tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18339076693775063992024-02-02T08:15:37.197-08:00Bob's Web LogWherein I write stuff once or twice a month.Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comBlogger285125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-1538468064931464372019-11-01T10:43:00.002-07:002019-11-02T23:01:16.585-07:00Reboot<div>
I'm going to start blogging again because it's good for me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know what you, the imaginary reader, will say to this: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Why? I stopped reading your blog a long time ago, if I ever read it in the first place. I'll just continue to ignore you."</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
Let me just quickly go through my personal history with, what, I guess "social media" is the right phrase.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><b>E-mail</b> (short for "electronic mail") - In the early 1990s, it was a delight to me to get e-mail from interesting friends, some of whom didn't even work in the same company. One drawback is that I stopped writing (and receiving) physical letters. </li>
<li><b>E-mail List</b> - In the late 1990s, I belonged to an e-mail list with friends. Several of us composed long messages that were bold, clever, and interesting. This was fun.</li>
<li><b>MSN Spaces Blog</b> - In the early 2000s, Elden and I both created blogs on MSN Spaces that were somewhat popular. He had the more popular cycling blog, but I had a large number of people--mostly strangers--reading my Top 5 blog. There was something called a "blogosphere." Comments and fatigue ended up being the downfall of that blog.</li>
<li><b>Blogspot Blog</b> - Because I like to write, I started a new blog--this one--and turned on commenting. I didn't get many comments, which made me feel bad, so I turned off commenting, which made be feel better in a way but made for one-way, closed-off conversation.</li>
<li><b>Facebook/Instagram</b> - Facebook and Instagram shut down my blogging for some reason. However, posting on Facebook has become problematic for me. It silenced me.</li>
<li><b>Return to Blogging</b> - I need to write more, even if it's for an imaginary audience. And I think I'll even turn on commenting, unless there's a spam problem.</li>
</ul>
<div>
So, hey ho, here we go.</div>
</div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-38375847824573498812016-09-15T13:26:00.001-07:002016-09-15T13:26:35.130-07:00How to Counter Annoying Thoughts with Dumb Thoughts<b>What if I had invested in Microsoft stock back when I saw the first beta version of Windows?</b><br />
<br />
I turned on the computer, <i>double-clicked</i> the Solitaire game to launch it, watched the cards fall and bounce off the screen, and thought to myself, "I'm no expert, but that's a better user experience than a DOS prompt. I should buy stock in that company." That thought was followed by the notion that it was impossible for someone in Utah to purchase stock because I wasn't anywhere near Wall Street, and even if I were, I had no idea how to hand little pieces of paper to traders. "Buy!" I would shout, loosening my tie. "<i>Buy!</i>" (Or would I need to take little pieces of paper from traders who were shouting "Sell!"? No idea.)<br />
<br />
<b>What if I had waited three more weeks before moving to Seattle?</b><br />
<br />
I think about this what-if more than you imagine. Back in 1998, I moved to Seattle two weeks before the Leadville race. The guy who hired me wanted me to start working at Adobe on July 23, but what if I had pushed back and said, "I'll start on August 15, and not a day before. And while we're being honest, I need my own fax machine." With the extra time to train, and the mental freak-out delayed until after the race, could I have broken 9 hours at Leadville in 1998? I don't know.<br />
<br />
<b>What if Wendy and I had stayed in Seattle instead of moving to Indiana?</b><br />
<br />
If Wendy and I had bought a home when we got together in 2001, we could have purchased a home in Seattle for less money than we did when when returned in 2005. A lot less money.<br />
<br />
I am under the general impression that life is good. I like my life.<br />
<br />
If I had bought stock in Microsoft, I would have gotten rich, which means that women would have been pursuing me like crazy. Yes, I would have been having a lot of sex, but it's highly likely that I would have lost control of my Porsche and slammed into a tree, drunk and dead. I dodged a bullet there.<br />
<br />
If I had waited three more weeks before moving to Seattle, I probably would have driven to Leadville a couple weeks before the race to train at high altitude. I would have been camping because I wouldn't want to pay for a hotel room because I didn't have large amounts of Microsoft stock, which puts me in the aforementioned campground. People get killed in campgrounds.<br />
<br />
If Wendy and I had bought a house in Seattle in 2001, we might not have had Luke and Max. We might have had two different kids, such as Remus and Huckleberry. Or Sidney and Nancy. They might even have been born at different times. "You put Noah down for a nap while I feed Juniper." Those imaginary children would seem so fake to me. I would resent them.<br />
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-32447399154895755822015-11-30T20:47:00.001-08:002015-11-30T20:50:52.787-08:00I Guess That's Why They Call It the BluesThe last time three times I went biking in Utah, I came back with some sickness or injury—flu (Fall Moab 2013), heat exhaustion (RAWROD 2014), broken hand (15 minutes into Fall Moab 2015). This year, for Fall Moab 2015, I told myself that I was going to come back healthy. After all, I had only been on one mountain bike ride since breaking my hand, and that was an hour-long ride with Wendy and the boys.<br />
<br />
For the Friday ride, I vowed that I ride clean and easy with no falls. I did just that, and it felt terrible. Perfectly terrible. For the first time, whenever I saw Kenny or Cori* try a move that I could possibly pull off, I stood back and watched.<br />
<br />
* Not a typo. His name is Cori, not Cory. Cori is short for Coriantumr, who is a character in The Book of Mormon.<br />
<br />
It hurt to ride that way. Outwardly, I probably looked calm to the other guys. Inwardly, I felt like I was putting my hands on my hips and exclaiming in a squeaky voice, "Oh my goodness! I do NOT want to try a move like THAT, or might might FALL and get HURT!" Or maybe my inner voice was more like Marvin the Martian's: "This ride makes me so very very terrified."<br />
<br />
On Saturday, I battled for a few hours just to keep up with my friends on a smooth, flowing downhill section from the top of Gemini Bridges down to the start of Gold Bar Rim.<br />
<br />
Once we got on Gold Bar, I decided to stop riding like a sissy and go back to riding like an idiot. I made a couple of nice moves that had given me problems in the past few years, including this one, where you ride up a scramble, turn left and plow over some rocks, make a hard left turn, and ride along a narrow pucker ledge with a 6-foot drop to the left.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsM2NmOnOqLkAmC80zxQm4qhkyR4YY6zLPJJh51PfyjQrSeiotYH0216L4UuYfPRv9wpO20LFTC9lNSWhHCz2hODzRbjKuvyFCG-Az3idPNh8aGUDaLApIhWYj7OIsJ1p3kS_1Ai-Dn0zr/s1600/fall_moab_ledge_move.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsM2NmOnOqLkAmC80zxQm4qhkyR4YY6zLPJJh51PfyjQrSeiotYH0216L4UuYfPRv9wpO20LFTC9lNSWhHCz2hODzRbjKuvyFCG-Az3idPNh8aGUDaLApIhWYj7OIsJ1p3kS_1Ai-Dn0zr/s1600/fall_moab_ledge_move.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I was feeling good, back in my element. We got to the blue dot trail, where the trail itself is so difficult that some very good riders need to get off their bikes and walk about half of it. Of course, Kenny, Cori, and Ryan rode all of it, and Dug, Ricky, and Brad rode most of it, while Elden (he of the 8:12 Leadville time) and I walked a lot.<br />
<br />
For one downhill drop, a combination of boldness and fear fatigue got the best of me. I planted my front tire at the bottom and crashed hard. It wasn't really an endo because with an endo, you go <i>over</i> your handlebars. I went through my <i>handlebars</i>.<br />
<br />
For about 15 seconds, I wasn't sure how injured I was. Based on the level of pain, I seriously considered the possibility that I had broken my femur. That's a helicopter ride. I was finally able to move my leg. Whew. No injury. I finished the ride with some difficulty, and I even did most of the Sunday ride before the pain and fatigue got the best of me and I broke off early.<br />
<br />
Fast forward 10 days later. I had been riding my bike gently to work, but my thigh was purple, swollen, and numb. I limped to a karate and couldn't wait for the class to be over. That's it, I decided. No more exercise until my injury heals.<br />
<br />
Fast forward 4 days later, with no exercise in four days. I was sad. Depressed. Blue. Gloomy. Disconsolate. All I wanted to do was sleep. That kind of feeling usually hits me only once every couple of years, usually on a Monday in mid January.<br />
<br />
The swelling is down, my thigh isn't as numb, and the doc says it's fine to ride my bike again.<br />
<br />
I just realized that this has been entirely about me. Me, me, me. How are <i>you</i> doing?Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-81178851843255241462015-11-19T09:03:00.001-08:002015-11-19T17:33:42.211-08:00Conversations from Fall Moab 2015[One guy tells a long story about visiting an acquaintance who lives in a big house in a wealthy neighborhood.]<br />
<br />
"I don't know real estate but I'm guessing this is a 7- or 8-million dollar house."<br />
"I feel weird in places like that."<br />
"Me, too.”<br />
“I usually try to sneak off somewhere and steal something like silverware.”<br />
“I’ll burn a cigarette in the carpet.”<br />
“And then pee on it.”<br />
“Right, but just a little bit, so that the smell isn't too obvious.”<br />
“I don’t like it when the owner follows me around the house.”<br />
“Am I a guest or a fugitive?”<br />
“And then I'll pull out a check book and say, ‘How much for that lamp?’”<br />
“What do you mean it’s not for sale? Everything is for sale.”<br />
“<i>Everything</i> is for sale!”<br />
“And then I soil my pants.”<br />
“That changes the subject.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKV3mLVDtEi6Pm7tauJMmqJc2KEs5WhU2GyPtQfH3LGKwviRH-GOJi8mrU-PKCtbHqTDpl99kF-S0E5VwbyDWRkyUPht1D5CUepQH3vlyAODFcj1hyaYSbtiRqjuL24On3_lgBLLU_VTFz/s1600/fall_moab_2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKV3mLVDtEi6Pm7tauJMmqJc2KEs5WhU2GyPtQfH3LGKwviRH-GOJi8mrU-PKCtbHqTDpl99kF-S0E5VwbyDWRkyUPht1D5CUepQH3vlyAODFcj1hyaYSbtiRqjuL24On3_lgBLLU_VTFz/s320/fall_moab_2015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
=========<br />
<br />
[While getting ready for an all-day ride.]<br />
<br />
“Does anyone need nipple cream?”<br />
“Is is pomegranate?”<br />
“No, um, it's tangerine.”<br />
“Can I borrow some?"<br />
“You can <i>have</i> some.”<br />
<br />
=========<br />
<br />
[In the car, one guy tells a story about family struggles. The second guy follows with an even more heartbreaking family story.]<br />
<br />
[Third guy] “Hey, have you guys seen the second season of <i>Fargo</i>?”<br />
<br />
=========<br />
<br />
[While a rider is dropping down a series of steep ledges, he shifts his weight behind his saddle and snags his shorts, trapping him. With each drop, he slams his groin into the back of his saddle, racking him.]<br />
<br />
[First ledge] “Ouch!”<br />
[Second ledge] “Shit.”<br />
[Third ledge] “Fuck.”<br />
[Fourth ledge] “Fuck!”<br />
[Last ledge, after stopping and struggling to clip out] “Ow.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2iQp8JN5ZBqN2SnxCrxMt81oSgWlDaBlqY0Tm0ZNmzl1gBYzPnkBaqjpXaStV3_BqgQq6dcPkkZCAZX8jQWZzAjh5bzqY3prH-1EvLZA9Fw93qywyGxUHJB2Cu1aJhbr5_AwhQe_lPBNg/s1600/overhand_dug.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2iQp8JN5ZBqN2SnxCrxMt81oSgWlDaBlqY0Tm0ZNmzl1gBYzPnkBaqjpXaStV3_BqgQq6dcPkkZCAZX8jQWZzAjh5bzqY3prH-1EvLZA9Fw93qywyGxUHJB2Cu1aJhbr5_AwhQe_lPBNg/s320/overhand_dug.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
=======<br />
<br />
[One rider attempts a ledge drop that requires speed. The rider gets his wheel stuck, endos, and crashes hard. He lies crumpled on the ground during that brief period of time when no one knows the extent of the injuries, including the guy who just crashed.]<br />
<br />
[Different rider in concerned voice] “Let's get his pants off.”<br />
<br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
=======</div>
</div>
<br />
Fall Moab 2015 was a wild success.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-63784885863079209452015-11-06T08:48:00.000-08:002015-11-06T08:48:14.821-08:00FlatteredSo I was riding my bike to work, casually, listening to an audiobook. (I'm on the fifth book of the Game of Thrones series if you're really curious.) Whenever I listen to an audiobook, I don't ride particularly fast or hard. I cruise along.<br />
<br />
A woman wearing full-length jeans and a backpack passed me. Again, I wasn't riding hard, you know, because of Westeros and the coming of winter. The woman had to stop at a red light, and I pulled up next to her. A train was crossing parallel to the road we were riding on, so I paused a moment and then rode through the red light, knowing that no car would be turning in to the passing train. It was illegal but safe.<br />
<br />
When the woman caught up to me—have I mentioned that I was not riding hard?—she said, "You're a good rider."<br />
<br />
The Mormon Boy Scout part of me wanted to say, "Thanks! You're a good rider, too!"<br />
<br />
"What's up?" I said.<br />
<br />
I knew what was coming next.<br />
<br />
"Your wheel isn't seated right. It's at an angle."<br />
<br />
That's true! I had a flat tire and wasn't able to get the wheel back in properly. It caused the brakes to rub, so I fixed the problem by loosening the brakes.<br />
<br />
"You can't have everything," I blurted, happy not to be told that cyclists need to follow the rules of the road.<br />
<br />
As she rode ahead, I wondered if she always takes that approach, giving compliments before providing feedback. <i>Excuse me, you have a lovely shirt, and your fly is open.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-24263591736375917822015-10-15T11:10:00.000-07:002015-10-15T11:10:00.314-07:00Negotiating by Violence, Part III had made it to the finals of the open sparring tournament. Before the final match, the two other semi-finalists sparred to see who got the third-place trophy. The guy that I had defeated was beating the other guy handily until my ex-opponent punched the other guy in the face, knocking him to the ground and making him dizzy and bleeding. When the guy's nose failed to stop bleeding, the other guy was disqualified, and the bloody nose guy was declared the winner.<br />
<br />
That wasn't the only injury. Here's one of those photos that would have been awesome if I had shot it thirty seconds earlier. In the foreground, two competitors got out of control and started throwing haymakers at each each other. In the background, a different guy who had been punched in the face was knocked out and complained about neck pain when he woke up, so they strapped him to a board and carted him off on a stretcher.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vvWn4YXKr3KJk4K0QkQMV5ucW_U4cXLFyELRbrJSAldULw-Bjq1bHBV0XR2eqGrBw3osOiz0womMqKJjUMlP1KCp68X-DbzKIQlqsMEOHcmP2xWhDb6jv6yg0YtSBvnoUpMiNNrtXRfP/s1600/karate_open.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vvWn4YXKr3KJk4K0QkQMV5ucW_U4cXLFyELRbrJSAldULw-Bjq1bHBV0XR2eqGrBw3osOiz0womMqKJjUMlP1KCp68X-DbzKIQlqsMEOHcmP2xWhDb6jv6yg0YtSBvnoUpMiNNrtXRfP/s400/karate_open.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
You can see the stretcher in the background.<br />
<br />
In the final match I sparred against a guy who was roughly my height, size, and age. In my mind, that means that I should defeated him easily. It's always the younger and taller guys who give me trouble.<br />
<br />
When the match started, I bounced around a little bit and then moved in for a quick sliding side kick. I touched my foot against his rib cage for what would have been a quick point in our mild form of sparring. I paused to wait for the judges to shout "Call!" He countered with a back fist to the side of my head. Call. Point.<br />
<br />
Hmm, maybe I didn't kick hard enough. I moved around a bit to change angles and then did a sliding front kick that was a little harder. Again I paused and again he countered and won a point. In retrospect, I should have been doing three things differently.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I should have been making my slide kicks look more like kicks than foot placements.</li>
<li>After my attacks, I should have been defending myself against counter attacks. I had learned a great way to defend my head—high block, reverse punch—but it never registered until after the match. </li>
<li>I should have varied my attacks. For example, I could have switched my stance and tried a spin reverse kick. I usually avoid that move because it's hard to control the kick, but that didn't matter in this open tournament.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
