Todd Swank

April 6, 2025

Swank Signs with the Minnesota Timberwolves

Todd Swank's Diary Entry for April 6, 2025

Tuesday night was the Minnesota Timberwolves’ “Open House,” which sounds like a casual welcome event until you realize it’s also code for “please come re-sign your season tickets before we start calling your emergency contacts.” We’re trimming down from a half-season to a quarter-season plan—not because we’re cutting back, but because we’re leveling up. Fewer games, better seats, and prime positioning near the Wolves bench. It’s the perfect trade: less time in traffic, more time awkwardly locking eyes with professional athletes while I casually point a zoom lens at their pores. Dream big.

Luke and Avery joined us to help pick out our new seats—because nothing screams family bonding like debating sightlines and cupholder proximity. They love the Wolves as much as Miss Sheri and I do, which proves that poor judgment can, in fact, be hereditary. Abby couldn’t make it—apparently flying a plane full of strangers across the country is more important than watching her future in-laws fake being courtside scouts. Still, any time we can drag the boys into our delusions of basketball relevance, we count it as quality time.

As a thank-you for attending, we got the rare chance to step onto the Timberwolves court and launch a few free throws. I did my best, which is a polite way of saying the ball mostly explored the concept of gravity. Miss Sheri and Avery, on the other hand, actually hit shots—proving once again that if there’s ever a family shootout, I am strictly there for comic relief. The sales team politely smiled while I bricked my dreams, which felt generous considering they probably see this kind of delusion hourly.

We also got a tour of the player’s locker room and the ultra-exclusive lounges for courtside ticket holders—basically a luxury bunker where rich people hydrate with craft cocktails and pretend to care about the second quarter. The walls leading in are lined with giant photos of the team, including our guy Anthony Edwards, who somehow manages to smirk like he knows we’re just there for the free look. It’s a shrine to greatness, and I gotta say—it really added to the full experience of pretending we were part of the organization… right up until security gently reminded us that the courtside bar wasn't actually included with our quarter-season upgrade.

Thursday night we hit up the Crooked Pint again to play bingo with the Walters. Last week, our table absolutely dominated—won four out of eight games and left feeling like Vegas royalty. This week? Right back to the Todd Swank standard of gambling outcomes: a whole lot of confidence, zero payout, and just enough beer to convince ourselves we were close.

Friday night we met up with some of our Euchre crew at Copper Pint in Shakopee. That’s right—Crooked Pint on Thursday, Copper Pint on Friday. At this rate, we’re just working our way through the Periodic Table of Bars. No word yet on when we’re hitting Nickel Pint, but if they serve loaded tots and tolerate loud laughter, we’ll be there.

Spring in Minnesota is like a long con. One day it’s 72 and the whole state collectively decides winter is over. The next, we wake up to three inches of spite on the driveway. It’s just enough snow that someone should probably fire up the snowblower—but instead, we all stand around pretending it'll melt by noon, like it’s a test of willpower. And honestly? It usually does… just not before making sure everyone’s socks are wet and spirits are broken.

Blue was thrilled to see the lake finally ice-free when I took him down there Saturday morning. The water's still in the forties, which would send most creatures running for thermal gear, but not this guy. If I’ve got the Chuckit! in hand, he’s launching himself in like it’s mid-July and he’s 3 years old again. Of course, by the next morning, our brave aquatic hero was moving like he’d played all four quarters and overtime. He struggled to get up, gave me the “worth it” look, and waited by the door in case I even thought about throwing it again.

I’ve been having a blast messing around with the new image generation tools in ChatGPT. I saw someone create an action figure mock-up, and naturally, I had to try making my own—complete with a cruise ship, Vikings hat, and that blog post accessory I never leave home without. I even asked it to pay special attention to the arms, which… well, let’s just say version 1.0 gave it its best shot. Maybe future updates will understand that “shortarmguy” wasn’t just a clever domain name—it’s also a design spec.

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March 30, 2025

AI Gives Me Delusions of Swankdom

Todd Swank's Diary Entry for March 30, 2025

I’ve spent a lot of time this week experimenting with the new image tools inside ChatGPT, and it’s officially gotten out of hand. What started as a curiosity turned into a full-blown obsession that ended with me recreating my entire family as claymation characters on a boat like we’re starring in a stop-motion sequel to Ozark. And look at us! I mean, sure, the faces are a little off, and Blue looks like he’s been sniffing glue, but the energy is there. It’s honestly kind of beautiful—this high-tech hallucination of what my life would look like if it were rendered by a Pixar intern on their first day.

