I believe I'd rather go no farther than change it. I guess what I'm trying to say is bite me.

I’m a moderate with a preference for steadiness, competence and bad hair in my political leaders, so it pains me to admit this, but I love that beautiful, transcendent glow Michelle Bachmann gets whenever she says something truly batsh**. God help me, I think I could go for her.

As for the flood berm at Ft. Calhoun failing: Nothing's more terrifying than a nuclear power official assuring us all is "safe." C'mon, people, we've seen this movie hundreds of times. In 90 days, we're all dead or sporting two heads. DEAD, I tell you! Sorry, I really shouldn't read this flooding coverage when I've had too much coffee. Still, we all are. Dead, that is. Hell with y'all; I'm grabbing the guns, headed for my compound.

Some media reports tell us how high above sea level the flooding rivers are. I have no use for this information. What I really need to know is how far below sky level they are, 'cause when our heads bump against that, we are well and truly screwed, people.

July is nigh, vacation Bible school and summer camp done for many, fall sports practice, marching band camp and back-to-school shopping more than a month away, and children everywhere are settling into their mid-summer routine. I don't think "couch potato" quite captures this sense of boredom, lethargy and dulldroms. Maybe "couch mashed potato." Yes, that's it. Go ahead and pour a pan of gravy on 'em. See, nothing.

Unsettling day – my wife and I snapping at each other for no apparent reason; odd mix of ennui, rot and hostility in the house. Walked outside, smelled the same in the air all over the cul-de-sac. Damn, what’s up? Then saw the news. “NY OKs gay marriage.” Biggest state yet. Well, there you have it then. Traditional marriages everywhere already collapsing. By Monday, it’ll look like a scene from “The Road” in my hetero ‘hood.

Taking my dog, my hamster AND my recliner chair to New York. Gonna marry 'em all. Woot-woot!

Getting a flotilla together to make a fireworks run to Rock Port; get your orders to me ASAP. Gotta go at night to avoid the Somali pirates around Hamburg.

New hagiographic Sarah Palin documentary is about to debut in Iowa. Called “The Undefeated,” it apparently paints the ex-governor as a forceful, brilliant political leader and statesperson. Lots of early Oscar buzz already -- it's expected to challenge “Super 8” and the new Harry Potter flick for the special effects prize.

Got pulled over for speeding on I-29 last night. Take it from me: The Coast Guard does not give out warnings.

James “Whitey” Bulger’s arrest a reminder I have a gangster nickname for myself (doesn’t everyone?): Dan “The Grammarian” Moser. Unimpressed? Well, I’m wanted for disemboweling a U.S. attorney with a pica pole for incorrect use of a comma in a subpoena and for running a postal clerk through a postage meter because warning on wanted poster was in all-cap Comic Sans: “Armed, dangerous and kind of a dick about grammar.”

Hollywood mulling disaster movie on 2011 Missouri River flood: Tommy Lee Jones as tough-talking Army Corps engineer who sticks finger, then arm, finally head into hole in dike to save nuke plant and adjacent preschool. Leo and Kate reprise their last water-logged work together as plucky farm couple looking gorgeous as they stack sandbags. Alas, Leo comes to familiar end, sinking slowly under river as Celine Dion sings "5 Feet High and Rising."

I’ve often been a bystander but, truth be told, rarely an innocent one.

Army Corps of Engineers, taking a lesson from wildfire control techniques out west, considers fighting flood with flood on Missouri River.

Pretty stunning, huh? I guess I figured all those "Jackass" guys would die peacefully and quietly in their beds as old men.

Best Father’s Day gift: Talking greeting card that opens to the voice of Cam's Fizbo the clown (of “Modern Family”) saying “I’m the ass-kicking clown that’ll twist you like a balloon animal.” Used it to awake my 15-year-old at 6:30 a.m. twice already, to hilarious effect (to me at least). Kids learn important lesson: The old man can weaponize the most innocent object to torment them. Hence, no more talking cards.

Husker fans expressing glee at 'Horns athletic woes -- e.g., Monday's departure from CWS -- are akin to little kid who constantly gets crap kicked out of him by schoolyard bully but acts like it's his win when someone else takes bully down. Understandable, but kinda pathetic. C'mon, Huskers, time to assume that Big 10 arrogance. Repeat after me: "They play sports at Texas? Hmm, I did not know that." Keep practicing.