I also had tunnel vision. I stubbornly kept trying the same two or three moves. I got a few points, but he sat back and kept his lead with counters. It seemed like he had five different coaches on his sideline shouting advice and helping the refs to call points.<br />
<br />
Even if I had varied my techniques, he would have adjusted quickly. He was crafty. At one point, I charged him for a back fist and he ducked and made himself vulnerable. While I tried to strike him with a hammer fist, he reached up and flicked me in the back of the head for a point. I shouted and clapped my hands together in frustration, which isn't like me. He had me rattled.<br />
<br />
He ended up winning 6-5 or 7-5 or something like that. I talked to him afterwards and it turns out that he competes regularly in these tournaments and wins.<br />
<br />
I returned home with a pair of second place trophies, an odd feeling of failure, and a sense of what I need to do to get better, which is more valuable than the trophies, and perhaps as valuable than donuts.Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-30710034577389465702015-09-28T21:08:00.000-07:002015-10-15T08:33:58.845-07:00Negotiating by Violence, Part ILast Saturday I competed in a sparring tournament down in Tacoma. It was an open, cross-discipline martial arts "classic" that featured contact sparring.<br />
<br />
I've been doing the karate thing with my family for a little over four years now. We practice Tang Soo Do, which is a Korean form of karate that emphasizes art over sport. It's closely related to Tae Kwon Do, which is the Korean national sport. Both disciplines involve forms, self-defense basics, and sparring. While sparring seems to be the primary focus of Tae Kwon Do, it's not emphasized much in our discipline.<br />
<br />
In the rare times that we do spar, it's light-contact sparring. No touching the head. Kicks and punches can only come close to the body or barely touch it. Kicks to the head cannot make contact. It still requires athleticism, skill, and mental acuity, and there's even an occasional injury. Still, it's not particularly combative or dangerous. It's like touch nerf football.<br />
<br />
Our studio master teaches the light style of sparring used in our competitions, but he also wants to teach us how to defend ourselves. In our style of sparring, we don't have to worry too much about protecting the head, and we don't attack the head either. He's been trying to introduce more advanced sparring techniques, but they don't make sense in our no-contact sparring world. So he decided to pick a few students like me who enjoy sparring and could probably handle a more rough-and-tumble competition.<br />
<br />
This being a martial arts tournament, we also competed in forms. I finished in second place in the non-black belt division, and got a nice big trophy for my efforts. Question: What does a 50-something-year-old man do with a trophy? I would have traded it for a fresh donut.<br />
<br />
A couple hours later, the sparring started. Competitors were there from all kinds of disciplines—Korean, Japanese, Chinese. I was sore and stiff from having sat in the bleachers all day. I tried to warm up quickly. In the quarterfinals, I went against an opponent who didn't seem particularly experienced or athletic, but he was oddly sneaky. It took me a while to get used to him, but I figured out a couple ways to get points off of him and won.<br />
<br />
Here's how the scoring works. You get one point for a kick or punch to the body and one point for a punch to the head gear (not the face, unless, you know, you do and there's no blood). You get two points for a kick to the head and three points for a jump-spinning kick to the head.<br />
<br />
In the semi-final, I went up against a white guy who wore a Chinese uniform with no belt. Kung Fu? In his previous bout, he wailed on his opponent, physically overwhelming him. I noticed that he left his side open during attacks, so at the start of our match, I did a sliding side kick to the ribs for a point. Then I did the exact same move, and no point. Too boring for the judges? We went back and forth for a while. He kept coming after me, which is great for my style. I like to counter. I kept kicking him in the ribs, sometimes getting points, sometimes not. He received warnings for a couple of low kicks that I didn't feel at the time but have me limping a couple days later. One bruise is the size of an orange. I had a small lead for most of the match and then I pulled away when I remembered a back-fist-to-the-head attack that our master had been trying to teach us. I did that a few times, and then the towel flew in to indicate the two minutes were up. I made it to the finals.<br />
<br />
More later.Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-33999209423407432322014-08-14T23:06:00.002-07:002014-08-15T13:29:16.927-07:00Maui 2014<br />
<i>"Tell me about your trip," says a polite friend.</i><br />
<i>"It was pretty fun," I stammer. "We had a really good time."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Ugh. My new goal is to eventually write about all of my experiences and thoughts on this blog so that I can avoid conversions like that. I want to have more conversations like this:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Tell me about your trip," says a polite friend.</i><br />
<i>"</i><i>No," I reply. "If you're really interested, you can read about it on my blog."</i><br />
<br />
That would be so awesome. When asked about vacations or Obama or the Ryder Cup, I would cut conversations short.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Do you think the U.S. can win the Ryder Cup this year?" says a polite friend.</i><br />
<i>"Blog."</i><br />
<br />
If everyone did that, we could have blog parties in which we all sit in the same room with iPads and read each others' posts on social media. Commenting should be encouraged. And headings!<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Maui</h3>
We had a great Maui plan. Wendy used her hotel points to get a free hotel near the airport for a couple of nights so that we could do some things on that side of the island, buy stuff at Costco, and then head over to our condo on the west side of the island.<br />
<br />
In the Marriott Courtyard, the boys learned how to use their new snorkel equipment in the outdoor pool while Wendy and I worked on converting our skin color from pasty white to golden brown without going through the awkward peely pink phase.<br />
<br />
The morning after arriving in Maui, we booked a horseback riding session that started at 9:00 am. I figured that since we'd still be on Seattle time, 9:00 AM wouldn't feel early. It would feel more like noon. As always, I was right.<br />
<br />
We drove up a highway to the dude ranch, got our horses and verbal instructions for how to ride them, and started our way down the trail towards the ocean.<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJgvWGQF3wOgPNBw9g0RLmSkqNdjPJnGb3COPNQi-5bQOcvLC7gL3URZtQlHvx_UGNFyp4VXF-QtP_FnEBCV288zvcgCS-eoqMsC9a1cK8K4UC4Zz6aJpNpvvZL7lnjQKDMFjEk-FGDkr/s1600/maui_horses_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJgvWGQF3wOgPNBw9g0RLmSkqNdjPJnGb3COPNQi-5bQOcvLC7gL3URZtQlHvx_UGNFyp4VXF-QtP_FnEBCV288zvcgCS-eoqMsC9a1cK8K4UC4Zz6aJpNpvvZL7lnjQKDMFjEk-FGDkr/s1600/maui_horses_1.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
Notice that this picture is taken from atop my steed, Mikey, who was a disappointment in many ways. What's the opposite of a trusty steed? A trustless steed? An anti-trust steed?<br />
<br />
I am obviously a skilled enough rider to take a picture while riding a horse, yet the horse didn't seem to understand my prowess. I tried to get him to raise his front legs by shouting "Hi-yo Mikey!" and driving my sandals into the beast's flanks, but he just kept following the horse in front of him. Hey, I thought, maybe he'll gallop in a tight circle if I pull the neck cord thingie one way and dig in with the opposite heel. Nope, not even when I yelled, "Spin, you stupid idiot, spin!"<br />
<br />
During the horse ride, Luke and Max were talking to each other excitedly, and Wendy had a big smile on her face. As we worked our way down the hill and saw the wide expanse of the ocean, I have to admit that I got a little emotional. I love my family. OK, that's enough sentimental kerfluffle.<br />
<br />
After the horse ride, we went to I'ao forest. That's where a mighty battle took place between two Hawaiian tribes and made the creek run red with warrior blood. Nowadays, Hawaii is a calm place with no bloody battles between war lords, but it's expensive. I suppose peace always has a cost, but paying $5 for parking in that obscure area seemed unreasonable.<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pQ2HrFCMgJGTdDQJmI7rC2yOuJrjTnzkaWkkbaJKYV9y18p6o2nDYOjFqtskMvWl0fJ9ebJgs_9uoFJlBrFf_Ka-D_ARodUma8-6bTUfBi-xUnjY69D4_aLTYV5yTvgkcBg7JWmocE8w/s1600/maui_iao_family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pQ2HrFCMgJGTdDQJmI7rC2yOuJrjTnzkaWkkbaJKYV9y18p6o2nDYOjFqtskMvWl0fJ9ebJgs_9uoFJlBrFf_Ka-D_ARodUma8-6bTUfBi-xUnjY69D4_aLTYV5yTvgkcBg7JWmocE8w/s1600/maui_iao_family.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
While climbing a tree, Max and Luke spotted a three-horned lizard.<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGaBmFcPdkYgbJvq-sd4wLrZBribKtoz_TTWfERimrL52LeQvIU5QOskVUY3EIGxCMy4RJqw54SgG-ThqFewiLaq2Cu5H3MHIcSXDn0IZtslnM_B5d8cP6gH1HVTpRZ0B-AZT1pq3ZF29/s1600/jackson_lizard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGaBmFcPdkYgbJvq-sd4wLrZBribKtoz_TTWfERimrL52LeQvIU5QOskVUY3EIGxCMy4RJqw54SgG-ThqFewiLaq2Cu5H3MHIcSXDn0IZtslnM_B5d8cP6gH1HVTpRZ0B-AZT1pq3ZF29/s1600/jackson_lizard.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
After doing a few more touristy things on the east side, we loaded up on supplies at Costco. Unfortunately, I didn't have the foresight to take pictures there, so you'll just have to imagine the Costco aisles in your mind's eye.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
[Imagine picture of Costco]</div>
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
We headed towards our Napili condo on the west side of the island. Over the next ten days, our activities blurred together.<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Swimming in the two resort pools</li>
<li>Snorkeling</li>
<li>Beach time</li>
<li>World Cup soccer</li>
<li>Lahaina shopping</li>
</ul>
<br />
The first time we went snorkeling, we walked five minutes from our condo down to the cove. Sea turtles didn't seek us out, but they didn't shy away from us either.<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfoU2G-7KwgckOMrK2CbDdl2yzChznX17QEXfnaYSH6BRhIY2t6VsFLwR3784frl0ZaRm1EQaaLYFYa4UkLkavQCrg9JW-MJS_AM9yqQht2kgaI6RnJjg2cGd1Gvl2sBo4FZ5NM0F008f/s1600/FH000011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfoU2G-7KwgckOMrK2CbDdl2yzChznX17QEXfnaYSH6BRhIY2t6VsFLwR3784frl0ZaRm1EQaaLYFYa4UkLkavQCrg9JW-MJS_AM9yqQht2kgaI6RnJjg2cGd1Gvl2sBo4FZ5NM0F008f/s1600/FH000011.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
Wendy and I got up early (6:00 AM) a few days and snorkeled at a nicer reef a few miles up the road. We used a laminated card that listed the most popular critters in the area to put a name to things.<br />
<br />
<i>"Did you see the needlenose ferretfish?"</i><br />
<i>"Yes, it was right next to the butterfly gullscoy above the rakeling coral."</i><br />
<br />
Without the card, I would have had to make up the names of the various critters we saw. That would have just given Wendy more ammunition that when I get into an unfamiliar situation, I make stuff up.<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA-QSa2gkFvfod7-or-ymir0W1a5nUh6yPsu1rYNZgYzqE8MqPlxvexpxSpOJsNMCb0IMzGgP81EExyrie1WK875E2CHuUJtDOHmrYMP23OgHMlb-IALwrvHRVOFF7YwnLEuMVy0BA3dD/s1600/FH000003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA-QSa2gkFvfod7-or-ymir0W1a5nUh6yPsu1rYNZgYzqE8MqPlxvexpxSpOJsNMCb0IMzGgP81EExyrie1WK875E2CHuUJtDOHmrYMP23OgHMlb-IALwrvHRVOFF7YwnLEuMVy0BA3dD/s1600/FH000003.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
When the U.S. played Portugal at 9:00 AM Hawaii time, Max and Luke were outside playing catch with lacrosse sticks on a big grassy area between all the condos. At the same time Max made a difficult catch, the U.S. scored a goal to tie the game, and Max momentarily thought the loud cheer erupting from the surrounding condos was for him. A few minutes later, when Max was sitting on the toilet, Max again mistook the loud cheering for his well-timed success.<br />
<br />
There was a great area for cliff diving near our hotel. Locals hang out on the rocks or on flotation devices in the water below while people jump from various heights. Here's a picture of me.<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jY3ifdtDBVIkx-W_hCrJ6XoRc5zgGoIq6jGvar7G7Xsh7kbF2XCFANQXth216wKZONknVUGtG6LH3ldncapcuz5ZV27sPDpSIfMMvPSbjMcIhF8gEAYDv5_3DMhJ01rT80DlhR9AooU7/s1600/maui_cliffjump.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jY3ifdtDBVIkx-W_hCrJ6XoRc5zgGoIq6jGvar7G7Xsh7kbF2XCFANQXth216wKZONknVUGtG6LH3ldncapcuz5ZV27sPDpSIfMMvPSbjMcIhF8gEAYDv5_3DMhJ01rT80DlhR9AooU7/s1600/maui_cliffjump.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
It looks like I'm diving but I was actually jumping. Deep down, I'm bothered by the fact that I didn't dive off the cliff. I consider it to be a mild act of cowardice. In younger days, I would have dived, and then I would have done a spin dive, and then maybe a back flip. Now? A jump. I suppose there is a lesson to be learned from this, like maybe when you get older, your courage and your imagination fade away.<br />
<br />
I would prefer learning that I should not look a gift horse in the mouth or count chickens before they're hatched. I don't want to learn that fear and regret settle in as you age.<br />
<br />
Max and Luke learned how to ride waves on boogie boards. Great feeling. When I think of alternate lifestyles I could have led, one of them involves being a jobless surfer, sleeping on the beach and eating food from trash cans. I never obtained a surf board, so my life went in a different direction.<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-qKJnGssviwvb2sOkeHO4N4FLGnxBVei5Dh4yCKo58JGlIbqfXvPAtDR3pLqor5-NNpcn9Z2tgWtJruMh4nuuxb9mC3H5c7_sDmbshnLi9LZVTV1fyGYjrRphu6_G1YegL3GnvglLc2Y/s1600/maui_surf_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-qKJnGssviwvb2sOkeHO4N4FLGnxBVei5Dh4yCKo58JGlIbqfXvPAtDR3pLqor5-NNpcn9Z2tgWtJruMh4nuuxb9mC3H5c7_sDmbshnLi9LZVTV1fyGYjrRphu6_G1YegL3GnvglLc2Y/s1600/maui_surf_2.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
One day, an on-shore wind was knocking the waves down and killing our thrill. I saw nice long breakers on one side of the bay near a protected area, but no one was swimming there. I assumed it was off limits. I walked over there with my board to check it out. Lots of rocks. I didn't see a "No Swimming" sign, so I made my way through the shallow rock-filled waters trying hard not to stub my broken toe. I saw a set coming in so I made my way out to what I thought was the right area. I skipped the first wave, jumped out a few more feet after feeling the strong undertow and seeing the larger next wave, and pushed hard off my good foot to catch the wave. Ah! Down the face, bank turn, down again, turn. It wasn't surfing, but it was close to that great feeling you get when you catch a wave.<br />
<br />
And no, I didn't chicken out of surfing, you idiot. I'm not afraid to surf. I just wanted to stay at the beach with the family.<br />
<br />
Here's a picture of the boys hanging out at the amazing Banyan tree in Lahaina. The boys were disappointed that they weren't allowed to climb the trees. At least there was shave ice nearby.<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8eDCdEn8Za7ZRknLf7Nla1KWIARH-qJIK-uSqoR3oMmMkJl8gi2LINJBs1z9fr-VMYXF7BRzikNEYpQYbxQXlrO9Ca38PZh15OUdcLhLRtHPOwAHNbkBGpIdQKPyQjGW03WWsl5gNw6p/s1600/maui_banyan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8eDCdEn8Za7ZRknLf7Nla1KWIARH-qJIK-uSqoR3oMmMkJl8gi2LINJBs1z9fr-VMYXF7BRzikNEYpQYbxQXlrO9Ca38PZh15OUdcLhLRtHPOwAHNbkBGpIdQKPyQjGW03WWsl5gNw6p/s1600/maui_banyan.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">We also went to a luau (no pictures) and went on a submarine ride. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfsSB02cG8KLN6veJ8JhbxOxsXd8tsfY8p_FBgkr_qKGhhfVgn5PIOMefgOBT9XJ-S5-m4ynjITlEYuw-xnwsKE-ch6bMiMala2rOM7hHufwV0Mpdk2VLdklBBWYGR7MWqHmqkQ9aMWl3/s1600/maui_sub.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfsSB02cG8KLN6veJ8JhbxOxsXd8tsfY8p_FBgkr_qKGhhfVgn5PIOMefgOBT9XJ-S5-m4ynjITlEYuw-xnwsKE-ch6bMiMala2rOM7hHufwV0Mpdk2VLdklBBWYGR7MWqHmqkQ9aMWl3/s1600/maui_sub.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
That's it for our two-week trip to Maui. I'll write about our Yellowstone trip soon.<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-42623987513372141632014-05-06T10:18:00.002-07:002014-05-06T12:24:02.252-07:00RAWROD 2014—Ride Around White Rim Trail in One Day<br />
When adventure writers tell their stories, they start with the dramatic ending.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Dramatic Ending</h3>
<br />
May 3, 8:30 PM - After riding the White Rim Trail in one day, Paul decides he's done riding for the weekend and starts the drive home to St. George. He pulls over and dry heaves.<br />
<br />