This photo was from my niece’s wedding last December, where I got all dressed up to celebrate love, family, and the awkward miracle of fitting into dress pants after a holiday meal. And now—thanks to AI—I’ve been transformed into a character straight out of a Studio Ghibli film, which has been absolutely seeping into every corner of the internet this week after the latest release. My mom and sisters look like they just stepped out of a whimsical forest tea party, and I somehow became the lovable, soft-edged uncle who offers sage advice between pratfalls. It’s honestly the most flattering thing that’s ever happened to my face.

I used to have to draw my weird ideas. Like, with a pencil. On paper. And then pretend it was "abstract" instead of just "tragically bad." But now, thanks to AI, I can take a ridiculous thought—like water skiing behind a shark—and turn it into a disturbingly realistic image in minutes. No more awkward explanations or apologizing for the stick figure holding a rope attached to a triangle with teeth. Now I just type a prompt and boom—National Geographic meets midlife crisis. Technology is finally catching up to the inside of my brain, and honestly? That should terrify all of us.

Who among us hasn’t daydreamed about reeling in a deep sea monster from a perfectly innocent Minnesota pond? You toss a line, hoping for a sleepy little sunnie, and instead hook something that looks like evolution took a wrong turn and just kept going. I showed this picture to my dog Blue down by the lake, and he gave me a look like I’d just ruined water. And just like that, Blue’s never swimming again.

When I wasn’t busy creating AI-generated fever dreams, I did manage to squeeze in some actual work. I spent a couple nights in Kansas City hanging out with the fine folks from one of my favorite customers. We had a productive day of meetings, deep discussions about infrastructure, AI, and all the ways we’re going to save the world—or at least automate the parts we don’t like. We wrapped it up with a fine meal at McCormick & Schmick’s, where the steaks were juicy, the drinks were flowing, and the conversation somehow stayed mostly professional. If that’s not business travel done right, I don’t know what is.

Ron “Sugarman” Myers and his family rolled into town for spring break, which gave us the perfect excuse to catch up and inhale several pounds of grilled meat and rice at my all-time favorite restaurant, Benihana. There’s just something about teppanyaki-style cooking that brings people together—probably the shared trauma of a man in a tall hat launching shrimp at your face while setting the table on fire. I don’t know what kind of résumé you need to become a knife-juggling chef-therapist-magician, but I fully support it. Nothing says family bonding like trying to maintain eye contact while your eyebrows are singeing off.

On Thursday night, we met up with the Walters crew at the Crooked Pint in Savage for some good old-fashioned bingo—because nothing says “family bonding” like yelling out numbers over a cheeseburger. Our table went on an absolute heater, winning 4 of the 8 games and cashing in on some of the night’s biggest jackpots. We were laughing, cheering, living our best bingo lives—until we noticed the crowd around us wasn’t quite sharing in our joy. It’s all fun and games until you realize you’ve become the bingo villains of Savage, Minnesota.

Saturday night brought us to Charlie’s on Prior for dinner with the Browns and the Zitzewitzes—two families we hadn’t seen in a while, which means they were overdue for mocking me. They love to point out that I’m the guy who treats the menu like it’s a final exam. I take forever—ask the server three follow-up questions, read the description out loud twice, squint like I’m analyzing stock data—and then, just when everyone’s expecting some adventurous culinary twist… I order chicken tenders. It’s like watching a guy wind up for a 500-foot homer and then bunt.

After dinner, we headed over to Mystic Lake Casino to catch Hairball in concert. They’re celebrating 25 years of delivering face-melting rock tributes with enough pyro to qualify as a fire department training drill. As soon as the band kicked into KISS, the crowd went wild—well, as wild as you can get when everyone needs to be home by 10 because their CPAP machine doesn’t run itself. I looked around and thought, When did all the people I went to high school with get so old? Then I realized they were probably thinking the same thing about me... right before we all belted out “Livin’ on a Prayer” like it was 1987 and none of us had a mortgage.