I can walk into a shoe store and settle on the first pair I see, but I’ll stand before a doughnut display and agonize for 15 minutes over choices. Perhaps this explains why I’m too fat and my feet always hurt.

Sure am glad Father's Day is a three-day weekend, 'cause I'm beat. I think I might have overfathered yesterday. Need to recover today by ignoring my children.

By the way, a Happy Father’s Day, too, to all you great moms (especially Shelley Moser), without whom we couldn’t have done it, of course, and without whose love, patience and willingness to bite your tongues when we embarked on some harebrained, irresponsible, even a little dangerous, scheme or adventure involving your children -- even as you prepared to dial 911 -- we could not have become the awesome dads we are.

I hauled my kids to church every Sunday – sometimes against their will; occasionally, truth be told, against mine, too – and enrolled them in parochial schools, all in the service of making sure they recognized and acceded to the authority and omniscience of a Higher Power. Me, that is. Oh, you, too, God. I mean, all Glory to you and all. But Lord, I did do the heavy lifting by bringing ‘em your way. Just want that on the record.

I always arose with my wife when baby 1 was fed in the middle of the night, so I could gaze lovingly at them. With infant 2, I started slipping; by No. 3 I gave it up. No point in both of us losing sleep, right? Besides, frankly, they both were more loving-gaze worthy at 2 p.m. So, I'm a great dad from 6 a.m.-10 p.m.; pretty much an absentee father after that. And for all I know, my wife still feeds our kids at midnight and 3 a.m.

Stoned-cold wisdom from dad

I let it slip recently to a couple of my children that I wasn't always the paragon of moral and legal rectitude I am today, that there was a time, in fact, that I not only inhaled but liked it.

Jaws dropped around the restaurant table, including my wife's, not that she was surprised by this news and not that she was always an angel either, but because she was startled that I casually mentioned this in the middle of dinner at Famous Dave's.

I don't remember the context of this revelation, but be assured it wasn't gratuitous. I don't set out to shock, dismay or disturb my children on purpose; I do plenty of it without trying. And I certainly don't believe parents should unload every detail about their pasts on their children. But I do believe the judicious dispensation of little nuggets here and there might be appropriate when there's a need to make a larger point, such as:

Your father had a life before you, even before mom (and no, this is neither the time nor place to discuss anything that happened pre-mom). He did some foolish, dumb things, maybe even some illegal things. He might have been caught doing some of those things, but he got away with many more, not because he deserved to but due to sheer, dumb luck and because God often takes special care of his most idiotic creatures. He is not proud of everything he did; indeed, some of it still brings a rush of shame and embarrassment when he recalls it. But all of it -- good, bad and ugly -- played some role in making him the man, the father, he is today -- imperfect and therefore forgiving of imperfections in others; loved and therefore capable of loving; trying to make sense of it all but accepting a certain amount of mystery in life.

You, too, my child, will do some dumb, foolish things. Probably you already have. Some of them your father will know about, some he will suspect and confront you about, some he will suspect but never mention and some he never will know about. First and foremost, his prayer is that you survive your idiocies and misadventures, and then that you learn the right lessons from them and, if graced with children of your own someday, use those lessons to make yourself a wise, understanding, forgiving mother or father.

Fortuitously, as I was writing this Saturday, the Today Show had Willie Nelson and his son on reflecting on their relationship. My wife called me into the room, knowing what a huge Willie fan I am. (One of my favorite memories from my reporting days was interviewing Willie when he was traveling with Bob Kerrey, then running for the U.S. Senate. I was highly amused, perhaps even got amusingly high, just standing next to Willie and getting a whiff of that whacky tobaccy that fairly oozed from his pores and clung to his beard and braids.) In any case, I entered the room just in time to hear Willie's son say of his old man, "I can learn from his mistakes because they're so well documented."

So, I, too, hope my children learn from my mistakes, of which I've made plenty as a father. Thankfully, they're not as well-documented as Willie's, though perhaps my children have kept careful records, the better to work it all through with a therapist some day.

Nevertheless, I think I have more to share with my children than the occasional flashback of youthful misbehavior.

