Bob's Web Log

Grand Ideas, Part I

2012-02-05T08:45:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

The Speedy Barber

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."

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 Big Time Rush" or "Cut it shorter."

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.

Science Fiction Movie

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…

The Fifth Quadrant Book

This is a sequel to a book that has not yet been written called The Four Quadrants: Keys to Personal Financial Success. 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 The Four Quadrants 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.

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.

Super Bowl Prediction

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.

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.

1. Sloppy early, then high scoring. Last team with the ball wins.

2. One team dominates early, fails to take advantage, and falls apart.

3. Blowout.

4. A terrible officiating crew costs one team the game.

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.

New England 38, New York 22.

Hot Time in the Old Town

2012-01-29T16:52:00.000-08:00

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.

The Dinner

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.

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.

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.

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.

We didn't have time for the $9 desserts because we had to make it to the symphony.

The Symphony

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

Wiffleball 2011 Wrap-up

2011-09-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

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.

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:

1. Mad Men

2. Louie

3. Breaking Bad

4. NFL Redzone

5. The Walking Dead

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.

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).

Regular Season

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.

We finished the regular season with the #1 seed.

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.

The Semifinals

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).

Quick scouting reports for both semifinal teams:

Ken Wiffey - 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.

iWiff - 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.

The first game went as expected. We were patient at the plate, had tons of runners, and Ken Wiffey won 3-1.

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.

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.

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.

Back in the finals

The Finals

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.

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.

Quick scouting report for both finals teams:

Ken Wiffey - They've been here before. Excellent pitching, dominant hitting, solid defense. Leadoff hitter batting 1.000 in playoffs.

Muse - 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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...").

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."

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.

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.

Ken Wiffey wins 3-0! Ken Wiffey is the 2011 World Seattle Adobe Wiffleball League Champions!

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.

August Musings

2011-08-07T10:42:00.000-07:00

Wiffleball

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."

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.

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.

Politics

Assertions:

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.
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.
By all appearances, it appears that political efforts have sparked phase two of a double-dip recession.
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.

Look at the facts. At the end of the Clinton presidency, we were running a surplus.¹

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.² Their intense deregulation and lack of oversight heavily contributed to the housing bubble and meltdown. In 2008, Obama was elected. ³Since he took office, Republicans have thwarted the Democrats in every attempt to revive the economy.⁴ In 2012, a Republican will likely be elected President because -- get this -- the economy is so bad that we need change.⁵

¹ Remember the debate in the early months of the Bush presidency about what to do with the extra Social Security money being generated? Guh.

² "Deficits don't matter." - Dick Cheney

³ In retrospect, I wish Hillary had been elected. I can't see her getting punked like this.

⁴ "We've got to get this deficit spending under control no matter what the cost." - Random tea bagger

⁵ The Republicans are absolutely correct in assuming that voters will think that Obama caused 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.

Mountain Bicycling

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:

1. Gooseberry Mesa - near St. George, Utah

2. Tibble Fork - American Fork Canyon, Utah

3. Gold Bar Rim - near Moab, Utah

4. Slickrock - near Moab, Utah

5. Volker's Loop/Duthie - near Seattle, Washington

Sorry, Porcupine Rim and Little Creek, you're off the vaunted top 5 list.

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. Duthie 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.

Race Report: XTERRA Vashon Island

2011-07-12T17:06:00.000-07:00

I 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.

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.

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 Gene Wilder breaks out 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.

Now that I've covered my training regimen, I'll go into specific race details.

The Swim (800 Meters)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Mountain Bike Ride (15 Miles)

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.

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.

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.

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).

The Run (3.6 Miles)

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.

I crossed the finish line to the tepid applause of volunteers who wanted even the worst racers to feel proud of their accomplishments.

Conclusion

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?"

Review of HBO GO

2011-06-10T17:22:00.001-07:00

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.

Before wiffleball season consumes my attention, I have a few reviews to post.

Review of HBO GO

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.

Let me say that again -- you can view every single episode of every HBO series ever created.

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.)

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.

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?

If it's that spectacular, why did I qualify it by saying -- and I quote -- "at first glance"? I have a nit to pick.

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"¹ 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.