May 3, 9:00 PM - After riding the White Rim Trail in one day, Dug and his son Holden drive into the parking lot of Moab Brewery. Holden tells Dug to stop the car, now. He opens the door in front of the overflow crowd waiting to get a table at the restaurant, and vomits. The crowd looks on in horror.<br />
<br />
May 3, 11:15 PM - Dug and Holden return to camp and climb in their sleeping bags, waking me up from a happy slumber. Dug warns me that Holden has been sick. He tells Holden to use a bag of donut gems in case he needs to vomit. Holden uses it. He continues to wake up and vomit into different containers over the course of the night.<br />
<br />
May 3, 11:30 PM - The last pair of cyclists complete their ride in the dark with little fanfare. Everyone else is asleep or dealing with sickness.<br />
<br />
May 4, 3:00 AM - 30 miles away from the White Rim Trail, Lisa vomits in her hotel room.<br />
<br />
May 4, 4:00 AM - Unable to deal with the peer pressure, I crawl out of the tent and vomit in the sand.<br />
<br />
Adventure writers also shift dramatically from present tense to past tense.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Beginning</h3>
<br />
After having done a 4-hour, 20-mile mountain bike ride on Friday—my longest mountain bike ride of the year—we drove to the top of Horsethief Trail and set up camp at the parking lot.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcURs1sPGXVXEk2FOb6ttnNNoEzYeZhfdEiwR8snW10Zm_F4aebmgYSHGYvU52MQil8RwxAhmjwV256873Nx57Wy_nkWYFo-rKWKHQUmV0umYwANYaVwgPqYwKRsrh2mrLCIgScg677p8/s1600/white+rim+map.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcURs1sPGXVXEk2FOb6ttnNNoEzYeZhfdEiwR8snW10Zm_F4aebmgYSHGYvU52MQil8RwxAhmjwV256873Nx57Wy_nkWYFo-rKWKHQUmV0umYwANYaVwgPqYwKRsrh2mrLCIgScg677p8/s1600/white+rim+map.gif" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Kenny has been hosting this event for years, but this year was special—his 50th birthday. He was also doing something different this year. No sag wagon, and no group really. The only plan was to meet at Musselman Arch for photos, and then everyone was on their own, or hopefully in pairs. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbdNJAJIQ2MojeE7J4plxIsQ8O4CYrjO-NZ_lZdjd2UY4Oj1U793N6ACLW86qJSizVyYTMeasGfii4WMEfo7-XR5WqJ9fixsPBS1UE692l9UahxRxCQ4lNKUlB2Q0SL3ZB4gRRuOwCMJS/s1600/camp+better.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbdNJAJIQ2MojeE7J4plxIsQ8O4CYrjO-NZ_lZdjd2UY4Oj1U793N6ACLW86qJSizVyYTMeasGfii4WMEfo7-XR5WqJ9fixsPBS1UE692l9UahxRxCQ4lNKUlB2Q0SL3ZB4gRRuOwCMJS/s1600/camp+better.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
We knew the next day was going to be a hot one, so we loaded up as much water as we could carry. My backpack had two one-liter bladders and a few gels and nut rolls, and my bike carried two bottles. I stuffed other food packets in my jersey pockets.<br />
<br />
The goal was to leave at 7:00 AM. I wanted to take off a little earlier than everyone else because I'm one of the slower riders, but that was ruined when I woke up sluggish and wandered around like the camp idiot.<br />
<br />
I was glad to hear that Paul decided to make a go of it. After the previous day's ride, he had lost some of his confidence and wasn't sure he wanted to try it.<br />
<br />
On the ride from the Horsethief parking lot back out to Highway 313, I felt weak and uncomfortable under my heavy pack, but happy to be with friends and doing a ride I hadn't done in almost two decades.*<br />
<br />
<i>* In truth, I've never actually done the full 100-mile ride before. We always skipped the 13-mile stretch of dirt road.</i><br />
<br />
When the 13-mile stretch of rolling dirt road ended, we gulped down cached drinks and headed up the 8-mile paved road towards the National Park camp entrance.<br />
<br />
It was at the camp entrance where I had perhaps my finest moment of the day. My performance in the outhouse was nothing short of spectacular. The golf equivalent would be to bend a 3-iron from the deep rough around a tree and to within 10 feet of the pin. As I emerged from the outhouse, happy and light, I raised my hand in a polite <i>yes-I-acknowledge-your-applause-and-I'm-secretly-thrilled-but-want-to-act-cool</i> wave to my imaginary audience, who really had no business being there, imaginary or no.<br />
<br />
Because of my majestic delay, we were now behind the other riders by several minutes. Entering Shafer Trail reminded me of how beautiful this area was.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw2AWCG_ZCGxLWjn36Xf9qYkATeQOvkLBqvr4Xb0ajBhpWhSdbwN7O1wQe7xxxdhO7b-Yd9ILupFruraJkpKaxzsBA180dZRKjHEqAbqEeIcRN7aSGwGoL_n5mn1nHRw63ivRcHBhQNpt/s1600/shaffer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw2AWCG_ZCGxLWjn36Xf9qYkATeQOvkLBqvr4Xb0ajBhpWhSdbwN7O1wQe7xxxdhO7b-Yd9ILupFruraJkpKaxzsBA180dZRKjHEqAbqEeIcRN7aSGwGoL_n5mn1nHRw63ivRcHBhQNpt/s1600/shaffer.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
As I started the Shafer descent, I noticed that my front brake wasn't working. Elden had loaned me his rigid single-speed bike for the trip, which is kind of him, but the bike wasn't in great shape. One of the bottle cages was broken, the rear tire was bald, and the power brake was out. I normally wouldn't say bad things about Elden's loaner bike—mouth, meet gift horse—but Elden frequently disguises his generous heart with vile meanness. For example, after the ride, here's what he texted me:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"it was great to see you -- bummed i didn't ride a ton with you, but i am far too strong to hold back at your pace"</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not wanting to fly off any of the switchbacks, I did a slow descent, skidding wildly around corners with only a rear brake and bald tires.<br />
<br />
Paul and I met up at the bottom and rode hurriedly at a leisurely pace, if that makes any sense. We arrived at Musselman Arch to see other riders hanging out. Someone in our group took this picture.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFroc8oui1yBgxgmseW0xH3C5HICXfweFrjRgqmWo8BAGTKixc6IdTTGSpBeVqsLMdzYdsUkc14B2UEKuHTtvcewYW7TucLOJguWIdNM3W8hIxwMSwkZiI3YiKcG7tCDV59m9_Azmbd2W/s1600/musselman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFroc8oui1yBgxgmseW0xH3C5HICXfweFrjRgqmWo8BAGTKixc6IdTTGSpBeVqsLMdzYdsUkc14B2UEKuHTtvcewYW7TucLOJguWIdNM3W8hIxwMSwkZiI3YiKcG7tCDV59m9_Azmbd2W/s1600/musselman.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After a couple of group photos and general milling around, we got back on our bikes. That was the last I saw of the Kenny, Heather, Elden, Lisa, and the rest of the fast riders.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The ride from Musselman to White Crack, which is roughly the half-way point, consists of a series of bends that wind around canyons. You descend slightly as you ride away from the rim and then ascend slightly as you ride back towards the rim. Rinse and repeat. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The flowers and cactuses were blooming. At around 10:30 AM, it was already hot. Here, I turned around for the camera to capture the purple flowers, which unfortunately got washed out in this picture.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBOqjhCwZI2x_BYltb-VVFaHgaXR_6_6LcOcuaiOMZj8xI666EooR1HSgFK2TresuCSBnTaQG70lBA65FgLeGAF_8SXvSzrUOqyGAibQq9_MElhrZMVzT6gcYDi2uxkkcsLa9hBO6o8Ro/s1600/white_crack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBOqjhCwZI2x_BYltb-VVFaHgaXR_6_6LcOcuaiOMZj8xI666EooR1HSgFK2TresuCSBnTaQG70lBA65FgLeGAF_8SXvSzrUOqyGAibQq9_MElhrZMVzT6gcYDi2uxkkcsLa9hBO6o8Ro/s1600/white_crack.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once we finally got around that last mesa that we had been looking at in the distance for hours, we biked through a wide open desert. As we made the turn and headed northwest, I noticed a nice breeze coming from the south. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
People accuse the White Rim Trail of having a constant headwind regardless of the direction you're going. For the record, on May 3, 2014, I do hereby proclaim that we had no wind during the first half of the ride and a mild tail wind during the second half of the ride.<br />
<br /></div>
<h3>
Progress</h3>
<div>
<br />
In my memory, the major checkpoints—Shafer, Musselman, Vertigo Void, Murphy's Hogback, Hardscrabble Hill, and Horsethief—were spread out fairly evenly. In reality, Shafer and Musselman are close to each other, Vertigo and Murphy's are only a mile or two apart, and there's a huge distance between Musselman and Vertigo. </div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The tentative plan was to eat lunch at Vertigo Void, but several of us weren't riding fast enough for it to make sense to wait that long. Paul and I ate our lunch in the slim shade of a juniper bush, and pressed on.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
By the time Paul and I reached Vertigo Void, the other riders were gone. Here's what they had been up to:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE70tTb-h6Y1UAumKEmZ_xUlyJOLzrRdvarYRrQ0wP_h2HIv4xVXKF-UTaWxMD75aCsvkZjKWBOMaN8UGt0IBu3OEFW1s3tEJ3R8nrkQMy9UAWaJMSeML9sOe_JMpT6AwxNeWPWSmY7kJa/s1600/vertigo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE70tTb-h6Y1UAumKEmZ_xUlyJOLzrRdvarYRrQ0wP_h2HIv4xVXKF-UTaWxMD75aCsvkZjKWBOMaN8UGt0IBu3OEFW1s3tEJ3R8nrkQMy9UAWaJMSeML9sOe_JMpT6AwxNeWPWSmY7kJa/s1600/vertigo.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paul wanted to keep pushing on, knowing that we had three difficult climbs in front of us, including Murphy's Hogback in a short while. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The ride up Murphy's is steep and loose. Paul and I didn't even try to ride up the steep pitches. When I last did the White Rim Trail back when Bill Clinton was POTUS, Dug and I took pride in being able to clean all the moves. Now, I thought, <i>How did I ever ride up that?</i> In retrospect, I am in awe of my 32-year-old self. In fairness, my 32-year-old self was riding a geared bike with suspension, not a rigid single-speed. So I'm proud of my 51-year-old self as well. Good job, mes present and past.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After pushing our bikes to the top, Paul and I ate a snack and watched a few other riders do the long climb. Cori, who was hanging back with his girlfriend Emily, cleaned it. So did Jolene, who was hanging back to help out a struggling rider. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cori then proposed to Emily at the top of Murphy's Hogback. She accepted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I thought that group of people represented the last of the pack (the gruppetto for you Tour de France fans), but it turns out that a couple of riders were even further back.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<h3>
Suffering</h3>
</div>
<div>
<br />
There was a nice long drop down the other side of Murphy's Hogback, and then there was, for me, the most difficult part of the ride. It was hot, 90-degree weather. We had been on our bikes all day long. Eating was hard, and Paul stopped trying to eat altogether, relying on <a href="http://www.carborocket.com/" target="_blank">CarboRocket</a> for his energy. CarboRocket, where energy meets experience. CarboRocket, a boost of freedom. CarboRocket, for her pleasure.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The heat was getting to me. I was weary, colicky, and dragging behind Paul, Cori, and Emily. I talked Paul into stopping so that I could transfer water from one bladder to the other and down some ibuprofen, and Cori and Emily pulled ahead for good.<br />
<br />
For the next stretch of trail, I don't remember much. For me, every endurance ride has the same characteristics:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Pre-ride excitement</li>
<li>The this-is-never-going-to-end section</li>
<li>The problem (neck pain, hot spots, sunburn, not enough water, can't eat, can't poop, stomach, mechanical)</li>
<li>Crux fatigue (or worse, bonk)</li>
<li>Resignation to suffering</li>
<li>Energizing homestretch</li>
<li>Emotional finish</li>
</ul>
<br />
Riding near Candlestick, I was dealing with the crux fatigue, which Dug calls the "cave of pain." I didn't bonk, but I was miserable. I was saddle-sore, my feet hurt, my neck hurt, my legs were cramping. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jolene's group of riders caught up to us at the start of Hardscrabble Hill. Paul and I again walked our bikes up, relieved to be off the saddles.<br />
<br />
Bry also caught up with us and told me he was running low on water because he was giving it all away to an embattled friend. I told him I had plenty of extra water, so I filled one of his bottles with CarboRocket.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<h3>
The Homestretch</h3>
<br />
Once we got to the top of Hardscrabble Hill, where you can look down at the trail as it runs along the Green River, everything turned around for me. The ibuprofen had finally kicked in, so my neck pain was mostly gone, and I had adjusted to the suffering. All I needed to do was keep riding another 11 or so miles along the Green River before the big finish up Horsethief.<br />
<br />
Here's a picture that Paul took of me with my camera. I rode down a bit and then rode back up to face the camera:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNikAbr6CfyngYCx8rJKizQ0AbZyn0-rt0flHALiyVhTsc2Oks2gyojZGjhc9_e7AKah6xq_uwfSDN18BKJvNVybNmKnpUpgvIthHKWPDlA8RVx5dh7KaptpBaJvVsRH4xaxC3pi89fm2/s1600/green+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNikAbr6CfyngYCx8rJKizQ0AbZyn0-rt0flHALiyVhTsc2Oks2gyojZGjhc9_e7AKah6xq_uwfSDN18BKJvNVybNmKnpUpgvIthHKWPDlA8RVx5dh7KaptpBaJvVsRH4xaxC3pi89fm2/s1600/green+river.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This was a beautiful section of trail. We got a nice cloud cover, a tail wind, and cooler temperatures as it approached evening.<br />
<br />
Paul had a GPS on his bike, so we knew exactly how far we had to ride before the start of Horsethief. That helped us avoid wondering if the turn-off was right after this next bend, or maybe the next one. We knew we still had 7 miles to go, or 4 miles to go, or 2 miles to go. Horsethief is at mile 99, period, end of story. And then it's 1.5 miles of climbing.<br />
<br />
Here's a picture of Horsethief that Todd Winner took.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2PEsypTrlekJH-8MymHVDHAHI4WV4Bj0cQcRvjodK6ED66e9g1x5x1KW_CM4QsvONVlcciyYhOdw7Lciywc9OAwVat161w9Y6LA2R-gBvSUMgnlxrECCX67_9MGIHwv7pveW5NbwxC0O/s1600/blossom+horsethief+todd+winner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2PEsypTrlekJH-8MymHVDHAHI4WV4Bj0cQcRvjodK6ED66e9g1x5x1KW_CM4QsvONVlcciyYhOdw7Lciywc9OAwVat161w9Y6LA2R-gBvSUMgnlxrECCX67_9MGIHwv7pveW5NbwxC0O/s1600/blossom+horsethief+todd+winner.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
After Elden and Lisa finished their ride, they jumped in their car and drove down to the bottom of Horsethief to help struggling riders. They asked Paul and me if we needed extra water, or if they could take our camelbaks, but we both declined stubbornly. We did agree to gulp down an ice-cold Coke that Lisa fished out of a cooler.<br />
<br />
At the top of Horsethief, the riders who had finished sat in chairs at the top of the hill, watching, cheering, cajoling.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmM96_d-R1p6Oe8oleukNJ1CdjOMf0UCmg8SKhEy-XrIyWp1L09COMjG-g86zRQbNMnCjkTlh8MXV3WgaTS5aklaPWvdxjFjfoQnePKSRGOL0NQ0yu_kcndwPeJgPyfl0wjF8Hh_IYy4X/s1600/cajoling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmM96_d-R1p6Oe8oleukNJ1CdjOMf0UCmg8SKhEy-XrIyWp1L09COMjG-g86zRQbNMnCjkTlh8MXV3WgaTS5aklaPWvdxjFjfoQnePKSRGOL0NQ0yu_kcndwPeJgPyfl0wjF8Hh_IYy4X/s1600/cajoling.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I decided that I wanted to try to ride up Horsethief. I let some air out of the bald rear tire so that I wouldn't have to stay seated to avoid skidding out and hammered up the first long stretched before it turned into switchbacks. Sadly, I had to push my bike up a couple of stretches. I like to think that I would have made it had Elden loaned me a better bike.<br />
<br />
Then I rode up the last few switchbacks, doing everything in my power—including what Dug called the "paper boy"—to stay on my bike. Dug took this picture of me. I think that's Paul a little further down the hill.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgUYOLnJLlP1OBLLtvW42Fdg5zTca77yjHDoCBourPO6kpTdaXeOX-4PsuISZKIqOKJlphaJ1jJX3Nki21s2i56Pk8Hop3WvfPWEHnQFBrIOUYuMy6sRLrZ13-4P46j5CmcFxSGThilIA/s1600/horsethief+bob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgUYOLnJLlP1OBLLtvW42Fdg5zTca77yjHDoCBourPO6kpTdaXeOX-4PsuISZKIqOKJlphaJ1jJX3Nki21s2i56Pk8Hop3WvfPWEHnQFBrIOUYuMy6sRLrZ13-4P46j5CmcFxSGThilIA/s1600/horsethief+bob.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
"Go Bobby!" "Don't fall!" "Paul is catching you!" "Stay on your bike!"<br />
<br />