The show wrapped up after a firestorm of Queen, Prince, AC/DC, Guns N' Roses, and several others. By that point, the crowd was all in. Hairball doesn’t just cover bands—they impersonate, embody, and out-energize them with a level of commitment that says, “Yes, we did spend $4,000 on this leather vest and yes, it was worth every penny.” We sang ourselves hoarse, pumped our fists like arthritic warriors, and left the casino knowing we’d relived a little piece of our youth… and probably strained something while doing it.

March 23, 2025

Marching Into the Melt

Todd Swank's Diary Entry for March 23, 2025

We spent a lot of time at Timberwolves games this week—three in eight nights, all from the same seats, which by now have perfectly molded to the shape of my buttocks. At this point, I know the people around us better than some of my extended family. The usher gives me the nod like we’ve been through something together. If this pace keeps up, I’m gonna start forwarding my mail to Section 130.

Monday night we were back at Target Center to watch the red-hot Minnesota Timberwolves bring their eight-game winning streak into a matchup with the Indiana Pacers. The Pacers were missing four of their starters, so we figured this one would be a walk in the park—maybe even one of those power walks with hand weights. But as Wolves fans, we should know by now: nothing is ever that simple.

Miss Sheri was my guest for the night, which was a nice change of pace from yelling at the TV together—we got to do it live, with 18,000 other people. She smiled through the chaos, cheered for the good guys, and didn’t even complain once about the overpriced beer. That’s love.

I’ve always been a fan of 50 Cent, so it was pretty surreal to spot him in da club sitting courtside at a Timberwolves game. The man who used to dominate my car stereo is now out here yelling at refs and cheering on the home team. Minnesota’s never felt more gangsta.

The Pacers came in down four starters, lost another to an ejection, and watched one more foul out—and somehow, we still couldn’t shut the door. Instead of coasting to a win, we got dragged into overtime on a Monday night, only to watch the wheels come off in the final minutes like we were auditioning for a cautionary tale. You know it’s a rough night when the other team’s using a G League roster and still walks out with your dignity.

Friday night brought us back to Target Center—because why not round out the week with another emotional rollercoaster? It was Luke’s turn to join me, but Miss Sheri didn’t want to miss out, so she bought her own ticket like some rogue superfan. Sure, she didn’t get to sit with us for most of the game, but I’m starting to think that’s her preference. Let’s just say she has a “colorful” basketball vocabulary, and sitting solo means she can unleash it without having to explain herself to her children.

The Wolves were hosting the New Orleans Pelicans and trying to redeem themselves after getting embarrassed by the same team just two nights earlier—a team with six road wins all season, mind you. They’d just rattled off eight straight wins, only to follow it with two clunkers that made us wonder if we were fans of a contender or just extras in an extended blooper reel.

When we heard Joe Ingles was in the starting lineup, our first reaction was, “Wait—Joe Ingles??” The guy had barely played all season, and suddenly he’s out there for tipoff like it's 2018 again. Naturally, our brains went to panic mode—injury? load management? aliens? But it turns out, this one had nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with being human. His autistic son Jacob was in town and had just attended his first NBA game—only Joe didn’t play. So Coach Finch made sure this time, Jacob got to see his dad out there under the lights. Not gonna lie, that got us right in the feels. And for one brief, shining moment, basketball took a backseat to something way more meaningful.

The Wolves finally delivered the kind of win we’d been craving all week—a 134-93 smackdown that made up for two gut-punch losses and a whole lot of pacing around the living room. Julius Randle led the way with 20 points, Ant chipped in 17 (and survived a scary thigh tweak), and the defense showed up like it remembered how to play basketball again. We even outscored New Orleans in second-chance points, which is usually their thing. After two straight head-scratchers, it felt good to watch the Wolves actually finish a game with energy, purpose, and dignity still intact.

This week our local Macy’s went out of business, so I did what any fiscally responsible person would do—I bought a clearance jacket. Of course, getting the sleeves shortened cost almost as much as the jacket itself. I guess that’s just one of the hidden benefits of having funny arms.

We saw another sign of spring this week. For me, daylight savings time is always the first clue the seasons are shifting. The ice leaving the lake is usually the second. Blue was ecstatic when I asked if he wanted to go swimming—it's been months since his last plunge. But when we got down there and saw a thin sheet of ice still clinging to the shoreline, I hesitated. Not Blue. The dog was already vibrating with anticipation. So I gave in, launched the ball, and watched as my golden retriever turned himself into a one-dog icebreaker barge.