¹ My "Guilt Rock" playlist includes songs by Boston, Kansas, REO Speedwagon, Badfinger, Head East, and The Left Banke. But no Styx. I have standards.

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?

Sacrificing ritual for luxury has its drawbacks.

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.

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.

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, Little Carmine.

My Most Recent Interview Transcript

2011-03-07T20:41:00.001-08:00

A reporter from The Daily Times recently caught up with me. Here is the transcript:

Times: It's great to catch up with you. How are things?

Me: Good. Pretty good.

Times: Fascinating. What are your thoughts regarding the whole Charlie Sheen saga?

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.

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.

Times: Speaking of winning, you've won the Academy Awards betting contest for three years running. Did you make it four in a row?

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.

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.

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.

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.

I blame myself.

Times: You're still a winner in my book! What's going on with the kids?

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:

Then: 260 students before school closures.

Now: 460 students, including a bunch of Somali refugees who speak English as a second language and wear unflattering burkas.

Next year: 520 students, with new double-wide trailers for overflow classes filling half the playground.

---

Then: 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.

Now: 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.

---

Then: 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.

Now: 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.

---

Then: 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.

Now: 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.

---

Then: Children who score well could attend a Spectrum program at a different school.

Now: Children who score well could put their names on a long waiting list to attend a Spectrum program with dramatically reduced funding.

---

To make matters worse, the Seattle School District was recently rocked with a scandal. 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!

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.

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.

I'm sorry. I kind of went off on a tear.

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?

Me: I don't see why no-

Super XLLDIVX Preview

2011-02-01T22:51:00.000-08:00

The Steelers are a-fixin' to hook horns with the Packers. I am not excited about this game, so I unfortunately will not be able to give my usual in-depth analysis and informed set of predictions.

Tempered Contempt

In most instances, I would be rooting fiercely against the Steelers because I can't stand Pittsburgh fans. They are like Dallas fans, only with smaller hats and better diction. But this year, because their quarterback is a rapist (or at the very least rapey), I don't have to worry about Pittsburgh fans getting in my grill.

And if they do get in my grill, it's pretty easy to start cracking wise. I can begin with a few subtle lines: "Ben is really taking it to the opposition. He's having his way with them." Then I can go with less subtlety: "Roethlisberger is attacking his prey the way a rapist attacks a woman. To put this in perspective, if Ben were a rapist, the Packers defensive secondary would be a young college girl he has trapped in a bathroom. He's just tearing them apart."

I can't watch any pregame analysis because I can't stand to hear this little nugget of insight: Roethlisberger's rape case truly changed Ben, making him a better leader who is more accessible to his teammates. Right, so that whole rape thing ended up working out well for the Steelers. Super.

Sometimes I hate sports.

Personal History with Packers

For those of you who knew me during my childhood, you might wonder why I don't care more about this game. You've likely seen a family portrait in which everyone is wearing their Sunday best while I am wearing my John Brockington #42 Packers jersey. And you likely remember my tattered Bart Starr book and my Green Bay Packers trash can and beenie.

I didn't stick with the Packers. At some point in the 80s, when I was busy with college, I stopped following pro football. I cared only about college football. When I started paying attention to the pros again, I rooted for the teams that had BYU quarterbacks. I loved the '84-'87 Bears teams with Jim McMahon and the Raiders teams with Marc Wilson. And then I hopped on the 49ers bandwagon when Steve Young took over.

During those years, one Green Bay Packers player body slammed McMahon after an interception, and Brett Favre led the Packers to an upset win over the Niners when they San Francisco could easily have won the Super Bowl.

I haven't liked the Packers for years now, but I'm rooting for them, just because I want the Steelers to lose. Then I'll return to feelings of indifference towards the favorite team of my youth.

Prediction

Neither team knows how to protect a big lead. I think it's going to be a close game. At the end of a close game, I'd rather have Roethlisberger driving my team than any other quarterback playing today, including Manning and Brady and Brees. He's clutch. He's determined. He's fierce. He's dominant. He's got that strong internal drive that allows him to block everything else out and take what he wants.

Steelers 34 Packers 29

Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

2011-01-04T18:31:00.001-08:00

I agreed to sign up for The Seattle Times again. Three months for $25. I like the Sunday NY Times crossword puzzle, and it's kind of nice to scan through the paper and read local coverage that I don't get online. Plus, it's useful to have discarded newspapers around for kids' craft projects. In other words, I have nothing new to say about newspapers.