So, some random Father's Day observations, advice, etc., for my children:

-- The world's not going to wait while you try to "find yourself." Get a job, look for yourself on weekends.

-- Rebel, at least a little, but see previous observation about getting a job first.

-- If you have nothing nice to say, for God's sake, log out of Twitter.

-- Which reminds me: Put down that cell phone and pull up your pants. Now.

-- The world has plenty of cowbell. How about taking up the triangle?

-- Smile and the world smiles with you (Actually, more likely it wonders just what in the hell you're up to -- which, come to think of it, is a lot more fun than having it smile with you, isn't it?)

-- It's said you're only promised today, that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. Actually, you're not even promised all of today. Not trying to be morbid, just saying: Don't believe you're guaranteed even this evening. If something really and truly matters, do it now.

-- Some day you will become your parents. This may seem horrifying right now, but it sure is more dignified than trying to stay 18.

-- No one is responsible for making you happy. And neither are you responsible for anyone else's happiness.

-- All lives are epic.

-- When you find yourself standing in a line, make sure it's not with a bunch of lemmings, or for tickets to Charlie Sheen's stage show.

-- If you suffer in silence, you may never find that others feel similar pain and might offer solace, comfort and perspective. But that's not an excuse for whining. It's a fine line.

-- The truth may set you in free in some cases. In others, get a damn good lawyer. .

-- Always buy microwave-safe and dishwasher-safe. We're not animals.

-- Life ain’t like Chatroulette. Sometimes you have to interact with people who bore you.

-- Say no to undercoating at the car dealer, but yes to it at the spa.

-- Laughter is the best medicine, but make it more at your expense than others'.

-- Life is an improvisational band, and someone just handed you a glockenspiel, which you've never played before, but here comes your solo anyway. Blow! I mean, strum! Or is it pound? Well, do SOMETHING with it.

-- Practice good grammar but don't be a judgmental jerk toward those who don't.

Finally, never stand downwind of Willie Nelson -- and if you must, don't inhale.

No, kids. Dad won’t buy beverages for you when we eat out because it adds at least $3.50 a head to the bill. But, yes, mom gets her margarita and dad his beer. You say that’s not fair? Hmm, maybe you’re right; let’s talk this through. Oh, wait a minute, I almost forgot – I don’t give a damn. Drink your water. Another margarita, dear?

New deplaning instructions at Omaha's Eppley Airfield: Remain seated until plane drops anchor, and remember your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device.

Of course we dads consider our children gifts from God, but there are times we suspect He distributes a little too liberally from the white-elephant bag.

So, you’re a new father? Big deal. Look at some of the nimrods who manage that. Now, go out and be a dad, OK? That’s something to be proud of.

Admit it, dads: Sometimes you wonder why you were so excited when your child learned to talk.

I am a father caring for my children. Do not ask me if I’m “babysitting” them. No one’s paying me. Hey, wait a minute, would you?

New grads: Many offices avoid the words "employee" and "boss." No doubt some damn management book deemed the former insufficiently empowering and the latter too oppressive. Now, we have team members, associates, partners, etc. But some days, I miss the simplicity of being just a plain old employee who was glad to take clear, even if often objectionable, orders from a boss who had absolutely no interest in empowering me.

I wanted just one super power as a father – the ability to suck all the sadness, pain and loneliness from my children’s lives. Like sucking rattlesnake venom from a bite, or “taking it back” like that big mystical dude in “The Green Mile.” Alas, though, they gotta live it, endure it themselves. So, instead all I can do is hope and pray they, and I, grow from it. I’m pretty sure they are; not so sure about me.

I probably should drop by services at the Lincoln Berean Church on South 70th some Sunday and drop a pretty hefty donation in the collection plate, given our use of their expansive parking lot over the years for teen driving practice. Child number 4 gave the track her first run Wednesday night. We came home without a Berean as a hood ornament, so, success!

What the hell were the Canucks thinking playing LeBron at goalie last night? He sucked. Again.

On the road with dad

Ah, the family road trip. Is there any more defining occasion for the sort of father a man is? Or the sort of man a father is, if you prefer?