Unfortunately, the ball wasn’t strong enough to break the ice, and my third throw somehow rolled way farther than physics—or common sense—should allow. Blue gave it a few valiant charges, but eventually decided this was a job for the humans. He turned back to me and started barking like I was the one who fumbled the mission. I had to calmly explain we were abandoning the ball. We walked home in silence. He was mad at me the rest of the day.

We made a quick stop at Memorial Park in Shakopee and were greeted by what appeared to be the Duck Convention of 2025. I’m not sure what was on the agenda—maybe arguing over pond rights or comparing breadcrumbs—but they were out in full force, soaking up the sun like they just survived winter in Minnesota. Oh wait… they did.

This little loner wasn’t interested in the group meeting up the hill. He seemed perfectly content doing his own thing—just floating quietly, like he had better places to be and no intention of telling anyone where.

We drove past Canterbury Park and were excited to see how fast the new amphitheater is coming together. Hard to believe that by this time next year, 19,000 people will be crammed in here pretending lawn seats are comfortable while waiting for Dave Matthews to finally play “Crash Into Me.”

March 16, 2025

Minnesota Spring - Coat On, Coat Off, Repeat

Todd Swank's Diary Entry for March 16, 2025

Our house is usually a calm, well-oiled machine with just one golden retriever running the show, but this week, we got upgraded to full-blown chaos. Blue’s brother and his girlfriend moved in, and suddenly, it’s like hosting a doggy version of WrestleMania. Maddie, the puppy, has an energy level that could power a small city, and the three of them together have turned the place into a non-stop, tail-chasing, toy-stealing circus. Peace and quiet? Let’s just say they’ll be making a comeback… in a few more days.

Walking into Burnsville Mall these days feels less like a shopping trip and more like I accidentally wandered onto the set of a post-apocalyptic movie—just waiting for a tumbleweed to roll past an abandoned Orange Julius. When I was a kid, this place was the back-to-school pilgrimage spot, where my family would drive two hours from Iowa just to let me pick out a couple of shirts I’d regret by October. Now, it’s an eerie monument to a time when malls were packed, food courts smelled like Sbarro, and your biggest problem was whether you had enough quarters for the arcade. Instead, I strolled through 80-90% empty corridors, past the ghosts of stores that once defined my childhood, and realized—oh my God, I’m old.

Friday night, downtown Minneapolis, and the Wolves were riding a six-game winning streak—so naturally, we had to be there to witness either greatness or heartbreak. The place was packed, the energy was high, and for once, Timberwolves fans weren’t just bracing for impact. With Orlando in town, we were ready for a battle, or at the very least, an excuse to yell at referees.

Luke and I hit up Target Center for some father-son bonding, which for us means yelling at referees and making terrible parlay bets. We like to think it adds to the excitement, but really, it just adds to the list of things we regret by halftime. At this point, I’m convinced we could pick a guy to miss a shot and somehow still lose. But hey, at least we had a great time watching the Wolves—because if history has taught us anything, it’s that the memories last longer than our betting balance.

Gable Steveson was at the game, sitting courtside like a man who could probably suplex an NBA center just for fun. Olympic gold medalist wrestler, four-time Big Ten champ, 2 time NCAA Champ, — this guy collects accolades like I collect bad parlay bets. It was cool seeing him there, though I have to wonder: does he ever sit back, watch a rebound battle, and think, I could take ‘em?

Back in January, the Wolves’ trade for Julius Randle and Donte DiVincenzo looked like a disaster—like one of those deals where you start Googling "Can you return an NBA player?" But now that they’re finally healthy and contributing, it turns out the overreactions might have been a little premature. Amazing what happens when your key players aren’t stuck in street clothes.

The Magic rolled into town clinging to the eighth seed in the East, which is basically NBA purgatory—just good enough to pretend you’re a contender, just bad enough to get bounced in the first round. Paolo Banchero has been doing everything he can to drag this team forward, dropping 25 a night while wondering if anyone else plans on showing up.

The Wolves clawed back from an eight-point deficit in the fourth, riding a 13-0 run and big plays from Anthony Edwards (28 points) and Donte DiVincenzo to seal a 118-111 win—their seventh straight. Paolo Banchero did his best with 43 points, but Minnesota wasn’t in the mood to let Orlando ruin the streak. The West is a war zone, but this team made the conference finals last year and looks even sharper now. If they keep peaking at the right time, maybe—just maybe—we’re talking about a trip to the Finals instead.