Except maybe this. I have a difficult time with the "ignore the elephant in the room" approach to most newspaper reporting.

Here is an online version of the article that suffers from the elephant in the room problem. Unfortunately, I can't find the printed version online that was so maddening, but this one will do.

If you read the article, you'll see that five people were killed in an apartment fire -- a father and four boys between the ages of 2 and 11. The mother survived the fire by running outside.

If you're like me, you want an answer to a question that the reporter ignores. Specifically, did they have renters insurance?

In addition, you may wonder what events could lead to the mother fleeing the house without any of her children. Of course, a reporter has to steer way clear of this, because it reeks of subjective judgment. But a blogger? There's no Lou Grant figure at blogspot.com. The worst thing that can happen to me is having to delete a nasty comment or two by people who don't like the fact that I am calling the woman's behavior into question.

The thing is, I genuinely wonder how she could leave her kids behind, and that's all I could think of while reading the article. Perhaps she was groggy and thought she was the last one in the apartment. Perhaps she was overcome with sheer terror, the kind I've never experienced, and fled without control of her senses. Perhaps when she breathed in the smoke, her only thought was to get away, with no care for anyone else. Perhaps she ran out to get help, and then it was too late to go back.

My assumption is that if my house were on fire, and I saw flames and inhaled hot smoke, the first thing I would do, apart from grabbing my iPad, would be to run to the kids' room, pick them up, and drag them out. I assume I would run through blinding flames to get to the kids. I don't have this same assumption about my actions in battle or under fire. In fact, I suspect that I'd be capable of great cowardice in war. But if my children were caught in a fire? I assume that nothing could stop me from rushing toward them. My actions would be beyond heroism and cowardice. I would simply have no choice in the matter.

But maybe I'm wrong.

I'll bet the poor woman had the exact same assumption. With no concern for her own life, she'd run through the fires of hell to save her babies.

What a perfectly awful experience.

Christmas Spoils

2010-12-24T10:03:00.000-08:00

I won a drawing at work. The prize was a spiral ham, also referred to as the "Victory Ham" or the "Prize Ham." Winning this contest makes me feel oddly proud and nostalgic.

Maybe it's because I recently listened to "The Road" on audiobook, or because I barely escaped a layoff. I can't take these ridiculous feelings seriously, of course, so I make jokes. I tell Wendy that for Christmas this year, the children can have real ham rather than photographs of ham that were cut out from a magazine. With the bad economy and looming apocalypse, these types of jokes are inappropriate, but I can't help myself.

Whenever I open the refrigerator and see the Prize Ham, I put my hands on my hips, spread my legs, and puff my chest out like a Turkish Pasha. "Behold!" I say with a booming Yul Brynner voice and a quick wave of the hand. "The Ham!"

I will be cooking the Prize Ham later today for our Christmas Eve dinner. As I do so, I will pretend that my musket is leaning against the log cabin wall near my coonskin cap. No bear jerky and canned leeks for Christmas this year. We'll be eating the Prize Ham.

The children will sleep well with full bellies as they dream of pulling walnuts and oranges from their stockings.

White Elephant Gift Exchange

2010-12-17T16:57:00.001-08:00

Apart from telling a story about a bad beat in poker or a tough loss in fantasy football, the only surefire way to get everyone in the room to pay attention to you is to start a sentence with, "At my company's white elephant gift exchange..."

At my company's white elephant gift exchange, I brought a Lego Seattle Space Needle. This is a gift that Max has been wanting for years. When he saw me wrapping it, he asked with a Cindy Loo Hoo look, "Who are you wrapping that for, who?"

I explained the idea of a white elephant exchange. He kept asking questions, so I broke down the rules for him:

The gift should cost about $20, no more
The gift should be recently purchased, not pulled out from under a bed
Each person gets to choose between taking an opened gift or opening a new one
A gift could only be taken 3 times
The first person to draw gets to make the last swap

Max encouraged me to employ the strategy of bringing home the Lego Space Needle. "We can all build it together, and then we can put it maybe in my room."

There were 30 participants in my Digital Publishing group, and I got the number 5 draw.