Here's Paul riding up Horsethief:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_BJ1wRhyphenhyphenSnfbkkpfJ6d6xio4Bz6cGgGCc2ImRVZFSgCz_c6FcBl-U04JkebZ7HrKFO4U-eeeJ7SHz9Zswb9GBvC4UJxuDmG9-S5IJYyWSGNhEaAzIRNVSFW_8zr5_Ws1brBqZj-Qbdbm/s1600/horsethief+paul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_BJ1wRhyphenhyphenSnfbkkpfJ6d6xio4Bz6cGgGCc2ImRVZFSgCz_c6FcBl-U04JkebZ7HrKFO4U-eeeJ7SHz9Zswb9GBvC4UJxuDmG9-S5IJYyWSGNhEaAzIRNVSFW_8zr5_Ws1brBqZj-Qbdbm/s1600/horsethief+paul.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Here's Paul finishing:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDbtyEfZqnG9moRiYFFP9PC5MLrGevRu0kqEOqyn3grP9TxGFyfSNVT18dSQo8zZEKSVSmtyzvHnOagy6IZom7U_JU_OzL7GNOrbnlI_Zmg_cfYidrE7RTG-j9LYJ-4c35gLDcQXqRsIt/s1600/paul+finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDbtyEfZqnG9moRiYFFP9PC5MLrGevRu0kqEOqyn3grP9TxGFyfSNVT18dSQo8zZEKSVSmtyzvHnOagy6IZom7U_JU_OzL7GNOrbnlI_Zmg_cfYidrE7RTG-j9LYJ-4c35gLDcQXqRsIt/s1600/paul+finish.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And here's me the morning after the ride:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59oiFDjiLh_a-5PmxQQM2lw8HW_rVZk5WDpR-n-pTQGwmH9lQno7B9jeLXxtaRUQw0G5-sDvXMyERWbmeML1rwZlRcm-2BQ8Ltlu2Hp6mURd4QgzPKgpCnzYwy9lLjt28YSvpN3V9pPS1/s1600/bob+hurting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59oiFDjiLh_a-5PmxQQM2lw8HW_rVZk5WDpR-n-pTQGwmH9lQno7B9jeLXxtaRUQw0G5-sDvXMyERWbmeML1rwZlRcm-2BQ8Ltlu2Hp6mURd4QgzPKgpCnzYwy9lLjt28YSvpN3V9pPS1/s1600/bob+hurting.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Great adventure.<br />
<br />
Special thanks to Kenny, Heather, Dug, Elden, Lisa, and Paul for all your help.</div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-90716694768820036072014-04-14T16:27:00.001-07:002014-05-05T18:58:53.084-07:00Crazy WeightBack in February, Kenny sent out his annual invitation to do RAWROD—Ride Around White Rim in One Day. I haven't done that ride since Bill Clinton was president, so I decided to sign up.<br />
<br />
I had been in decent shape between commuting to work on my bike and doing family karate a few times a week. I was <i>fat fit</i>.<br />
<br />
In February, I had lost all of my winter holiday weight that pushed me up into the 190s, and I was back down to within my normal weight range of 184-188. That's about what I weighed last November when I had a humiliating bonk on a 10-mile mountain bike ride at Fall Moab. I knew I had to make some changes to finish a 100-mile self-supported mountain bike ride in one day.<br />
<br />
I changed my eating and exercise behavior. (I guess this is another way of saying "I went on a diet" but going on a diet makes me thinking of eating tasteless food and using infomercial equipment.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8T5LONnmgsqYAnszI44vsPUCHKuB8cIihql35k0mIlv2V7fKTXbHBq-CcQhoe3ZomnzOn3q0SA00sS_GPNdCZcjhF-rHn8ZZ3FxlFJPSWC0BZi19jiGt9VROziCAubEsIiz2fXMUJP8DN/s1600/twister.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8T5LONnmgsqYAnszI44vsPUCHKuB8cIihql35k0mIlv2V7fKTXbHBq-CcQhoe3ZomnzOn3q0SA00sS_GPNdCZcjhF-rHn8ZZ3FxlFJPSWC0BZi19jiGt9VROziCAubEsIiz2fXMUJP8DN/s1600/twister.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Here's the plan:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Normal breakfast. Bowl of cereal with fruit.</li>
<li>Spin ride to work 15 mile route, audiobook.</li>
<li>Small lunch. Soup or salad.</li>
<li>Banana or apple before ride home.</li>
<li>Ride home from work 12-mile route, no bus. Interval bursts twice a week, music.</li>
<li>Eat anything for dinner, no second helpings.</li>
<li>No grazing in the evening.*</li>
<li>Only one dessert a week.*</li>
<li>No finishing kids' food.</li>
<li>One longish ride on the weekend. 60-mile road ride or 3-hour mtb ride.</li>
<li>Karate class 4-5 hours a week.</li>
</ul>
<div>
* These were the two hardest and most important changes for me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's it. I don't feel hungry, and if I get food cravings, I delay gratification by thinking how good the next meal is going to be. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've lost 20 pounds in the last two months. I weigh about 165 pounds. As a point of comparison, when I did Leadville in 2008—the last time I was serious about losing weight and getting into biking shape—I never got below 172 pounds. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Positives</b></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>It's much easier to ride up hills.</li>
<li>I should be able to do the White Rim Trail without bonking.</li>
<li>If you're in good shape, you're immortal.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<b>Negatives</b></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>I like eating donuts whenever I want, and I feel deprived if I can't.</li>
<li>I seem to have more lines in my face and neck. </li>
<li>Moobs are less humiliating when the rest of your body is fat.</li>
<li>I sometimes miss the feeling that I can eat whatever I want whenever I want because I exercise a lot and don't mind being 15-20 pounds overweight.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Coming up next: RAWROD Report in May</div>
</div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-60458250257365802772013-10-02T22:05:00.000-07:002014-05-07T07:19:04.134-07:00Anatomy of a Funny<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Understanding humor is the key to understanding people. If you understand why a joke is superior, you can express your approval through measured laughter.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Let's begin our study.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar. They should have ducked.</b></blockquote>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That's funny because when you hear the phrase "walk into a bar," you think the priest and rabbi are walking into a pub or tavern, but it turns out they are walking into a low-hanging bar, probably made of metal because when a metal bar and a human head come into contact, the result is a funny <i>clunk</i> sound. This form of humor is called <i>ad absurdium deus. </i>The "ad" prefix has no known meaning in Greek, "absurdum" is derived from the Celtic words "absur" and "dum," and God only knows what "deus" means.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Great, so that's a funny joke. When someone tells it, you can laugh the appropriate amount. But how can we make it funnier?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>A goose and a swan walk into a bar. It remains unclear why they did not duck.</b></blockquote>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This joke is twice packed with double entendres, making what the French would call a <i>quartois entendre</i>. On the one hand, you have the same funny thing going on with "bar" referring not to a tavern but to a metal pipe likely covered with barbed spikes. Now add to that the humor association among the goose, the swan, and "duck," and you have a delightfully fowl joke. That's called "word play," and it's something that is funny. Also know that it's funny when an animal hits its head against something metal, especially if it causes the animal to wobble or bleed.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dare we make this joke funnier? We dare.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>A mallard walks into a bar. Duck!</b></blockquote>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some humor strikes the senses at such odd angles and with such twisted force that all mental processing of said humor is bypassed, resulting in a gut-level guffaw. This joke does exactly that.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-56402942092595686762013-08-28T22:16:00.000-07:002013-08-28T22:17:05.426-07:00Donut PanicOne of the things I like about Southern California is how the stores in strip malls are named. While driving from my parents' house to one of my sibling's houses, we see stores called "Liquor," "Pretzels," "Taxes," "Pets," and "Nails." Every now and then, someone like a dentist decides to get creative and call his store "Implants," but under the bright California sun, I can forgive that.*<br />
<br />
<i>* Note that I wrote "his" instead of "her" when referring to the dentist. I did that because in this example, the dentist is a Jewish male. Or maybe he's an elective surgeon. I don't actually live in California, so how would I know?</i><br />
<br />
When we visited Portland later in the summer to visit Stan and Grey, I proclaimed to Wendy that Portland is a great city for two things: beer and donuts. (No, not the highly overrated Voodoo Donuts, which is nearly as mediocre as Top Pot donuts in Seattle.) Just as I made that proclamation during a rush of confidence, we both saw the same store:<br />
<br />
"Donuts"<br />
<br />
I half-skidded into the parking lot and expected everyone to pile out of the car in a frenzy. The boys were busy with iPads and Wendy has issues with gluten and the like, so I walked into the store alone.<br />
<br />
What happened next could only be described as panic.<br />
<br />
With all the trays of delicious donuts to my left and center, my heart pounded. I had to blink a few times to clear my head. No good. My brain had stopped processing information in language and flashed thoughts in kaleidoscopic color. I saw a glazed raspberry donut that I used to like when I was in college, but I knew for a fact on some level that a glazed raspberry donut—even though you can see the enticing little red opening—is too sweet and seedy. In that donut store, the thought flitted into my head and left in a whirl. When asked what could be gotten for me, I replied:<br />
<br />
"Raspberry donut, please."<br />
<br />
In a moment of crisis, I choked. I suppose that I can take comfort in the number of times that I have ordered successfully in a similar situation, like that time I ordered Beef Wellington at Fresh Bistro. Or I can tell myself that I'm gainfully employed with a job I like and a family I love, and that I'm an above average wiffleball player, but that's all cold comfort in a time like that. I know what happened.<br />
<br />
-Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-42253267411610408812013-01-20T15:33:00.003-08:002013-01-20T15:33:47.159-08:00Lance BoilsMr. Lance Armstrong made it into the news by confessing that he cheated in order to win his seven Tour de France titles. As a commuter cyclist, I have opinions about this matter. But before I offer my opinions, I'll offer some thoughts.<br />
<br />
* My only personal experience with Mr. Armstrong occurred in August 2008. I was about 3 miles from the Leadville finish. While drinking a beer in the back of a pickup truck, Lance said to me, "Good job. Keep going." Or he might have been talking to the cyclist next to me—I was tired. Regardless, Lance and I have a personal relationship, which gives me extra insight into this matter.<br />
<br />
* It's common knowledge that a whole bunch of cyclists were doping. Whenever the subject of doping comes up with my friends who track this kind of thing a whole lot more than I do, I raise two questions:<br />
<br />
<b>Question 1</b>: In any given tour during Lance's run, who was the top-finishing clean rider? Was it the sixth-place rider, the 18th-place rider, 126th-place rider? My guess is that it was one of the French riders who finished somewhere around 30th place, but I have no idea.<br />
<br />
<b>Question 2</b>: Who was the last clean rider to win the Tour? Greg LeMond? Probably.<br />
<br />
Miguel Indurain and the Spaniards most likely started the heightened EPO-style cheating back in the early 90s that made other riders believe they had no shot at winning without using PEDs. Are more recent winners like Cadel Evans and Carlos Sastre clean? Again, I don't know.<br />
<br />
One nice thing I've noticed while half-watching the tour over the last few years is that even the strongest climbers look like they're struggling on the steep ascents. It's possible they're clean.<br />
<br />
Now, my opinions:<br />
<br />
* While the cheating is bad, it makes sense on the "everyone else is doing it" level. What makes Armstrong's behavior particularly loathsome is how he went after accusers. He actually <i>sued</i> people for accusing him of doing something he was actually doing. He acted like a bully, both personally and legally.<br />
<br />
* Armstrong has one of those great and terrible personalities like the best and worst conquerors. Armstrong starting LiveStrong is like Mussolini getting the trains to run on time.<br />
<br />
* We don't celebrate moral courage that often. When was the last time you heard of a corporate executive who made a decision based on moral good rather than financial profit?<br />
<br />
There is an interesting story in the news about the dramatic decline of violent crime coinciding with the drop in lead pollutants—especially lead paint and leaded gasoline. Apparently, lead made a bunch of urban youths more prone to violent behavior. Back in the day, energy executives saw studies about the damaging effects of lead, but instead of using ethanol as a gasoline additive, they went with the cheaper lead approach. Once the lead paint got cleaned up and we switched to unleaded gasoline, urban folks became less crazed.<br />
<br />
I want to hear more stories about people doing the right thing, even though it costs them. There's no better place to start that with Lance Armstrong, who showed the courage of a winner in admitting to cheating. Bravo, Lance!<br />
<br />
Good job. Keep going.<br />
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-19785764547968632332012-12-31T11:00:00.001-08:002012-12-31T11:00:52.445-08:00Charles Durning and the Good WarI'm a sucker for World War II stories. When Charles Durning died recently, I found out that he was a World War II veteran, which made me like him even more. But he didn't just see action in World War II—he had a Band of Brothers-type experience that took him from D-Day to the Battle of the Bulge. In fact, if you were writing a fiction novel set in World War II and you created a character that experienced what Charles Durning went through, your editor would probably tell you that it seems a little too "fictiony."<br />
<br />
Even if you don't know who Charles Durning is, you know who Charles Durning is. He's one of the great all-time "that guy" characters in movies. He played Detective Snyder in <i>The Sting</i>, he played the crooked governor in <i>O Brother, Where Art Thou?</i>, he played the guy who kept hitting on a cross-dressing Dustin Hoffman in <i>Tootsie</i>, and he played a memorable cop in <i>Dog Day Afternoon</i>.<br />
<br />
He was in the first wave of soldiers landing at Omaha Beach. When the door of the landing craft opened, the guy in front of him went down, and Private Durning jumped over him and sunk to the bottom. As he pulled his gear off under the water, bullets whizzed by him. Here, he tells the story himself in this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0GVUXh4tQQ&feature=player_embedded" target="_blank">video clip</a>:<br />
<br />
<object height="360" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/c0GVUXh4tQQ?hl=en_US&version=3"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/c0GVUXh4tQQ?hl=en_US&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="360" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
R.I.P. Charles Durning 1923-2012<br />
<br />
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-6124445122033229462012-10-20T16:22:00.002-07:002012-10-20T16:22:28.070-07:00Missives of OctoberLet's get this party started.<br />
<br />
<b>What's at stake for Bob in the Presidential election?</b><br />
<br />
Two main things are at stake for me, Bob: (1) health care and (2) deterrence from lunacy.<br />
<br />
Let's address health care first. Romney and his nutty right-wingéd friends want to do away with (<i>privatize</i>) all existing social programs—especially Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security—and they don't want to allow even a watered-down social program like Obamacare to become fully operational. Ayn Rand and Grover Norquist would be so upset.<br />
<br />
I want the federal government to continue these programs, just like I want the government to build highways and regulate businesses and defend our borders. In other words, I'm a commie socialist. If Romney is elected, he and Congress have vowed to repeal and "replace" Obamacare. If Obama is elected, at some point a right-winger will hold up a sign that says, "Government: Keep yore Hands of my Obamacare!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTDz1v5s0Og0viPPVNmkzEcI784nWiltoIPuNG9UOJlYU9aKPDh_wddsg1N4R2IWnVrZ-YoowHJmRfg7KwVXu-cwksp8s_fw1kHrfVqA7dBd-uO1VVEm73-B1DEPp_W1e-Lj-09NXi7Sjr/s1600/medicare-keep-your-hands-off-my-medicare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTDz1v5s0Og0viPPVNmkzEcI784nWiltoIPuNG9UOJlYU9aKPDh_wddsg1N4R2IWnVrZ-YoowHJmRfg7KwVXu-cwksp8s_fw1kHrfVqA7dBd-uO1VVEm73-B1DEPp_W1e-Lj-09NXi7Sjr/s320/medicare-keep-your-hands-off-my-medicare.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I no longer want health care to be tied to large businesses. Eventually, I want the government to raise our taxes so that we all have government-controlled health care. That way, I can decide to leave a company to do freelance/contract work without getting crushed by COBRA or some ridiculously expensive private health care plan.<br />
<br />
The second issue is deterrence. Romney has expressed a lot of different stands on different issues, so I'm not sure whether he'll be a relative moderate Republican who caters to Big Business or a more radical (severe?) Republican who caters to the Tea Party as well as Big Business. (I don't believe even he knows.) I can assume that at best, he'll be a slightly more competent version of George W. Bush, who was a blight on Amurrica.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2gp9K0PQ3W_NvfKtlhOgEl3XFmWFkMNKgNY4d6-mireIvcFek5r-5HeyhdQLiIVKzqvZaV4QVlSyyiRh7jSm63pH5TvKyrFimjiCgxxqGbkBZ96_dmih3AJ_njkV8YRwMN97Nvf9FWyV/s1600/englishonly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2gp9K0PQ3W_NvfKtlhOgEl3XFmWFkMNKgNY4d6-mireIvcFek5r-5HeyhdQLiIVKzqvZaV4QVlSyyiRh7jSm63pH5TvKyrFimjiCgxxqGbkBZ96_dmih3AJ_njkV8YRwMN97Nvf9FWyV/s1600/englishonly.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We've already been down this path: Bad wars and flawed deregulation -> Increased national debt and financial crises -> Democratic takeover -> Republican obstructionism -> Gridlock > Republicans blame Democrats for not have cleaned up the mess fast enough.<br />
