The Ricker is a tree hugger.

Which is why he was devestated last night. Colorado was pounded by a late spring snow storm, with more than 20 inches falling at Casa Ricker yesterday.

In typical form, the Ricker wasn't concerned that his attorney had been stuck on the roads for hours, or that the weather had made the roads impassable. What concerned the Ricker was the trees. And the snow. And how the snow was snapping--yes, snapping--the trees in half.

The Ricker was nearly in tears describing these poor trees: "In 30 years, I've never lost a tree." "Such a pity." "Been fertilizing that one for years." He should be used to it by now. He loses a few major branches each winter, and a whole tree every three or four years (I remember a few occurrences myself). Yet there he was last night, weeping in my ear, about, "... the trees, the trees!"

The Ricker nearly stole a guitar for me.

I tried to learn to play the guitar when I was younger (I never made it much past Nirvana's "Nevermind" and some crappy chord progressions). I started with an old guitar from the 60s, with nylon strings, that my Mom found in a closet. Once I committed to lessons, I moved up to a nicer acoustic guitar (which was one of the most popular items at my "I'm Moving to Manhattan, Let's Sell Everything" garage sale).

I still have one guitar left, though. My cherry red Fender Stratocaster. It's in my parent's storage unit (at least I hope it is). It should be sitting in a case that we bought from a pawn shop. However, the guitar sitting inside could be worth much, much more.

When we went to the pawn shop, we forgot to bring my guitar, so the Ricker grabbed one--a much nicer one--off the wall to check the size on a few cases. We found a case that fit and headed up the the register to pay. Then we walked out onto Nevada Avenue in the Springs and got in the car, with the guitar case in the trunk and the much nicer guitar in the case.

Abruptly, the Ricker jumped out of the car and went to "check out" something back in the store. He grabbed the case and disappeared through the door, reemerging a few seconds later.

He decided to turn this into a life lesson: sort of the, "Son, I almost stole something for you, but then I decided not to because I didn't want to set a bad example."

I still can't believe the reason he returned the guitar was to set an example, not because, you know, STEALING IS WRONG. To each his own, I guess.

The Ricker's gift ideas.

The Ricker cares, at least sometimes. And he likes to share products he likes with those he loves. That's why my sister has a Magic Bullet. I would have a closet full of old coats, including one we call "The Shearling," but I declined.

That's why, yesterday, I was able to maintain a straight face when I declined the Ricker's latest gift offering. The Ricker knows I walk everywhere in Manhattan, which is why he offered to bring me his extra pedometer when he comes next month. Oh, won't I be the envy of all the business school students and interns when I show up with this on my hip.

The Ricker fancies himself an athlete.

Not now, of course, or during my childhood (we never really played catch, but he was good for an occasional game of HORSE -- his specialty was the one-handed shot, holding his drink in his other hand). He still plays golf, a game he picked up when he was 10 or so. But back in high school and college, he played sports.

Of course, like everything with the Ricker, the sports he chose weren't exactly normal. I've never seen any firm evidence--say, like a letter jacket or team picture--but to the best of my recollection, he swam, wrestled and tumbled.

Yes, tumbled. The Ricker was a gymnast. Apparently, his specialty was the rings, but he was pretty good on the pommel horse as well.

There's a game a play with my wife, called "How much would you pay . . ." where I tell her, much to her chagrin, how much I would pay to see certain things. Like, this summer, I would have paid $500 to see Radiohead. Or, I would have paid $40 to actually see Joe Namath kiss Suzy Kolber during that Monday Night Football game a few years back. I think I would pay $700 to stop the couple nicknaming trend (Brangelina, etc). I would pay $1000 to see Stacey Keibler and Jessica Alba in a whipped cream fight. And I would pay $15 to see someone punch out Barbera Walters on the air on "The View."

But seeing the Ricker dismounting the pommel or running through a floor routine, all in tights? I don't think I have enough money yet. Anyone care to chip in?

The Ricker mustache picture of the day.

Despite the oft-told tale that Mrs. Ricker had never seen the Ricker sans 'stache, I now have photographic evidence that he didn't sport any lip hair when they were dating, or during their wedding. However, the Ricker's nostril filter started shortly thereafter.



By that fourth picture, the Ricker we know and love comes into view (I think he still has those jeans). I have no clue why he has a crow on his hand, but it reminds me of another story he used to tell. Apparently, when he was a child, he had a pet crow that lived in the back yard and would follow him to and from school. The crow would even follow the car down the street when the family left. The Ricker even went away for a summer, but the crow stuck around for him. Maybe he was the original Crow, before Brandon Lee.