The first few people picked awful gifts -- a lidless butter tray, a Santa Claus tea set, a lava lamp -- so I decided to make Max happy. I opened the Lego Space Needle. There, I thought. Max will be happy. No one else will want this.

The number six picker grabbed the Lego Space Needle, and it was locked down with the third pick by the person who went ninth.

Really? A Lego Space Needle?

Unfortunately, that's the end of the exciting part of the story. I opened a package of Kentucky bourbon, kept it until the number 29 picker nabbed it, and ended up with a Family Feud game for the Wii.

When I picked up the boys from art class, the first thing Max said was, "Did you get the Space Needle? Did you?"

"No, but I got a game for the Wii!" I said, perhaps a little too excitedly.

"But we don't have a Wii," he said, hangdog style.

I was hoping he wouldn't bring up that particular point.

Thoughts on Matters Outside My Sphere of Influence

2010-12-15T21:40:00.000-08:00

Football

The Colts are done. And I don't mean just for the year. This is the end of their run as a perennial championship contender.

How do I know this? Special teams stupidity. They've turned into one of those undisciplined teams. They hit out of bounds and show the kind of discipline lapses that makes you think "Cincinnati Bengals."

Their coach, Jim Caldwell, the same guy who led the Colts to the Super Bowl last year, has finally started to put his imprint on the team. And it's a weak imprint.

Sure, they've had some bad injuries at safety, running back, and receiver--the fourth string strong safety is the bizarro Troy Polamalu. But the Colts' biggest weaknesses are in two areas in which they're at full strength. The defensive tackles are getting pushed around in one-on-one blocking, and the offensive line still can't open holes for the running game or protect the passer.

To quote Jack Dawson, "This is bad."

Politics

A few months ago, I was eating lunch with an old friend from grad school. We had a fun chat trying to find some common political ground. He's a neoconservative who claimed that the problem with George W. Bush was that "he was too liberal."

I did a double-take. It was more than a double-take. I squeezed my eyes closed, shook my face to clear the cobwebs, and then popped my eyes wide open like a sharecropper who just saw a UFO. "Too liberal?" I suppose it depends on how you define liberal. If you're a hardcore right-winger, "liberal" can mean anything that's stupid or pretentious or sissified or ineffectual, and George W. Bush fits into a couple of those categories, so there you have it.

The tea party movement drives me nuts. You know, if a bunch of right-wingers wanted to join forces and complain about how George W. Bush and a Republican Congress inherited a budget surplus and ran wild with deficit spending while the Republicans were in power, I'd be impressed. But when Obama took over, the nation's economy was in a horrible downwards spiral in which another Depression certainly wasn't out of the question. THAT is the time for government to run up a deficit. Instead, the tea party "movement" took hold, housewives started fretting about "socialism," and everyone pretends teabaggers are something other than right-wing partisans who are pissed off that they lost political power.

I'll start following politics more closely in the run-up to the 2012 election cycle. Right now, it's too painful. The crazy faction of the Republican party took control, so that leaves me with the Democratic party. Power to the people!

To quote Jack Dawson, "This is bad."

Television

AMC is on fire, with Mad Men, Breaking Bad, and The Walking Dead. Yes, those are the three best shows on television right now. Their only miss was Rubicon. I had to stop watching it because the plot wasn't moving forward and the characters weren't interesting or likable. Think 3 Days of the Condor, only without Robert Redford or Faye Dunaway or Max Von Sydow, and no tension. Just spies walking around a gray building whispering spy things to each other.

But I was talking about good things.

Oh, I'm not in the mood. Let's go back to problematic shows. Like the fatally flawed Boardwalk Empire on HBO. Steve Buscemi is just wrong as the lead. The Nucky character needs to be played by a James Gandolfini/Michael Chiklis/Ian McShane type. There's still enough there for me to keep watching -- the two WWI vets in particular are engaging -- but it's mostly forgettable. It could have been great.

Front-handed insult

I assume that's the opposite of a back-handed compliment. Anyway, you know how jarring it is when you introduce two close friends, and the friends hate each other? That's how I felt when I read Mark Twain's quotes on Jane Austen:

"Jane Austen? Why I go so far as to say that any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. Even if it contains no other book."

"It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death."