<br />
I prefer the Muslum-in-Chef.<br />
<br />
<b>What about pensions?</b><br />
<br />
I'm against pensions. Pensions used to be a good thing back in the 40-years-and-gold-watch era when huge corporations were more stable. Pensions don't make sense in a society where people change jobs every few years and bounce around from state to state. And when huge companies like Blockbuster and Circuit City flame out in a few years, any pension plan is going to be lost. And government pensions suck because I don't work for the government.<br />
<br />
I want pensions to be replaced by more generous 401(k) plans. Am I saying I don't want to privatize Social Security or Medicare, but I do want to privatize pension/retirement plans? Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.<br />
<br />
<b>But wouldn't Romney be more like Reagan than Dubya?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I don't think the powers that be <i>like</i> Romney very much. I think Mitt is taking the same kind of unfair beating in Washington insider circles that Al Gore suffered from in 2000, back when Gore was a robot and Dubya was the kind of guy everyone wanted to drink a beer with. In this election, no one wants to drink a beer with either candidate, really, but Mitt is perceived as the rich asshole who won't get off the cell phone.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, I think Romney is going to lose a close election because too many people think he's a dick.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What happened in wiffleball?</b><br />
<br />
We started off the season 0-2 thanks to some erratic pitching on my part, and then we went on a roll with decent pitching and strong hitting. We finished a half game out of first place in a tie for second. We lost the tiebreaker, so we finished as the #3 seed, which meant an opening round one-game playoff against the #6 seed.<br />
<br />
With our best pitcher struggling with control, we were down 10-7 with two innings to play, and then we trailed 11-10 in the bottom of the last inning. I led off the inning with a walk, and our pitcher, who felt awful for having pitched so poorly, belted a two-run walk-off homer to redeem himself and put us in the semis.<br />
<br />
In the first semi-final game, we faced a decent team with a pitcher who was the star of his college cricket team in India. I've never seen anyone who can throw a wiffleball that hard. Since he started pitching in his team's fourth game of the year, he had given up only one run all year. He had three pitches: a straight blazing fastball and two slightly less blazing fastballs that broke either inside or outside. He was easily the best wiffleball pitcher any of us had seen, but he pitched on a team with mediocre hitters.<br />
<br />
In game 1, our pitcher gave up a few hits but no runs. Their pitcher mowed us all down. I felt helpless. In the first three innings, he walked one hitter, and another hitter managed to pop up to the second baseman, which was a moral victory for us. With two outs in the top of the fourth inning, I guessed right and belted a pitch over the right-field fence for our only hit of the game. We won 1-0.<br />
<br />
In game 2, we gave up more runs, but their pitcher's arm was sore. Throwing a wiffleball that hard probably isn't too smart. We trailed 3-1 going in to the bottom of the last inning, but he had stopped throwing his nasty heater. With the bases loaded and me on deck, the batter before me hit a two-run double to tie the score. I thought the pitcher would walk me since he had walked me in every previous at-bat, but he decided to pitch to me—I think he wanted the game to end. I hit a single to send our team into the final for the third straight year.<br />
<br />
In the finals—complete with over-the-top announcers, national anthems, fourth-inning stretches, crowds, and at-bat music for each hitter—we lost game 3 in extra innings. I played well, so I blame the loss on my teammates. And I told them that in a contemptuous fit after the game. OK, I lied about that. But not about pension plans. That was true!<br />
<br />
<b>DVR Decisions</b><br />
<br />
Now that Sunday night is when networks want to air their best shows, we're faced with an interesting decision. When the boys are in bed and we have only an hour to watch TV and two shows have recorded, which show do we watch? Here are some difficult choices I recall having over the years:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The Sopranos vs. Deadwood</li>
<li>Game of Thrones vs. Mad Men</li>
<li>Breaking Bad vs. Justified</li>
<li>Homeland vs. The Walking Dead</li>
</ul>
<br />
The Sopranos always won out, but Deadwood eventually became my favorite rewatchable show of all time. While I loved the first few seasons of Mad Men, the show isn't appealing enough to knock off Game of Thrones. Breaking Bad is a better show than Justified, but you have to be in the right mood. Same with Homeland. Sometimes, watching people impale, slash, behead, and defenestrate zombies is more appealing than watching Clair Danes struggle with a life-long mental breakdown.<br />
<br />
I don't have this problem with books, by the way. If Richard Russo, David Sedaris, Nick Nornby, Mark Helprin, and Tobias Wolff all come out with a new book at the same time, I would somehow manage to ignore them all as they clutter my nightstand while watching reruns of Deadwood and The Wire on my iPad.<br />
<br />
But what if people discovered a bunch of buried fiction from my favorite dead authors?<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><i>The Troika Driver and Other Stories</i> by Anton Chekhov</li>
<li><i>The Adventures of Joe Harper</i> by Mark Twain</li>
<li><i>The Sentimental Papers</i> by Charles Dickens </li>
<li><i>Prouder and More Prejudiced</i> by Jane Austen</li>
<li><i>The Clean Man Without Balls</i> by Ernest Hemingway</li>
</ul>
<br />
I think I'd go with Mark Twain's imaginary new novel.<br />
<br />
<b>Mountain Biking</b><br />
<br />
Fall Moab is only a few weeks away, so it's time for me to get back on the mountain bike. There is a new trail section at Tapeworm that includes a pump track section along with a bunch of elevated ladders that I have tentatively named "Sphincter Pucker," "Widow Maker," "Fly or Die," and "Just Do It—No Don't!"<br />
<br />
In about three weeks, we'll pull into the parking lot at the bottom of Gold Bar Rim, and the sky will be broad and clear, and everything will be right with the world for a few hours, and then the pressures of work, the duties of family, and the responsibilities of television will fetter us once again like dust in a corn silo. Or something.<br />
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-63358782474155492792012-09-26T22:41:00.002-07:002012-09-28T21:47:16.006-07:00Thirty Days in the HoleEvery Wednesday evening, on my way back from karate class, I listen to a public radio station that features a segment called The Roadhouse. It's one of the rare times when I actually wish I had a longer drive.<br />
<br />
The music consists of any song that could be played in a road house, where someone like Patrick Swayze could be a bouncer who throws you out for hurling a full bottle of beer at the band's cage. When you get revenge in a subsequent fight, you may or may not say something like this to the bouncer, depending on how you behaved in prison and how much you want to reveal about yourself.<br />
<br />
<object height="360" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NDcqzjZTi-c?version=3&hl=en_US"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NDcqzjZTi-c?version=3&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="360" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>
<br />
<br />
If you're anything like me, you've probably stopped reading this post and you've gone out and created an iTunes playlist called "Road House." And if you're like me, you've rolled down the window in your Prius and cranked up the sound, knowing full well that ALL people will dig your music, even if they can only hear the bass.<br />
<br />
What goes on your Road House playlist? You really just need one song. That's right—a one-song playlist. Here's the song:<br />
<br />
<object height="360" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ie29FyBJNO8?version=3&hl=en_US"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ie29FyBJNO8?version=3&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="360" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object><br />
<br />
If you're anything like me, there could be no greater way to express dissatisfaction in life than to shout into a microphone, "<i>Thirty days in the hole! Thirty days in the hole! Thirty days in the hole!</i>"<br />
<br />
You probably wonder what kinds of things you can do that will get you thrown in jail for 30 days. Whenever a judge slams his gavel and tells me, "Thirty days," it's usually because I have brawled or violated noise ordinances, or maybe I borrowed a police car to knock down my neighbor's ugly carport. Or sometimes I get a 30-day jail sentence just because I'm wearing my favorite boxer shorts in a 7-11 parking lot and don't want a police officer to put handcuffs on me.<br />
<br />
But what about other people? Here's a list of crimes you can commit that will get you thrown in jail for 30 days, courtesy of The Google:<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Using a webcam to spy on your roommate</li>
<li>Animal torture</li>
<li>Improper sexual misconduct toward military trainees</li>
<li>Planting evidence</li>
<li>Collecting rainwater on your property in Oregon</li>
<li>Cyberbullying</li>
<li>Duct-taping a child to the floor of a day care center</li>
<li>Having too much junk in your yard</li>
<li>Being accused—wrongly—of throwing hot water at your ex-boyfriend </li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<i>Thirty days in the hole! Thirty days in the hole! Thirty days in the hole!</i><br />
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-54355035360809252362012-08-12T20:55:00.001-07:002012-08-12T20:55:13.097-07:00August Burns RedIt has been reported that this web log has not been updated in days. This half-truth is only a click of a Publish button away from becoming an outright lie.<br />
<br />
<b>Excellent Idea #1</b><br />
<br />
Form a rock band. Earn money by playing music that people either pay for or convince a library to pay for. If Fred Durst can earn money doing this, <i>anyone</i> can. The key to forming this cash cow is to come up with a good name. And here's where my brilliant idea enters the picture. Start the name with "SRO."<br />
<br />
Example: "SRO The Red Stripes"<br />
<br />
Why is this such a great idea? Because when the band goes on tour, the venue automatically includes "SRO" on the billboard. Passers-by will say, "Hmm, standing room only. I better go check out that band at the library." And then pretty soon all the libraries in the country will have to carry your CD.<br />
<br />
If Led Zeppelin had been called "SRO Led Zeppelin," they never would have been forced to break up.<br />
<br />
<b>Wiffleball Update</b><br />
<br />
The season started out with a rematch between last years winner (us!) and the runners-up. The game included all the over-the-top festivities of a finals game, complete with announcers, national anthem, and barbecue. We lost 12-0. I pitched the entire game, giving up all 12 runs in 5 innings of work.<br />
<br />
Then we lost the next game 8-5 against the sales guys (After School Special). Again, I pitched. No one likes getting beat in any way by sales guys, but losing that game was especially awful. I was 0-5 at the plate, stranded a bunch of runners, and got shelled for the second game in a row. With 14 teams vying for only 6 playoffs spots, things were looking bleak.<br />
<br />
After the 0-2 start, our team is now 7-2.<br />
<br />
It goes without saying that I will discuss wiffleball at least one more time.<br />
<br />
<b>Mountain Biking Update</b><br />
<br />
The end of Leadville marks the start of Fall Moab preparation. I was trying to think of the last time I went mountain biking, and I'm drawing a blank. It's possible that last year's Fall Moab trip was my most recent MTB experience. If that's the case -- if I have indeed not been on a mountain bike in ten months -- am I still a mountain biker?<br />
<br />
Yes!<br />
<br />
I'm an excellent mountain biker! Wow, that was almost too easy to resolve. I really should have expressed that thought in a sonnet, with the first 8 lines covering the question of whether I'm a mountain biker, and then last 6 lines offering the resolution that I am, in fact, a mountain biker. It would have been more poetic that way.<br />
<br />
In this sonnet that I might just write, I should mention somewhere that I weigh 190 pounds, and when I put on an XL bike jersey, it stretches so tight over my belly that I fear I might look like Scotty, the fantastic Phillip Seymour Hoffman character in Boogie Nights. Here's Scotty in action:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDaP4BGlYO5k4cUsw0SbrbkejM5n9AS6D9ZGrDS0puaNWvBVpJ6pd4P7F-H2VTN40Vx0qMe8LeojrlWqqNoYSDUkI2Cu7MydioXJh6xYeS2XCLOCR08q2xzkDzN-jC-AL3zCQrJD3cRFY/s1600/scotty-shades1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDaP4BGlYO5k4cUsw0SbrbkejM5n9AS6D9ZGrDS0puaNWvBVpJ6pd4P7F-H2VTN40Vx0qMe8LeojrlWqqNoYSDUkI2Cu7MydioXJh6xYeS2XCLOCR08q2xzkDzN-jC-AL3zCQrJD3cRFY/s320/scotty-shades1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There are a couple of key differences between Scotty's appearance and mine. For one, Scotty does not look like he could be an elite wiffleball athlete. Second, for someone carrying extra weight, Scotty has disproportionately small man boobs.<br />
<br />
<b>Excellent Idea #2</b><br />
<br />
Write a novel about superheroes. One superhero runs fast, one superhero is really strong, and one can swim underwater without coming up for air. Bad guys want to do bad things, and the superheroes need to stop them. Hollywood might just make a movie, and you'll be rich.<br />
<br />
<b>1960s Pop Music</b><br />
<br />
In Songbook, Nick Hornby talks about how the British people appreciate pop music for what it is whereas Americans look at pop music as being inferior. I agree. So I've been hunting around for great pop music. I have been shocked (shocked!) and appalled at some of the lyrics I've run in those not-so-innocent 1960s and 1970s. Check out this video:<br />
<br />
<object height="360" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jfgnc6Ey0q0?version=3&hl=en_US"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jfgnc6Ey0q0?version=3&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="360" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>
<br />
<br />
There is no double entendre in this video. It's single entendre. This raspberry wants to have sexual relations with whomever it is he's singing to.<br />
<br />
We need a man with some moral authority to step in and stop this madness. Or at least repress it. Mitt Romney might just be the man to restore Christian values to this country. In fact, he is definitely the man for the job, unless it might cost him votes or money, in which case cooler heads will prevail.<br />
<br />
<b>Thoughts on the Upcoming Election</b><br />
<br />
If you are a Republican, and if you want Mitt Romney to win, you should just skip to the next section. I have mean things to say about that flibbertigibbet who makes John Kerry look decisively single-minded by comparison. How can a person who considers himself a faithful Mormon take so many different stances on so many different issues? I can only assume Mitt Romney compartmentalizes the worlds of business and politics the same way visitors handle their experiences in Las Vegas. Whatever happens in politics stays in politics.<br />
<br />
I have a soft spot in my heart for Mormons, so it hurts to watch Mitt Romney carry on like a soulless robber baron.<br />
<br />
Whenever I read about politics, one cloud hangs over practically every topic. Republicans want to win the election by focusing on the economy. To do so, they rely on the fact that Americans will forget that Republicans were in charge when the economy collapsed and ignore the fact that Republicans have done everything in their power to prevent Democrats from turning around the economy. Vote for Republicans! They'll lower the taxes of the wealthy, deregulate Wall Street, and embrace trickle-down! And why will they succeed where George W. Bush failed? Confidence!<br />
<br />
Oh, and when did Republicans start believing that it's unpatriotic to pay taxes? <br />
<br />
<b>Excellent Idea #3</b><br />
<br />
Borrow money to buy a small but relatively successful company. Give yourself a large salary. Set up a banking account in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands. Lay off a bunch of workers. Funnel money into your offshore account. Declare the business bankrupt. Move on.<br />
