The Ricker protects his property.

Whether it involves a huge dungeon-esque lock on the front door or hooking his Mercedes hood ornament up to his car battery, the Ricker looks out for his stuff. Not surpassingly, he's really protective of the lawn. I've already mentioned the "not walking on the grass rule" but I'll mention it again, because I have probably wasted 0.775% of my life walking around grass instead of walking directly across. However, if you trespass on the lawn, you get fucked with, especially if you are a dog.

The Ricker hated dogs on the lawn. He lives in an area without fences and busy streets, so dogs often wander from house to house, marking their territory. The Ricker hates that, because marking territory often involves killing grass. Besides yelling, stomping and pushing, the Ricker kept a small BB gun on the deck and would "pop" the dogs in the ass if they didn't learn to avoid the lawn. He abstained from shooting at my friends, but I'm sure the thought crossed his mind.

The Ricker thinks of creative punishments.

The normal ones are there too, though. I've been grounded, fined, forced to apologize, lost phone/car/TV privileges, spanked, and sent to my room. Based on experience, the Ricker's favorite punishment was forced labor, which really wasn't that bad, because it wasn't much different than my chores.

One particular punishment stands out in my mind as being especially cruel--and especially effective. One night in high school, there had been a party next door. I attended and I drank. And drank. And drank some more. With the exception of a few shots, I finished off a 750 ml bottle of Absolut Citron, drinking most of it straight from the bottle. Somehow, I managed to stumble outside and pass out on the trampoline, facing down so I could vomit. My friends called my parents, and Mrs. Ricker showed up to walk me up the hill at 2 AM, still vomiting. She was very sympathetic, at least until the next morning, when she offered me some beer as a joke.

The Ricker was less sympathetic. He had woken me up early and sent me outside. It was summer, and it was a going to be a hot day, at least by Colorado standards. The Ricker asked me to dig some holes, each about two feet deep. I thought I was digging holes for planting. This wasn't the case however. He had me dig holes, and then switch the dirt. Digging holes for no reason! Except that every time the shovel hit the dirt, my brain felt like it was going to explode in my skull. Dig two holes, swap the dirt, repeat. All morning. In the sun. As I was sweating off the alcohol. It was the most diabolical thing he's ever done to me.

And I'm definitely going to do it to my kids if they every get out of line.

The Ricker likes his spa.

He takes one nearly every night, and he owned a spa well before they were fashionable. In one form or another, he's owned a hot tub for more than 20 years. The first one was nothing special--cramped and without any premolded seats, so he used old plastic milk crates, which were great on the old back side. The original hot tub didn't have a foam cover, so he only kept it full in the summer, holding out until the world series to drain it (draining it was another process in itself, with him connecting a myriad of hoses together and then standing at the end, sucking with all his might, trying to start a siphon).

His current hot tub is much nicer, but still behind the times. At least this one has a light in the water, although he glued a blue lens over the light to enhance the atmosphere a little. I think this tub is on its last legs, as the jets no longer jet with much force. He'll probably wait until the current models go on sale in 2012 to replace this one, though.

Like I said, the Ricker takes a spa almost every night. He uses the same towel every night, which he hangs outside next to the spa. I'm not sure if it's every been washed. He also only sits on the step on the inside, instead of the seats, so he is really only halfway in. He likes the blue spa light on, but the outside light and the kitchen light must be off, otherwise he bangs on the window and has Mrs. Ricker shut off the lights. The most awkward part about taking a spa with the Ricker is that he enjoys what I call a "European spa," in which bathing suits are discouraged. If it's family in the spa, the Ricker doesn't bother with a suit, or a robe, or any other cover. And now, if the Ricker doesn't bother with a suit, I don't bother with a spa. That suits him, I guess. I think he likes to be alone.

The Ricker works hard.

Hard at making people think he works hard. He had no problem lying or misdirecting his boss to get a little free time, which in retrospect may be why he was pushed into "retirement" instead of retained when his company changed ownership. Of course, he did actually get all of his work done. Somehow, he ran a very successful sales department. He was even one of the first people in the country to price copy machines per page, instead of per machine (it was much easier to write a contract selling a machine for $0.01 per copy than an entire machine for $25,000, and his firm ended up making more in the long run anyway).

The Ricker was the king of the 4-to-6 hour workday. He lived 45 miles from the office, so he always left just late enough to miss rush hour, getting into the office at 9:30 (except for those Monday morning 8 AM sales meetings). And he always slipped out, Office Space style, at about 4:15, to miss the rush on the way home. Like Peter in Office Space, he probably only did 15 minutes of work per day.

His best move to get out of work was the "lunch call," in which he told people he was heading to a client's office for lunch, when instead he'd really drive down the street to see a movie. Plus, he was so cheap, he kept empty cups and popcorn bags in his car, so he could get a free "refill" every visit. He probably saw 5 movies per month, watching whatever just because the timing worked out.

I could never take him seriously when he told me he had a rough day at the office. It probably meant he had to work or something.

The Ricker likes routine.

In fact, he thrives in it. He loves control, and he exercises extreme control over his routine, especially on vacations. Even though he's retired, he still follows his old work routine religiously. Since he used to have a sales meeting first thing Monday mornings, he goes to bed early on Sunday night. Early, as in 7 pm. He retreats to the bedroom, lays down with dinner on his chest, and watches TV. He's out by 8, often with his plate still in the room.

He does the same thing on vacation. When the Ricker and Mrs. Ricker visited me in Arizona a few years ago, I tried to get him to go out to dinner on Sunday, to no avail. He stayed in, fixed himself some leftovers and went to bed. That's okay, because my wife and I had a smashing time with Mrs. Ricker that night . . .

His weekly routine remains similar, also. He waters and does yard work from 5 pm to about 7 pm, with a drink in hand. He comes in to read the paper and then eats dinner. On Friday and Saturday nights, he really lives it up. Every Friday, the Ricker heads up to the Country Club for a drink and light dinner, almost always eating in the bar instead of the dining room. On Saturday, they head to the Boiler Room, which used to be the Mug, which used to be the Mug on the Hill, which used to be . . . Well anyway, it's been there forever and the Ricker goes there weekly, mainly for prime rib on Saturday nights.

However, what's REALLY weird is what happens to the Ricker when you get him out of his routine: he meets people. He's on a road trip right now, and besides stopping for prime rib last night, he met some old man and played gin rummy. He has mojitos at a lodge near Yellowstone. He drives to weird castles and meets weird people. He listens to redneck comedy on satellite radio. Basically, he lives a normal life. It's just too bad he's so tied into his routine the other 340 days.