"Every time I read 'Pride and Prejudice' I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone."

At first glance, Twain appears to be criticizing Jane Austen. But look at the quotes more closely: Every time I read "Pride and Prejudice"... See? He likes her! He really likes her!

Burger King

The boys really wanted to go to Burger King after basketball practice for some reason, so I used Maps on my iPhone to find the nearest Home of the Whopper. Everything was going fine until a bag lady sitting at the next table started talking to me.

"HEY! Are those your sons? HEY!!! How old are they? You're a good father!"

I tried to be polite and told her that they were twins, and they were seven years old. And then I tried to talk to the boys, but she kept talking.

"HEY! You're such a good father. I have eleven kids. I'll bet you remember the bottle days!"

I asked her where her eleven kids were.

"They're all grown up. Your boys are great. HEY BOYS! I hope you listen to your father. He's doing his BEST for you! HEY! Did you hear me! Your father loves you!"

Luke nodded. I quietly started asking the boys about what they were going to get their mother for Christmas, but the conversation was cut short.

"HEY! HEY! HEY! I wish I could go back to the days you're in now. It's a great time. You love your kids, don't you!"

Luke and Max were eating slowly, french fries one at a time. I asked her how old her youngest kids were.

"Five and seven. You- Why is that boy wearing a hood? I can't see his face!!!"

This conversation went on another twenty minutes. I felt bitter stress. Each time I thought I had successfully ignored her, "HEY! HEY!" Finally, mercifully, the boys finished eating and I scooped up the trash and ushered Luke and Max out of the Burger King, hoping to avoid the inevitable "HEY! Can you help me out?" conversation.

No such luck.

Bag lady, if you're reading this blog, I did not appreciate your rude interruptions.

Yoga Battle

2010-11-21T17:46:00.000-08:00

A friend reminded me of a yoga experience that I had written about but never included in any blog. You see, this happened in 2003, back when writers like me used typewriters, chose between Pica and Elite fonts, and slammed the carriage return in the middle of beautiful, drunken sentences.

Frankly, I'm not sure which form of writing is better--the fast-paced, quick-hitting style of blogging, or the slow, languorous, whiskey-fueled writing of the days of yore. I guess I'll let you be the judge. Here's a journal entry that I wrote one score minus thirteen years ago.

* * *

After moving to Bloomington, my wife and I signed up for a yoga class. I excel at yoga. As I looked around the classroom, it didn't take long to narrow the competition. A stringy Brazilian woman wearing a thin black turtleneck sweater performed a clean Mountain pose and Half-Sun salute, but she lost her balance--twice--during the Tree pose.

In the battle for yoga supremacy, that left just me and one other man, a bald little fellow who looked like he walked out of a Tibetan village. Sashaying on a yoga mat made of soft bamboo reeds, he appeared to be centered. During the Cat Stretch and Downward Dog poses, his body arched supernaturally, as if he were a cartoon character. His skill level pushed me to great yoga heights. My Warrior asana has clean angles, but his Uttanasana was magical. I've never seen a smoother transition into a standing forward bend. It wasn't just the form and grace. It was the inner radiance. I admit it--I was defeated.

After the class, I approached the little Tibetan man.

"I'm Bob," I told him, holding out my hand.

He solemnly refused to shake my hand and said, "I am known as Avalokitesvara. You can call me Tenzin."

"I want you to teach me." I said.

"What is there to learn?" he said.

"That's what I want to know." I said.

"I will lead you," he said with a nod. "But you must come now."

"I can't. I came here with my wife. I can't just come and go as I please."

Tenzin answered: "If you think you really come and go, that is your delusion. Let me show you the path on which there is no coming and no going."

I told my wife that I was going to get a ride home with Tenzin. She reminded me that we had a birthday party--mine--to go to in a couple of hours. I told her that birthday parties are an illusion, and then I felt kind of stupid for saying that.

As Tenzin and I walked out of the YMCA building, I looked around the parking lot trying to guess which car was his. Maybe it was an old Volkswagen bug or a mangled Chevy Impala with a "Free Tibet" bumper sticker, or maybe it was one of those classic 1940s cars like Miyagi gives to Daniel-san in The Karate Kid. Tenzin led me through the parking lot, down a residential street, and then into a wooded area that I had never noticed. While walking along a path in the woods, I wanted to ask thirty different questions? Where are you from? How did you keep your legs so still during the Dandesana? Where on earth are we going? But I knew somehow if I broke the silence that I would be reproached with a Zen parable.