<br />
<b>Thoughts on the 2012 London Summer Olympics</b><br />
<br />
My five favorite 2012 Olympics moments:<br />
<br />
1) The U.S. women's soccer team beat Canada in the semifinals.<br />
<br />
That was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever seen. Loved the bad calls that helped the Americans. Loved the YouTube clip of the Canadian woman stomping on the head of the American. If Canadians ask about the bad calls in a bar, you can just say, "Do you think Tancredi should be able to stomp on Americans' heads without being red-carded?" Canadians will apologize and then say something funny. I really like Canadians. 51st state, baby!<br />
<br />
2) Kerri and Misty beat the Chinese in the beach volleyball semifinals.<br />
<br />
Kerri and Misty are remarkably clutch. I went out of my way to watch every single one of their matches.<br />
<br />
3) Bolt in the 100-meter dash.<br />
<br />
I don't really like Bolt that much because he's not an American, and I don't like Jamaicans because they're too uptight about relaxing, but that 100m sprint was something. He would have beat me by a good five yards.<br />
<br />
4) U.S. over Spain in men's basketball.<br />
<br />
Here are some questions that interest me more than whether this 2012 U.S. team could beat the 1992 Dream Team. How would the 1992 Dream Team have done against this 2012 Spain team? What Olympic year would have provided the best crop of U.S. players? I think 1988 would have been better than 1992. You get Kareem, and Larry and Magic would have been in their primes, though Jordan was still a bit young.<br />
<br />
5) The British distance runner slapping his bald head after winning gold.<br />
<br />
Charming moment helped by the fact that that little British guy is not a threat to American dominance.<br />
<br />
I also thought about adding men's team archery. In the final match to decide who gets gold and who gets silver, the Americans shoot their final arrow and lead by 9. If the Italian shoots anything less than a 9, they lose. If he shoots a 9, they go into extra rounds. If he shoots a 10, they win. Bam, bull's eye. The Italians celebrate. This would have made the above list, but the Italians failed to celebrate their gold medal by raising an American flag.<br />
<br />
More later!Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-32099873400939429452012-02-16T19:27:00.002-08:002012-02-16T20:43:44.574-08:00School FacismThere's a <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/national/nc-school-teachers-mistake-at-school-lunch-led-to-upset-calls-of-government-overreach/2012/02/16/gIQAof8NIR_story.html">story</a> in the news about a 4-year-old girl who apparently was told by a school lunch monitor not to eat the food she brought from home but instead to get chicken nuggets from the cafeteria. A concerned parent notified the right-wing authorities, and the story made its way through the news circuit. I'm sure it ended up in my poor Dad's email Inbox with a headline something like, "OBAMA FORCES WHITE CHRISTIANS TO EAT FRIED CHICKEN."<div><br /></div><div>I'm just guessing.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a silly story that reminds me of something that happened to me when I was in fourth or fifth grade. At an elementary school in Papillion, Nebraska, my younger sister Shari and I sat at a table to eat lunch. We all had to wait until the prayer was over before we could start eating. Every day, a nice lunch lady led us all in blessing the food, and then we would open our sack lunch, hoping for a delicious Hostess Fruit Pie instead of lame-ass Twinkies. She had us say one of those recited prayers, like "God is great / God is good / Let us thank Him / For our food." </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't care much for this type of prayer for two reasons. First, I was a Mormon, and Mormons know the proper way to pray. Rather than using recited prayers, which the Bible cautions against, Mormons pray from the heart by stringing together cliches. Second, it bothered me that "good" and "food" didn't rhyme properly, which forced me to replace it with "fud."</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, the lunch lady was disappointed with the fact that a bunch of us weren't praying loudly enough. So she scolded us and made us recite the prayer a second time. She asked something like, "Now I want to hear everyone! Is there anyone here who isn't going to say the prayer?" For some reason, my hand shot up.</div><div><br /></div><div>The teacher told me to get up, leave my lunch at the table, and go put my nose against the wall in a corner. I remember that the gym was hexagonal, so there was room for me to plant my face snugly between two walls. I was to stay there until I came to my senses or something.</div><div><br /></div><div>When lunch was over, I felt guilty. I had gotten in trouble. But Shari came up to me and told me she was proud of me for standing up for my beliefs. I had raised my hand mostly to be a smart aleck, but as soon as Shari said that, I internalized a different story. I was a martyr. A religious martyr. I was being persecuted for my religious beliefs. The lunch lady was coming after me because deep down, she resented Mormons for possessing the truth, or something.</div><div><br /></div><div>The moral of the story is that people are awful and cruel. We murder and lie to each other, we tune out sometimes when loved ones are telling stories, we rape, we tattoo our bodies, we pillage, we conquer, we ignore, we coerce, we impose chicken nuggets on children, we bully. On the other hand, we make some good music -- especially in the 1890s and 1970s -- we tell funny jokes sometimes, we bury our dead and say nice things about them, and we give each other lots and lots and lots of good advice.</div><div><br /></div><div>It all evens out.</div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-2504044600692781402012-02-05T08:45:00.000-08:002012-02-05T09:02:24.019-08:00Grand Ideas, Part I<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It's Super Bowl Sunday. The house is filled with out-of-town visitors who drove in for the Super Bowl festivities. Stan and Grey are in the guest room. Andy and Laura are in Max's room. Jason is in Luke's room. The boys are sleeping in the shed. Ha! That's a joke. We don't even have a shed. They're here asleep in our bed. I have my laptop, and I am typing. This sentence in fact.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">More people are coming later today for the Super Bowl festivities. Of all the people who will be here, there will be one person whose mood will change during and after the game depending on the outcome -- me. Some people, like my brother Mark, will have a rooting interest -- Mark hates New Yorker sports fans, as if Boston sports fans are somehow more tolerable -- so he'll be rooting for the facking Pats.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But everyone's excited about the food and the spectacle. It's Super Bowl weekend! Super Bowl weekend has become a national holiday, even though we don't treat it as such. Who would be upset if we canceled Presidents Day as a holiday and replaced it with Hangover Monday? Exactly. No one. It's a grand idea. Here are some other grand ideas.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>The Speedy Barber</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">You walk into a barber shop and sit down in an open chair. If the hair cut takes no longer than 5 minutes, it costs $20, including tip. Actually, tips aren't even allowed or mentioned, because that implies the importance of qualify of service. For each minute the barber goes past five, he loses a dollar. If it takes 15 minutes to cut your hair, it costs you $5. Again, no tipping. "Here's your 5 bucks, pal, better luck with the calics next time."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">There are two other factors. You have ten seconds to describe your desired haircut. If it takes you longer than ten seconds, you're kicked out of the barber shop, and you can't return for at least an hour. Hopefully, you'll have your thoughts together by then, and you can say something like, "Short on the sides, a little longer on top" or "Logan in <i>Big Time Rush</i>" or "Cut it shorter."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Two more things. First, no talking. Headphones are encouraged. Second, no brushing genitals either of the male or female variety against the patient. That's just uncomfortable. In fact, if The Speedy Barber doesn't work out for unforeseen reasons, a secondary idea is The Grindless Barber.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Science Fiction Movie</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">In a world where human beings are domesticated pets, a young man named Hudson decides to flee into the wilderness. He brings along Fluffy, who was scheduled to be neutered. They meet up with a band of feral humans whose primitive notion of civilization include a caste system, bizarre rituals, and weapons study. Hudson introduces the concept of The Secret, and the battle begins…</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>The Fifth Quadrant Book</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">This is a sequel to a book that has not yet been written called <i>The Four Quadrants: Keys to Personal Financial Success</i>. I originally rolled out the idea at a previous Super Bowl party to great acclaim that very nearly included applause. And that was before the Great Recession. If <i>The Four Quadrants</i> had actually been written, it would have covered the four areas to invest your savings: the Safe Zone, the Moderate Zone, the Risk Zone, and the Gambling Zone. The prequel explains how monies are moved from one zone to another as success is achieved and as personal situations require.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The Fifth Quadrant, which is possibly the greatest title of a book ever written and would likely sell itself even if it had nothing in it but photographs of domesticated humans, is about a new kind of investment. Admit it. You're interested. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Super Bowl Prediction</b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It's foolish to predict the score of this particular game. The odds are roughly even. One team has about a 52% chance of winning, and I don't even know which team that is. Probably New England. It's going to come down to luck and a few key plays is my startling guess. I'm more interested in predicting what type of Super Bowl game it will be. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">There are four types of Super Bowl games. (Note that I originally wrote "seven types," but I hear Wendy grinding coffee so I better cut it down. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">1. Sloppy early, then high scoring. Last team with the ball wins. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">2. One team dominates early, fails to take advantage, and falls apart. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">3. Blowout.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">4. A terrible officiating crew costs one team the game.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It's not going to be a "3" game because these teams don't panic. It's not going to be a "4" game because Seattle isn't playing. That leaves either "1" or "2" (unless you factor in the missing 5-7 scenarios). I'm going with 2. In fact, I even know which team is going to jump out early. The Giants. I think Eli is going to have a confused look on his face for much of the second half.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">New England 38, New York 22.</p><div><br /></div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-10351021526495876952012-01-29T16:52:00.000-08:002012-01-29T17:54:11.689-08:00Hot Time in the Old Town<div>Last night, Wendy and I went to dinner at a fancy downtown restaurant, and then we went to the symphony. First, I'll discuss the dinner.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Dinner</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Now that's good technical writing, that heading. We ate at a fancy French restaurant. I do not remember the name of it. I am not a foodie. Wendy is. Wendy is not a miser. I am. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I should do in these situations is swing by Taco Bell on the way and eat three bean & cheese burritos. Then I would let Wendy do all the fine dining, and I would nibble on her food and order my own dessert. Perfect. Instead, I play the game and tell myself that it's okay to throw away money because there's plenty more where that came from.</div><div><br /></div><div>I ordered the Beef Bourguignon because it has the word "beef" in it and "bourguignon" sounds like something I might not eschew. That's $32 for the entree. While I was spending a full week of my former self's lifeguard's salary on a meal, I also ordered a side of butternut squash for $9 and a glass (specifically, a third of a glass) of red wine for $14. The wine was a cabernet sauvignon that tastes slightly better or slightly worse than any glass of take-it-or-leave-it wine I drink at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>The squash was the best part of the meal. The Beef Bourguignon tasted like pot roast. I like pot roast just fine, but what I really needed for $32 was not pot roast. Wendy ordered kobe beef, which was roll-your-eyes-back delicious, well worth the $39. She gave me about half of the kobe beef and ate most of the butternut squash (glazed with black truffles) in return.</div><div><br /></div><div>We didn't have time for the $9 desserts because we had to make it to the symphony.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Symphony</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm on fire, transition-wise. The program had three parts, for lack of a better word. There is probably a better word, but I don't know it. First, a new composition from a contemporary 30-year-old composer who is apparently heavily influenced by Philip Glass. I did not like this new composition because the sound of it was not pleasing to the ear. In fact, I had a difficult time distinguishing the orchestral tuning from the actual piece.</div><div><br /></div><div>People clapped when it was done. I clapped as well. What, do you think I'm a snob? This composer did his best, and even though his discordant mess was drab and messy, I gingerly patted three fingers against the center of my palm. </div><div><br /></div><div>Next, a piece by Schubert. I was pleasantly surprised that it sounded good, like much of the classical music that one hears when flipping the radio station or watching Saturday morning cartoons. Unfortunately, I cannot offer a full critique of Schubert's piece because I fell asleep, despite slamming down a cup of coffee just before the event and scalding my tongue.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the intermission was Chopin. That's why I set up the night in town. That's right, I arranged it. You probably thought Wendy was dragging me along, but no -- it was I, Bob the Chopin lover, who ordered said tickets. Wendy just made the ill-fated restaurant reservation.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sound of the orchestra warming up and tuning their instruments before an anticipated concert is thrilling. I love the tingle. And then they played utterly beautiful music. Inspirational. Awesome. Rapturous. When it was over, I offered no polite applause. I stood up, clapped wildly, and shouted, "Rock on, bitches!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously, the audience gave a 5-minute standing ovation that led to an encore. The encore piano solo wasn't at all like watching waves crash against a rocky beach. No, it was more like snow falling on a cottage. That's exactly what it was. It was snow falling against a candle-lit cottage.</div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-2176744755655276662011-09-29T16:59:00.000-07:002011-09-29T21:35:21.032-07:00Wiffleball 2011 Wrap-up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXEomuoNnn_zimWeVHeqpkUFUTc5x46z8Ew1LCVkWFBhHy5N7GFubvOQ6Q079joeIQJkq9hV_loLd0X4MBwWVyOGAMAihbG7yUigFqr48R9YKZQ8I-rcqkNJj-GwJjpuS9DcJfM8OjorY/s1600/_MG_9209.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXEomuoNnn_zimWeVHeqpkUFUTc5x46z8Ew1LCVkWFBhHy5N7GFubvOQ6Q079joeIQJkq9hV_loLd0X4MBwWVyOGAMAihbG7yUigFqr48R9YKZQ8I-rcqkNJj-GwJjpuS9DcJfM8OjorY/s400/_MG_9209.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657936195067697234" /></a>Despite not being a man of regrets, I regret not having kept you up to date on the summer's wiffleball action. It leaves me in the difficult position of prolonging suspense until the end or "giving it up," as my college creative writing instructor begged us to do. Relying on suspense is a cheap technique. Which I will employ. <div><br /></div><div>By the way, no one gives it up better than the writers for "Breaking Bad." If you're not watching that show, I understand. It's dark. If you are watching that show, you have to be amazed at the writers' ability to avoid prolonging suspense. Things happen. My five favorite shows currently on television:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Mad Men</div><div>2. Louie</div><div>3. Breaking Bad</div><div>4. NFL Redzone</div><div>5. The Walking Dead</div><div><br /></div><div>If you're counting, that's three AMC shows, two cable shows, and no HBO or network shows. Granted, I do like "Parks and Recreation" and "Sunday Night Football." Still, let's pick it up HBO.