It's been nearly a year since Mike Terpstra, foreground, became one of eight winners of a record 65 million Powerball lottery. After taxes each winner received 5.5 million in March 2006.

Lincoln, Neb. ? He’s the butt of millionaire jokes.

“Say I’m at a bar with friends,” Mike Terpstra says. “If I go, ‘I’ll get that round!’ my friends just look at me: ‘Think you can afford that?”‘

But the 48-year-old is happy to hear them because they fit his millionaire mood. Terpstra, one of the Lucky Eight winners of the record $365 million Powerball lottery a year ago, likes to make fun of himself, too. He stands behind the cherrywood counter of his basement bar, smoking, friendly as the corner bartender.

“It means my friends are still comfortable around me, able to poke fun at me. I’d rather they make me the butt of jokes so they’re comfortable, rather than walk on pins and needles, worried about offending me.”

All eight members of the group decided to take the cash option, and after taxes each winner received $15.5 million in March.

Terpstra sees the humor in this whole crazy year:

How he walked on stage Feb. 22, 2006, when their names were revealed, shook the governor’s hand and then turned to the army of cameras and reporters.

How his thoughts froze and he was sure his mouth did, too, until back at the hotel, someone turned on CNN and there he was, sounding pretty normal.

How he’s shaved his mustache to blend into the normal world but still gets recognized. Say he’s at a restaurant. Someone will lean over and whisper so others don’t hear: “Aren’t you one of the winners?”

How that’s all right.

“I’d just wanted to meet a Powerball winner, too, so I would know it’s real, it isn’t a scam, this isn’t a paid actor. I’d never met anyone who won anything more than $5. So I understand when people come up and talk to me. I think it’s real funny.”

How he bought a 3,000-square-foot brick house in southeast Lincoln, yet his basement is pretty bare. Where there could be a pool table, there’s an expanse of taupe carpet. Why buy a pool table, he asks, if you’ll probably only play on it a few times?

A red ConAgra coffee cup looks lonely behind him on the shelf of the cherrywood bar.

How he still has no cell phone.

How he shovels snow from his driveway.

“Everybody likes to wave. I’m sure they find it hilarious and might go to work: ‘Oh, yeah, I watched the millionaire shovel his sidewalk today.'”

How he took up golf after winning big, buying clubs and lessons and playing most every day, yet usually loses by a few strokes to his girlfriend, Phuong Le. He zigs and zags down the fairways. She’s straight and steady.

How he sent his girlfriend and her mother back to Vietnam for a visit. He didn’t go, fearing the publicity surrounding the win would make them a kidnapping target. Alone, without the 6-foot-2 white guy people might recognize, his girlfriend could blend in.

How she feared he’d drop her for a “younger model,” he says.

“I told her, ‘No, honey, I’m weird in my own way. I’m not looking to upgrade or get a new model.'”

How they drive the same vehicles they did before.

How he’s happy his life hasn’t changed that much.

“I kind of worked at not changing.”

How he likes to tell people this:

“I was never normal before, so how can I be normal now?”