Finally, I could hold off no longer. "Where are we going?" I said in a confident voice that belied my actual feelings. He stopped and paused for a few seconds. As he inhaled deeply before speaking, I thought surely he was going to teach me about the sound of one hand.

"We're going to get some trim," he said.

"What? Trim?"

"Some trim, yes. Some pussy. Some putang." He pronounced it "poon-tang," moving his lips around in an exaggerated fashion, as if he were getting ready to blow a trumpet.

My mind raced. Here are the flashes of thought that lit up my mind: -This man scares me. -I can't betray my wife, not even for the sake of enlightenment. -I must trust this man. -I'm afraid of women. -This little brown man seems very wise. -My wife is three months pregnant. -I'm afraid.

That's right, my thoughts turned to fear. Throughout my life, whenever I meet a woman, I picture either of two scenarios. In scenario A, I run across a golden field to meet a lovely woman in a soft embrace. We make love tenderly and discuss our hopes and aspirations. In scenario B, I give a woman a witty line, we check into a motel, and have sex like we're in a porn movie. In my life, there is no scenario C.

We walked out of the woods into the back yard of someone's house. Tenzin ignored the barking dog that was pulling at its runner. As we continued to walk through other people's yards, he ignored every dog, even the ones that weren't fenced in or tethered. I swerved and faced off and peered at house windows, while Tenzin strolled along as if he owned the whole town, vaulting over chain-link fences and humming a low chant. We walked for hours in many directions, passing through wooded areas and neighborhoods. The sun had set. Stars filled the sky. Mercury was retrograde.

Tenzin led me to a bar near Indiana University called The Vortex. Could this Tibetan man have looked into my heart so quickly? If he had asked me to climb a mountain, or swim across a river, or sit for hours in silence, I could handle that. But this place of ugliness? This place that made shouting and lust and madness the definition of life? This place that made faithfulness and loyalty seem like fear? No. I wanted no part of it. What did he notice about me during our yoga class? If he could see my vulnerabilities so easily, I must be doing something wrong.

Just when I was about to leave, the tingling of enlightenment ran up and down my spine. True, I had asked this man for help. But only then did I realize WHY I needed help. Oh, the arrogance! I assumed he would lead me to a quiet place to fill in the corners of what I needed to know about life. Instead, he led me to a place on the outer edge of life's whirl, away from my comfort zone. My mind felt like it had been blasted to smithereens and was now coming together in a more coherent form.

Tenzin sat down at a stool in the middle of the bar. I sat next to him. A song by Lynyrd Skynyrd blasted my mind numb. I tried not to act uncomfortable, but whenever I'm sitting with my back to openness, my heart pounds and my hands fidget. I became even more uncomfortable when Tenzin grabbed a handful of a server's ass as she walked by. She swatted his hand away, and then smiled at him reproachfully. He leered at her.

The bartender brought a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and then rapped his knuckles on the counter--on the house. He looked eagerly for Tenzin to acknowledge him, but Tenzin simply filled his own glass of beer, and then he poured my glass full. He kept on pouring. I watched him pouring until I could no longer could restrain myself.

"It is overfull," I said. "No more will go in!"

"Like this cup," Tenzin said, "you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you balance unless you first empty your cup?"

"Yeah, but you're making a mess," I said.

Tenzin motioned for another pitcher of beer. Then he poured half of that pitcher into my overfull glass. I knew somehow that I'd end up paying for this. I didn't have my wallet. In fact, I was still wearing my purple yoga outfit.

"OK OK. I get the point!"

I lied. I didn't get the point. This horny little man seemed less like a sage and more like a goofball. After he stopped pouring, the bartender brought over a few bar towels and wiped up the mess. He kept smiling at Tenzin as if he wanted to say something. When the beer was finally cleaned up, he leaned over the bar, looked Tenzin in the eyes, and said something like this: "The mind does not exist. The true nature of phenomena is emptiness. There is no realization, no delusion, no sage, no mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to be received."