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, with only a bit of further ado, I'll get back to wiffleball action. I will try my best to avoid humblebragging ("I hit only two homers this year--must be getting old") by boasting in a more straightforward manner (examples to follow).</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Regular Season</b></div><div><br /></div><div>When I last discussed wiffleball, I believe it was midseason, and we were undefeated. After we slaughtered the only other undefeated team 7-0, I pitched the next game, and we lost 1-0. At the plate, I was 0-3 and hit into a double-play. Bad day. It was the only run I gave up all season, in part because I twirled a few gems, as they say, but mostly because we added a new guy on our team who was one of the top three pitchers in the league. He also gave up only 1 run during the season, even though he pitched twice as many games as I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>We finished the regular season with the #1 seed. </div><div><br /></div><div>This year, we had a statistician keeping score of the games. While he hasn't gone back and compiled all the statistics yet, he did gather the stats for all six playoff teams. I finish third in BA (.480), first in runs (13), and second in RBIs (13). When he finishes the statistics, I promise to return and update these figures.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Semifinals</b></div><div><br /></div><div>In the first round of playoffs (#3 vs. #6 and #4 vs. #5), there were two upsets. First, the #3 team, which defeated us last year in the finals, got beat 5-4 after leading 4-0 in a single-elimination game. One of the three best pitchers in the league got shelled for 5 runs by a team the squeaked into the playoffs. (I admit to being secretly delighted. I can't hit against him.) The #4 seed, which beat us 1-0 in our only meaningful loss of the season, also went down in defeat. (I was not delighted. I wanted revenge, which was a certainty in my mind.) That pitted us (Ken Wiffey) against the #6 seed (iWiff).</div><div><br /></div><div>Quick scouting reports for both semifinal teams:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Ken Wiffey</i> - Much better team than the one that lost in extra innings of the finals the previous year. Lost two mediocre players to injury and picked up one of the best pitchers in the league, who didn't play the previous year due to a sabbatical. Of the six hitters in the lineup, four hit consistently with power, and the other two force the pitcher to throw strikes. A fifth excellent hitter is unavailable in the playoffs due to travel in Europe.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>iWiff</i> - Young team with 20-something interns who hit for power and don't need to stretch out before the game to avoid injury. Seven-man lineup with four excellent hitters, two solid hitters, and one guy who looks athletic but strikes out a lot. If the strikeout guy weren't playing, the two lineups would be a wash. iWiff's weakness is their pitching. They have only one pitcher. He has good stuff, but struggles with control. Bad matchup against a patient hitting team like Ken Wiffey.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first game went as expected. We were patient at the plate, had tons of runners, and Ken Wiffey won 3-1.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the next game, I couldn't get out out bed due to either a cold or a flu. I had a fever and nausea and all that. I still seriously considered driving in to work to play in the game, but when I got out of bed and grabbed my keys, I got wobbly and whimpered, "No, it's just wiffleball." That shows how sick I was. Just wiffleball? Pfff. Ken Wiffey lost 5-0.</div><div><br /></div><div>I should mention that iWiff consists of the digital publishing team I work with. In a meeting, there were taunts and challenges hurled my way which I did not appreciate. OK, that's not true. I appreciated almost all of the taunts, except for the one in which a tester claimed that it wouldn't have mattered if I had played--they would have won anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Game 3, our ace got out of jam in the top of the first. I led off the bottom of the first with a home run. Crack! Slow trot around the bases with an attempted glare at the suddenly silent tester. We added a couple more runs, played solid defense behind great pitching, and won 3-0.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back in the finals</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Finals</b></div><div><br /></div><div>You know how before the Super Bowl, prognosticators talk about what an advantage it is for the team that's "been there before"? They're right. In the wiffleball finals, the league organizers go out of their way to make it a spectacle. There are announcers, a hot dog vendor, an umpire in full umpire dress, still photographers and motion cameramen all over the field, at-bat music for every hitter. The game starts with a national anthem and a first pitch thrown by a vice-president.</div><div><br /></div><div>When you're a spectator, going over the top like that is fun and ridiculous. When you're a player, it sweeps you up in it. Last year, it made our team extra tense. I reacted to the tension by oddly not playing as hard. I was flat. This year, the lunacy made us more focused, and several of us went out of our way to joke around and stay loose.</div><div><br /></div><div>Quick scouting report for both finals teams:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Ken Wiffey</i> - They've been here before. Excellent pitching, dominant hitting, solid defense. Leadoff hitter batting 1.000 in playoffs.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Muse</i> - Only one pitcher, but he's lights out. Excellent heater, nasty curve, good control, mixes up pitches. Average hitting team that added a strong hitter near the end of the year. Only lost once all season, but tied four times, usually in 0-0 games. Their one loss was to Ken Wiffey.</div><div><br /></div><div>Game 1 went as expected. It was a pitching duel between two of the league's top three pitchers. I lost confidence at the plate. The guy was throwing fast, and I let him get in my head. I swung too hard to try to catch up with the speed, and it put me off balance. I struck out 3 times and went 1-5 with an infield single. Before that game, I had struck out only twice all season. We loaded the bases in the bottom of the second extra inning and won the game on a sacrifice fly.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the things I love about playing sports is the constant battle between your mind and body. In Malcolm Gladwell's most recent collection of essays, he talks about choking. If I recall, he broke out choking into two different reactions: panicking and freezing. If a fire breaks out in the kitchen and you run outside and jump behind a bush, that's panicking. If the same fire breaks out and you sit on the couch with a quizzical look, that's freezing. Against this pitcher, I somehow managed to panic and freeze within the same at-bat.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Game 2, I somehow managed to regain my composure. I didn't let an incorrectly called strike 2 get to me, I fouled off a couple good pitches, and then I tomahawked a loopy curve into left field for a double. The next three guys struck out, but I was feeling good.</div><div><br /></div><div>We made a game-time decision to let our other pitcher take the mound instead of me. He's the guy who lost 5-0 in the semifinals but he's also the guy who took a shutout into extra innings in Game 3 of the 2010 finals -- a memory that still haunts us. He said he wanted to pitch, and since he put together the team, I agreed. (OK, I was secretly relieved.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I played left field and made a couple of running catches that had the announcer talking in cliches ("Bringhurst has effectively taken away the entire left side of the field..."). </div><div><br /></div><div>When we came up to bat, we had one of those moments that NFL Films captures and makes you realize how much you can learn about a team by standing on the sidelines. I was thinking we were tightening up. As I approached Matt and Todd, I was going to say, "This guy's hard to hit." But in the middle of my sentence, I decided to say something else. "This guy doesn't have it today. I'm going to get to him." Todd (the league leader in BA and RBIs but who fell off in the playoffs) jumped in and said, "Yeah, I can hit him too." </div><div><br /></div><div>Matt nodded and went up to the plate with a man on first. Smack! Home run. Todd belted a triple off the top of the fence. One of our lesser hitters struck out, and then I singled in Todd with a hard liner off the pitcher's leg. We're up 3-0.</div><div><br /></div><div>Muse kept getting runners on base, and we kept making running catches. In the bottom of the last inning, they had runners on 1st and 3rd with one out and their best hitter at the plate -- the only guy on their team who can hit home runs. He smacked a one-hopper to Todd, who flipped it to Matt for the double-play. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ken Wiffey wins 3-0! Ken Wiffey is the 2011 World Seattle Adobe Wiffleball League Champions!</div><div><br /></div><div>For the moment, we can bask in glory. Unfortunately, we all know what happens next. The Disease of More sets in. Role players want to be perceived as stars, stars want to be perceived as superstars, and everyone wants more. Some players will switch teams; other players will take business trips to Asia. In wanting more, the players lose just enough of what got them there -- teamwork, sacrifice, indomitable spirit.</div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-79289581311940707442011-08-07T10:42:00.000-07:002011-08-07T17:09:29.621-07:00August Musings<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6wh7sGHzUnrNDAfwTDjpyF71VkutsjmREuXYuyfYOVhwagtw1G3XqMvNzOFktFDeE9hV5blhzcIWuBnQt8sAtiDPC6wKpI-kC3R7JRAjepqF1Q1tXZmIHoRbevqAaRRDH2vfdpbvOCLdF/s1600/Duthie-DWB-Step-Up.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6wh7sGHzUnrNDAfwTDjpyF71VkutsjmREuXYuyfYOVhwagtw1G3XqMvNzOFktFDeE9hV5blhzcIWuBnQt8sAtiDPC6wKpI-kC3R7JRAjepqF1Q1tXZmIHoRbevqAaRRDH2vfdpbvOCLdF/s320/Duthie-DWB-Step-Up.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638270525258231586" /></a><b>Wiffleball</b><div><br /></div><div>In the Adobe Seattle Wiffleball league, our team is off to a solid 6-0 start, recovering nicely from a crushing defeat in last year's finals. So far, we have given up only 1 run all season, and we won our last two games -- both against two of last year's semi-finalists -- by a combined score of 17-0. In sports lingo, we are a "juggernaut," which in German means "blitzer of plastic kriegs."</div><div><br /></div><div>On Tuesday, we play the only other undefeated team in the league. Their matching 6-0 record is deceptive in that they have won several close games against the league's doormats. I do not fear them. My prediction: our team will overpower them. We are, after all, a juggernaut in the truest sense of the word.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will admit, however, that we will be vulnerable in the playoffs, specifically against one pitcher whom I'll refer to only as "Mike." We won a 1-0 game against Mike's team earlier in the year. Hardly convincing. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Politics</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Assertions:</div><div><ul><li>This emerging faction of the Republican party appears willing to burn down the country and rebuild it from the ashes. It's a scary bunch. The fact that it tries to pick dimwitted leaders like Michelle Bachman and Sarah Palin is telling. The fact that they have taken control of the Republican party is awful.</li><li>Obama has taken an approach to leadership that makes him look weak. He wants to come across as a reasonable leader who is willing to reach across the aisle and compromise, but he's ending up looking like Neville Chamberlain. Granted, the Republican party is breaking new ground in political obstruction, but Obama is failing to combat their strategy.</li><li>By all appearances, it appears that political efforts have sparked phase two of a double-dip recession.</li><li>The Republican party is actively trying to sabotage economic recovery in order to gain political power. They know they can blame it on Obama because most voters are uninformed, sporting an average IQ of around 100.</li></ul><div>Look at the facts. At the end of the Clinton presidency, we were running a surplus.<sup>1</sup></div><div>When Bush and the Republicans took control, they wiped away those gains, started two expensive wars, and cut taxes, with the tax cuts heavily favoring the wealthy.<sup>2</sup> Their intense deregulation and lack of oversight heavily contributed to the housing bubble and meltdown. In 2008, Obama was elected. <sup>3 </sup>Since he took office, Republicans have thwarted the Democrats in every attempt to revive the economy.<sup>4</sup> In 2012, a Republican will likely be elected President because -- get this -- the economy is so bad that we need change.<sup>5</sup> </div></div><div><br /></div><div><sup>1</sup> Remember the debate in the early months of the Bush presidency about what to do with the extra Social Security money being generated? Guh.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><sup>2</sup> "Deficits don't matter." - Dick Cheney<br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div><sup>3</sup> In retrospect, I wish Hillary had been elected. I can't see her getting punked like this.<br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div><sup>4</sup> "We've got to get this deficit spending under control no matter what the cost." - Random tea bagger<br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><sup>5</sup> The Republicans are absolutely correct in assuming that voters will think that Obama <i>caused</i> this economic crisis. The "liberal media" will try to set the record straight by saying that both parties are equally at fault. The reality is that one party caused the economic crisis and has battled the other party's efforts to help the recovery, and the other party is at fault only in its political incompetence.<br /></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Mountain Bicycling</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Nick came into town from Australia, so I dusted off the mountain bike and did a couple of rides. First, we did Tapeworm, and then we did Volker's Loop/Duthie. The second ride has officially cracked my list of Top Five Mountain Bike Rides. Here's the list:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Gooseberry Mesa - near St. George, Utah</div><div>2. Tibble Fork - American Fork Canyon, Utah</div><div>3. Gold Bar Rim - near Moab, Utah</div><div>4. Slickrock - near Moab, Utah</div><div>5. Volker's Loop/Duthie - near Seattle, Washington</div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry, Porcupine Rim and Little Creek, you're off the vaunted top 5 list.</div><div><br /></div><div>This new addition starts with a long grunt of a climb that I can barely do on a singlespeed when I'm in solid shape. Then there's a long bobsled descent followed by rolling climbs that take you up to Duthie. <a href="http://duthiemtb.com/">Duthie</a> is a mountain bike park designed for all levels. When you're done playing in the different sections of Duthie, you go back out the way you came.</div><div><br /></div><div>-</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-21192616535241340902011-07-12T17:06:00.000-07:002011-07-14T21:55:26.685-07:00Race Report: XTERRA Vashon IslandI decided to do a triathlon even though I'm not in top form. To be truthful, I'm not even in middle form. I have been riding my bike to work casually while listening to audiobooks. I have been jogging now and then but never more than 2 miles because of a bum knee. And I haven't swum laps in, um, about five years.<div><br /></div><div>That last bit isn't precisely true. During our trip up to Vancouver last week, I swam in a gigantic pool in Stanley Park in which a small section of the pool includes a set of 50-meter lanes. I knocked off 600 meters and declared myself fit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of Vancouver, I'm proud to report that Luke has a fancy walk. Of the few people who happen to have fancy walks, not many are willing to break it out in a big city. Luke's not afraid. His fancy walk is eerily similar to the dance that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZTeXScHy5E">Gene Wilder breaks out</a> when he's wearing black shoe polish on his face in "Silver Streak." I'll stop there. I need to be careful about the whole gushing parent thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I've covered my training regimen, I'll go into specific race details. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Swim (800 Meters)</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The race packets included the appropriate color swim cap for everyone's starting time. The first wave (Men 39-) started at 9:00 am, the second wave (Men 40+) started at 9:07 am, and the third wave (Women/Relays) started at 9:14 am. They do a staggered start in this race to avoid a bottleneck at the start of the steep bike ride.