Some are tough-minded schedule enforcers. Lincoln, Neb., this morning; Indianapolis by nightfall; lunch in Hannibal, for precisely 15 minutes. A mid-morning bathroom stop -- let's plan on St. Joseph -- and one in the afternoon, too; mark it Urbana. A motel with a pool, but get to bed at a decent time 'cause we're up and out the door by 6 a.m. the next day, mini-donuts and juice in the car -- but watch you don't spill. You can stay in your pajamas until the morning bathroom stop in Columbus.

Other dads are free-spirited travelers. They may start the day with a schedule, but they'll chuck it at the slightest distraction. Historical roadside plaques or, if they're old farm boys, farmsteads with tractors they can't quite identify without getting closer draw them like flames draw moths. A cheesy billboard can take them hundreds of miles out of the way to see, say, the world’s largest ball of twine – to groans of dismay from the backseat. And if at day's end, you've only traveled 30 linear miles, well, so be it. It’s about the journey, not the destination, and he doesn't even like mom’s cousin whose wedding you’re supposed to be traveling to.

Of course, one shouldn’t overgeneralize. Some dads have a little of both the road warrior and road wanderer in them. My dad, for example. A couple of road-trip memories linger:

-- One summer vacation – I believe we were bound from Pennsylvania to Minnesota -- my dad decided he wanted to shoot photos of as many state capitol buildings as possible. None of us understood why, but it became his quest, no matter how far out of the way we needed to go. I don't know how many he got or whether they survive, but I hope they're still somewhere in a slide carousel and, if so, consider this my request to inherit them, dad.

-- When we reached our destination for the evening, my dad was a great believer in getting through town before we stopped. It just wouldn't do to settle for the first motel one encountered. Besides, if we got on the other side of town, we'd be that much farther along, beating the morning rush hour traffic, never mind that we were on the road by 6. Inevitably, of course, we'd get to the other side of town and find nowhere to stay. And so on to the next town, where this scenario might play out again, and perhaps yet once more, by which time mom was ready to lead the mutiny, so he grudgingly stopped. It occurred to me only years later, when I was at the helm of my own family road trips, this was dad’s way of sneaking an extra hundred miles or so onto the day. Well played, dad.

In any case, the road trip tests a father's and family's mettle like nothing else. Everyone's crammed into a few square feet of space, merrily pushing each other's buttons, fighting, crying, arguing. After a couple of miles, the mere act of one child “looking at” another can provoke near civil war, and after a couple hundred, the mere act of mom “looking at” dad, or vice versa, can provoke near divorce. Pre-GPS, the Rand McNally Road Atlas, stained with peanut butter, coffee, tears and what may be a little blood, got passed around the car, teaching young children their first lessons about scale. “Only six inches to go; that’s pretty close,” says youngest. “That’s, like, 500 miles, jerkwad. God, you’re dumb,” an older child helpfully points out.

Dad is tempted to warn, “Don’t make me stop this car,” but worries his bluff will be called. And then what? I’ll tell you what: Pull the car onto the shoulder of the road, unhook the safety belt, open the door and just light out over the field next to the interstate as fast as your legs can carry you, the family watching you get smaller and smaller in the distance. That’ll teach ‘em – ‘cause you’re the only one who has the schedule for bathroom and meal stops. Ha!

But really there’s no escaping, for anyone, that metal tube hurtling down the road, short of opening the door and rolling out and onto the shoulder at 70 mph, or maybe making your break at one of those rare stops. Hide in a rest-area bathroom stall 'til everyone gives up and leaves without you? (I tried that once but realized, too late, I had the only car keys, so the family was still there when I snuck out an hour later.) Insist to a state trooper you’ve been abducted, that this is not your family. Again, been there, done that; more trouble than it’s worth. Kids might consider sneaking into the car of another family – how about those people parked in the next stall, feasting on fast food while you’re choking down dry bologna sandwiches mom made six hours ago with already stale bread and questionable mayo?

But no. The family tested by road trips together becomes closer, provided no one ends up in a body bag. And one day -- believe this, children -- the most annoying, even horrifying experiences of life on the road become fond memories. This is key to the survival of the species; why would anyone willingly have children if they couldn't remember certain things through a soft-focus lens covered with rose-colored gauze?

So, I’m tempted to suggest the six of us – dad, mom, me and my annoying younger siblings – celebrate Father’s Day by finding an old station wagon to pile into one more time and head out to shoot some state capitols.

But no one better look at me.