Tenzin, who had begun smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked the bartender on the forehead with his bamboo pipe. This made the bartender quite angry. He backed away and threw his wet bar towel on the floor.

"If nothing exists," inquired Tenzin, "where did this anger come from?"

The bartender backpedaled slowly, nodding in comprehension. He wagged his finger at Tenzin, as if to say, "I'll be back for another epiphany." I wanted to leave the bar, the bartender, and the lunatic Tenzin behind me. The feeling was so strong that I began to daydream about being in a different place. I fantasized about lying in Child's Pose in the bathtub, with hot water from the shower head pouring onto my back. No Lynyrd Skynyrd, no Nirvana, no crazed Tibetans.

Tenzin grabbed me by the arm and began to lead me towards the door. Finally, I thought, we're getting out of this shitty Hoosier dive. No such luck. He steered me toward two women in a booth. The women, both young and attractive, were less than pleased at our joining them. Tenzin had me sit next to a woman with her hair dyed blond, and he sat down across from me, next to a red-haired woman with a freckled nose who slid over and glared. I nodded uncomfortably at the fake blonde, but she was looking down at her drink.

"Uh, hello?" said the freckled woman next to Tenzin. "We're, like, expecting friends."

"In my village," said Tenzin, speaking to no one in general. "There is a story of a monk who is being chased by a tiger. He runs off a cliff. As he's falling, he grabs a branch. He looks up and sees the tiger leaning over the cliff, clawing at his head, missing only by inches. He looks down to the ground below, only about fifteen feet, and sees a lion leaping up, missing his feet only by inches. As he looks at the branch he is clutching, he sees two groundhogs gnawing away at it. He watches as his lifeline disappears, bite by bite."

"Lions and tigers and groundhogs," I said. "Oh my."

I thought it was a funny joke, but both women looked at me as if I had just belched eggs. Tenzin look at the freckled woman next to him while he finished the story.

"As he takes a deep, long breath, he notices, next to his branch, a cluster of cucumber plants. In the midst of the clump is a great, green, juicy cucumber. With his one free hand, he reaches over, picks the cucumber, puts it in his mouth, chews it slowly and says, "Ah--delicious!"

I had never heard of cucumbers growing on a cliff. In fact, I had heard this Zen koan before, and he had it wrong. It was mice, not groundhogs, chewing the vine, and it was strawberries, not cucumbers, growing on the side of the cliff. Cucumbers don’t grow on cliffs. I was starting to get pissed off.

Tenzin whispered in the freckled woman's ear. She giggled, and then he whispered in her ear again. Tenzin and the woman left. Neither said a word to us. I don't need to mention how uncomfortable I felt sitting there in the bar next to this blonde woman. I felt torn apart by so many desires and fears, unsure of what motivated me. Was lechery worse than sexual repression? Was being faithful better than overcoming fear?

Without looking at the blonde woman, I said, "There is a story about a farmer who owned a beautiful horse. One day it disappeared. When all the villagers remarked on his bad luck, he calmly replied, 'Maybe so, maybe not.' A few days later the horse returned, leading a herd of fine wild horses. A week later, his only son was thrown and crippled while training the horses. When the villagers again--"

"I have a boyfriend and two sons?" interrupted the fake blonde, as if she were either unsure of herself or from Canada.

"My wife is pregnant with twins," I said. "When the villagers again told him that he had bad luck--"

"You should be with her?" she interrupted again.

"I come and go as I please," I told her.

"There's no such thing?" she said.

"That means nothing to me. You mean nothing to me. This whole place means nothing to me. Got that?"

I left the bar. She followed me. I didn't know whether to come or go.

-Fin

Fall Moab 2010

2010-10-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

Just came back from Fall Moab 2010. Several of the regulars--including Elden, Brad, Paul, and Gary--had to miss out, in some cases for decent reasons (Paul and Steve had to attend their father's 80th birthday party) and in some cases for flimsy reasons (Elden had to pick up an award for his Lance Armstrong fundraising).

While we were riding slickrock on Friday afternoon, it started to rain hard. We cancelled our camping plans, checked into a hotel, and crashed Dug's room to watch The Hangover.