</div><div><br /></div><div>The race takes place in a cove of the Puget Sound, so the water is cold (60 degrees). I wore a wet suit that I purchased back when I weighed 170 pounds. I bought it a little tight for me because I thought I should weigh under 165 to compete in triathlons. I weigh 185 right now, so I had the "Fat guy in a little suit" ditty from Tommy Boy going through my head as I stood on the dock waiting to jump in the water. I tried to hang my arms casually by my sides, but they kept popping up at 45-degree angles.</div><div><br /></div><div>The start of the race was anti-climactic. Instead of a gun going off, the race director said, "OK, go." Not even an "OK, go!" That's probably for the best since overly excited swimmers do crazy things. When I started to swim, I had an ice cream headache and foggy black goggles that made me feel like I was swimming in a cave. I could barely make out the bubbles from other swimmers. About every ten strokes I would pop my head up to make sure I wasn't swimming out to sea.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the great things about wet suits is that they're a great equalizer. With little effort, I finished near the back of the pack.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got my wetsuit off just fine thanks to the clever trick of spraying my lower legs with Pam cooking oil. (Note for other triathletes eager to take advice from a near DFL competitor: Another trick is to have a towel and a water bottle in your aid station for squirting mud off your feet.) Unfortunately, while I was trying to put on my Fat Cyclist jersey, it got all twisted up. When I finally got unsnaggled, I snapped on my helmet and ran my bike out of the transition zone.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Mountain Bike Ride (15 Miles)</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I hopped on my Ibis Mojo (purchased when Bill Clinton was president, George W. Bush was a governor who boasted about his ability to compromise, and Barack Obama was in his 30s) and started the ride up a steepish set of switchbacks. By the way, this was my first mountain bike ride of the year.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I were in decent shape, I would have ridden up the pitch without too much effort. Instead, I overdid it for a photographer, went into oxygen debt, and had to get off my bike to put my head between my knees. The slower swimmers from my wave and the faster women from the next wave passed me with words of concern and encouragement.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fat, I pushed my bike along a section that I should have been riding in the middle ring. I finally was able to get back on my bike and ride along the rolling trail. The first 5-mile lap was not fun, but I did manage to recover from my swoon.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next two laps were actually fun. I managed to convince myself that I was actually doing well in the race. In fact, I didn't find out until later in the day that I had finished near the back of the pack, second to last in my age group (45-49).</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Run (3.6 Miles)</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The trail run consisted of a 1-mile climb followed by a loop through a forest and down a paved road, a repeat of the loop, and then a full descent. Despite my gimpy knee, I managed to jog the whole thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I crossed the finish line to the tepid applause of volunteers who wanted even the worst racers to feel proud of their accomplishments. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Conclusion</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Deep down, the main reason I signed up for the race is because I knew I needed to get my ass kicked. I need to lose weight and start training. To quote George W. Bush, "I know that. Don't you think I know that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>-</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-951910303919329112011-06-10T17:22:00.001-07:002011-06-10T23:40:39.396-07:00Review of HBO GO<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6y56ck9ZRzXXxtxi9RjFbVJJ2Zjnxqo2VIHEL4F7DaaQuEPqVMgz9KiL1TG8388xALdP6OGdVkrkKSczn-bCE1YEdHICeXgScmiHAhxAc2nv9vQgWqfz1W8EeJg32gMnMhOd2HwshAQwI/s1600/hbo.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6y56ck9ZRzXXxtxi9RjFbVJJ2Zjnxqo2VIHEL4F7DaaQuEPqVMgz9KiL1TG8388xALdP6OGdVkrkKSczn-bCE1YEdHICeXgScmiHAhxAc2nv9vQgWqfz1W8EeJg32gMnMhOd2HwshAQwI/s400/hbo.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616766360526061746" /></a>Once upon a time, Elden, Dug, and I shared a blog in which we reviewed every single thing that was important. Unfortunately, I don't think that site is still up and running, which has left a review vacancy of sorts on the World Wide Web of the Internet.<div><br /></div><div>Before wiffleball season consumes my attention, I have a few reviews to post.<div><br /></div><div><b>Review of HBO GO</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I downloaded the HBO GO app on my iPad. At first glance, it's spectacular. All you need is a subscription to HBO, a computer or iPad, and a good internet connection. When you sign in, you have access to every single episode of every single series that HBO has ever created. At no extra cost.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me say that again -- you can view every single episode of every HBO series ever created.</div><div><br /></div><div>Deadwood? Check. The Wire? Check. The Sopranos? Check. Band of Brothers? Check. (By the way, I listed those series in order according to their combined Greatness and Rewatchability scores.)</div><div><br /></div><div>You can also watch every episode of Six Feet Under, Oz, Eastbound and Down, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Pacific, and EVERY OTHER HBO SERIES EVER CREATED. Free.</div><div><br /></div><div>And you can watch the current run of movies, documentaries, sports events (mostly boxing), and comedy specials. Oh, and there's even a Late Night category. How did that get past the Apple censors?</div><div><br /></div><div>If it's that spectacular, why did I qualify it by saying -- and I quote -- "at first glance"? I have a nit to pick. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking at all the great HBO series in one place reminds me of the experience I had when I added my entire CD collection to my iPod. At first, it seemed great to be able to zip through the catalog and play any of 19 Bob Dylan albums, 6 Radiohead albums, or my "Motown" or "Guilt Rock"<sup>1</sup> playlists. Still, there was a jarring flattening effect because Bruce Springsteen and Billie Holliday appeared on the same level. Music I used to listen to got lost, especially music by artists whose names start towards the end of the alphabet. </div><div><br /></div><div><div><sup><i>1</i></sup><i> My "Guilt Rock" playlist includes songs by Boston, Kansas, REO Speedwagon, Badfinger, Head East, and The Left Banke. But no Styx. I have standards.</i></div></div><div><br /></div><div>My browsing method changed. Back in the day, thumbing through the album collection, deciding on an artist, and carefully placing the record on the turntable was a satisfying ritual, even if the record happened to be The Steve Miller Band's Greatest Hits. Same with CDs. On an emotional level, which experience is better: pulling a record out of the White album sleeve and hearing the speakers crackle when the needle touched down, or scrolling to the B section on the iPod and clicking The Beatles > White Album > Back in the USSR?</div><div><br /></div><div>Sacrificing ritual for luxury has its drawbacks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back to the HBO GO experience, on some level, I'm overwhelmed by choice. I'm also put off by the fact that it's too easy to watch Rome or ANYTHING ELSE. With free, ready access to so many great shows, The Sopranos doesn't feel as magical as the set of DVDs on my shelf, where I could keep it next to Five Easy Pieces and The Wire, and away from Toy Story and Pride & Prejudice. In HBO GO, I don't want to see Deadwood on the same level as Carnivale.</div><div><br /></div><div>This may seem odd, but I want a way to filter HBO's selections. I want to be able to watch, say, four series seasons, three movies, and eight Late Night specials. Before I can add another item, I have to remove something else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, that's a nit I'm picking. Once I start playing an episode, I forget about the context and enjoy Stringer Bell and Sheriff Bullock and Major Winters and, most of all, <a href="http://bob-weblog.blogspot.com/2007/04/favorite-malapropisms-from-sopranos.html">Little Carmine</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>-</div><div><br /></div></div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1833907669377506399.post-42204795579297649912011-03-07T20:41:00.001-08:002011-03-08T06:37:31.121-08:00My Most Recent Interview Transcript<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFoSY-NcBwCspCi3EMF3OWBIBWFYaIbG74B2SW8CwWEa1DqpEdir7Pub6elN-zMAXlILAVdZsyEWehl5yqI56Bo1tIkBWPSo1hzyFZvaZ_D98trMbuaXOJxLu0daW77XLlkJ48YZUBz79/s1600/Superintendent.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFoSY-NcBwCspCi3EMF3OWBIBWFYaIbG74B2SW8CwWEa1DqpEdir7Pub6elN-zMAXlILAVdZsyEWehl5yqI56Bo1tIkBWPSo1hzyFZvaZ_D98trMbuaXOJxLu0daW77XLlkJ48YZUBz79/s200/Superintendent.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581584747144793042" /></a>A reporter from The Daily Times recently caught up with me. Here is the transcript:<div><br /></div><div><b>Times: It's great to catch up with you. How are things?</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Good. Pretty good.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Times: Fascinating. What are your thoughts regarding the whole Charlie Sheen saga?</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: I haven't really been paying that much attention. I would act like I'm above it all, but the truth is that I'm just getting too old to care. Twenty years ago, I would have eaten this story up. Now, I'm too concerned with the fact that my father-in-law is stuck in Wyoming, the closest real town is Deadwood, and we need to find -- and pay for -- a place for him to live. He smokes two packs of cigarettes a day and has grimy dogs, and I don't want to get into it.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at least I'm looking for a way to use "Winning" in a humorous way. Maybe in the next department meeting when we do one of those around-the-room deals in which everyone says what they're up to, I can say "Winning" in a deadpan way. I'm sure that joke won't get old.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Times: Speaking of winning, you've won the Academy Awards betting contest for three years running. Did you make it four in a row?</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Sadly, no. It was a tough year. I can usually pick up points by doing a little research, like finding out which documentary shorts deal with the holocaust. This year, there was not a single holocaust movie. No easy points in those weird categories. Apparently, we've finally let ourselves forget about the holocaust.</div><div><br /></div><div>But there were easy points to be picked up with The King's Speech. It's a British costume movie, for crumpet's sake! If I had picked that movie for Best Director, I would have won. Or if I had picked Melissa fucking Leo.</div><div><br /></div><div>Towards the end, I did have one chance to win my fourth straight Oscars betting pool. I needed Gwyneth Paltrow to win for Best Song. My thinking was that the Academy doesn't necessarily like the perception that it's a leftist group, and I thought they would throw the red states a bone by giving an award to "Country Strong." When I heard Paltrow perform the song, I realize that the Academy actually knew what they were doing in this case. That song sucks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus, I didn't realize that Randy Newman was up for the same award. For some reason, people from L.A. LOVE Randy Newman, they LOVE him, even though he's only ever written one lounge song with different lyrics.</div><div><br /></div><div>I blame myself.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Times: You're still a winner in my book! What's going on with the kids?</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Interesting that you should ask because it's something I want to write about. We're looking for a new school for the boys to go to. Budget cuts and mismanagement have made the local school a bad choice. Things have changed since we did research on Gatewood Elementary before sending our kids there:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Then</i>: 260 students before school closures.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Now</i>: 460 students, including a bunch of Somali refugees who speak English as a second language and wear unflattering burkas.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Next year</i>: 520 students, with new double-wide trailers for overflow classes filling half the playground.</div><div><br /></div><div>---</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Then</i>: Seattle parents could choose any school to send their kids to, and the school district would pay to bus the kids. This plan came about as a well-meaning attempt at optional desegregation, but it ended up diverting too much money into unnecessary transportation costs. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Now</i>: The school district makes parents send their kids to the local public school, but with a grandfather clause. This means that kids from the nearby poor neighborhoods can keep attending the better elementary schools, causing severe overcrowding in some schools, including ours.</div><div><br /></div><div>---</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Then</i>: 18 students per class. The principal took advantage of the active PTA to get funding for a few extra teachers so that she could reduce class size. To make this work, the principal got rid of full-time positions for an art teacher, a music teacher, and a P.E. teacher.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Now</i>: 28 students per class. Schools are no longer allowed to manipulate class size, so Gatewood's class sizes are now the same as those of the nearby schools -- but with no full-time art teacher, music teacher, or P.E. teacher.</div><div><br /></div><div>---</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Then</i>: Full-inclusion policy. Excellent learners, good learners, bad learners, problem kids, ESL students, and Swedes are all part of the same class. Children are not separated. They learn together.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Now</i>: Same policy. Only now, each teacher has 30% more kids to worry about, and many of those additional kids demand more attention. Oh, and some of the better teachers will be laid off because they haven't been teaching long enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>---</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Then</i>: Children who score well could attend a Spectrum program at a different school.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Now</i>: Children who score well could put their names on a long waiting list to attend a Spectrum program with dramatically reduced funding.</div><div><br /></div><div>---</div><div><br /></div><div>To make matters worse, the Seattle School District was recently rocked with a <a href="http://www.seattlepi.com/local/436563_nonprofit04.html">scandal</a>. Basically, a guy named Silas Potter was involved in a program to qualify minority and women owned businesses to bid on district contracts. Many a dollar went missing. Anyone who asked questions about the program was called racist. Winning!</div><div><br /></div><div>So what now? One option is a private school. The less expensive private options are religious schools. I did some research though. While the tuition costs are relatively low, hidden costs such as indulgences and hair shirts add up. For the price of a new Honda Civic, we can send the boys to a non-religious private school. If we get accepted, that is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another option is putting the boys on a ferry and sending them to a school on Vashon Island. It's a good public school that gets state funding for each student, so they want non-island kids to attend. The drawback is the commute. Drop-off, ferry ride, and bus ride add up to about 90 commuting minutes each day. Not winning! I don't want to put second graders through that kind of commute.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry. I kind of went off on a tear.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Times: Not a problem! I enjoyed it! I'm turning off the interview tape now, but I'd like to keep talking with you! Do you mind?</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Me: I don't see why no-</div><div><br /></div><div>-</div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10529044668868964131noreply@blogger.com0