March 9, 2025

Perform Like Nobody’s Watching (For Fish)

Todd Swank's Diary Entry for March 9, 2025

I started the week in Baltimore for a couple of customer visits, which conveniently placed me right on the harbor—because if I’m going to talk business, I’d rather do it near seafood. Normally, I’d be out on my usual critter hunt, scanning the docks for anything with a pulse, but the only thing I spotted was my own reflection in a window, questioning my life choices. Between the cold and the lack of local wildlife, I mostly stuck to eating sushi and staring at boats I don’t own, which, if I’m being honest, is still a pretty solid way to spend a trip.

Funny how life works—back in college, I swore up and down that I’d never go into sales. Fast forward 30 years, and here I am, traveling to interesting places, meeting fascinating people, and convincing them why Oracle is the best choice. Turns out, I didn’t avoid sales—I just found a way to make it my entire personality.

This is the view from my customer’s office, and honestly, if I had to go into an office every day, this wouldn’t be a bad way to suffer. I’ve been working from home since before it was mandatory, and while I’ve mastered the art of taking meetings in pajama pants, I have to admit—staring at boats instead of my own reflection in a dark screen has some appeal. Still, let’s be real, I’d probably just end up daydreaming about owning one of those yachts instead of actually working, so maybe it’s best I stay in my home office where the only distractions are my own bad decisions.

I was supposed to go to the Timberwolves-76ers game with Avery, but this work trip popped up, so I handed my ticket to Miss Sheri—who then proceeded to see the Wolves win without me. Figures. While they were enjoying the game, I was in a Baltimore hotel, tucking myself in at an embarrassingly early hour because I had a 2 AM wake-up call to catch my flight home. So instead of watching Naz Reid dominate in the fourth, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating my life choices—like why I ever thought this schedule was a good idea.

I thought I was being a genius, booking a flight that would get me home by 7 AM so I could roll right into a productive workday—because nothing says sharp decision-making like zero sleep and airline coffee. What I didn’t plan for was Minneapolis deciding to welcome me back with one of the worst blizzards of the year. The turbulence was a thrill ride nobody signed up for, the flight attendants strapped in like we were going down with the ship, and we landed in total whiteout conditions only to sit on the runway for over an hour because our gate was blocked by a plane that couldn't take off because of the weather. By the time I got home, I was less focused on work and more focused on never flying again—until, of course, the next trip I book.

After surviving a brutal wake-up call, a turbulence-filled flight, and an hour-long runway hostage situation, I was finally rewarded with a car buried under a fresh layer of Minnesota misery. Since it was 50 degrees when I left, I figured parking outside was no big deal—because apparently, I learn nothing. At least I had an ice scraper, but when the wind chill is trying to kill you, that’s like bringing a spoon to a sword fight. One of these years, I’m moving south—right after I regain feeling in my hands.

Miss Sheri and I checked out the Minnesota Zoo’s brand-new sea lion show, which was short but packed with enough cuteness to make you forget for a second that these animals are basically aquatic gym bros doing tricks for snacks. The trainers claim they’re “gregarious,” which is a nice way of saying they have zero shame about working the crowd for fish. Honestly, it was fun, but for how much effort these sea lions put into the performance, I feel like they should at least get some steak.

I’ve been going to the Minnesota Zoo for decades, and Discovery Bay used to be the crown jewel with its dolphin show—until it turned into an absolute heartbreak factory. One after another, the dolphins faced tragic fates, from mysterious illnesses to freak accidents, until the zoo finally shut the whole thing down in 2012. For years, the once-thriving tank just sat there, a ghost town of what used to be. Now, they’ve brought in sea lions, and I’ve got to say—they know how to put on a show. Slick moves, big personalities, and a solid reminder that sometimes, the encore is just as good as the original act.

Since our zoo membership is about to expire, we figured we’d take one last stroll before letting it lapse—because nothing says "money well spent" like paying to watch animals sleep. Most of our favorites, like the bears, were still deep in hibernation, but we did stumble across these shaggy, long-haired boars that I’m pretty sure just wandered out of a 1970s folk festival. I don’t know if they’re new or if I’ve just been walking past them all these years, but either way, it’s good to know that if I ever need a backup plan, growing out my hair and living off the land is still an option.

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