"I just wish your friends were as mature as you."
"They are mature, actually. You just have to get to know them better."
[from outside] "Paging Dr. Faggot. Dr. Faggot!"
"I should go."
"That's a good idea, Dr. Faggot."

One of my favorite parts of Fall Moab is the fact that we still manage to act like kids even though some of us are well into our 30s. We talk about whether the Giants can beat the Phillies (yes), what to do when your teenagers get into sexting (express disappointment but secretly marvel at the language), and give advice on how to succeed in making a difficult move (try pedaling harder; think "cold fury").

"You guys might not know this, but I consider myself a bit of a loner. I tend to think of myself as a one-man wolf pack. But when my sister brought Doug home, I knew he was one of my own. And my wolf pack... it grew by one. So there... there were two of us in the wolf pack... I was alone first in the pack, and then Doug joined in later. And six months ago, when Doug introduced me to you guys, I thought, 'Wait a second, could it be?' And now I know for sure, I just added two more guys to my wolf pack. Four of us wolves, running around the desert together, in Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine. So tonight, I make a toast!"

And today, I too make a toast. Here's to the guys who joined in Fall Moab. Twelve of us wolves, riding around the desert together, in Moab, looking for strippers and cocaine.

"You're not really wearing that, are you?"

Kenny, who is recently divorced, has a new girlfriend named Heather. Heather is a skilled rider, but apparently there is a Fall Moab rule that discourages women from attending. I was not involved in making that rule, perhaps because the one time I invited women back in 1995 or so, chaos ruled. Promises were broken, tents were peed upon, a chair was broken, and a grown man was very nearly thrown into the river. That said, I agree with this rule.

Sometimes men need to hang out without women around.

It has nothing to do with riding bikes. I don't care who rides with us. Anyone is welcome as long as they (A) don't force us to call search and rescue, and (B) there is no (B). It has nothing to do with physical ability. It has everything to do with untimely relationship crap.

Heather is a perfect example. She showed up with a fake mustache and soul patch and called herself Mike. Whatever. It was great riding with her. She took awesome photos and made a bunch of difficult moves. In one place, there was a hairy descent that crashed out a few of us. Heather tried this move several times, and her fear finally got the best of her, and she walked down. Still, it was awesome that she was battling.

When we got back from the ride, we all went out to the courtyard and hung out around the grill to cook brats. Everyone was there except for Kenny . . . and Mike/Heather. We made the obligatory jokes about gay sex, assuming they were up to the devil's work, but the devil's work doesn't take that long. The devil's work should take only 12 minutes, including cleanup.

We found out later that they were spending that time talking about their relationship. And that's why I support the "No chicks" rule for Fall Moab, but with a qualification. Women can come down to Moab and ride, but when the ride ends, they need to clear out so that we can talk about poop and pee.

However, I do support lifting the sanction against Germans attending Fall Moab.

"Would you please put some pants on? I feel weird having to ask you twice."

I wasn't in Dug's room, but I feel compelled to put this quote in because I assumed that after a ride, Dug stripped naked, lay down on the bed with splayed legs, and waited for his turn to shower.

Dug, would you please put some pants on? I feel weird having to ask you seventeen times.

"Why are you peppering the steak? You don't know if tigers like pepper."
"Tigers LOVE pepper. They hate cinnamon."

The relatively new tradition of grilling beer-boiled brats is fantastic. Kenny makes the homemade bread, and everyone agrees on honey mustard.

Yum.

We don't want to call attention to ourselves!
[Through loudspeakers] Attention! Attention!

I'm going to call attention to myself for a minute. We had originally planned on doing a long downhill ride called The Big Enchirito, so instead of riding a singlespeed, I brought my Full-Suspension Mountain Bicycling System, which I'll simply refer to as The System from now on.

On Friday, we rode Slickrock in the rain. I felt like I was on a squirrelly little toy bike. Before the ride was over, I was working out a plan to sell The System.

On Saturday, The Big Enchirito ride was snowed in, so we rode Gold Bar Rim. If every Fall Moab regular made a list of his top 5 favorite rides, Gold Bar Rim would be on everyone's list. Because The System had let me down so badly the day before, I wasn't really looking forward to my second favorite ride. I was just happy to hang out with friends. After we had ridden over the bluff and through the valley to where the technical moves start, I told Nick that I was going to do only uphill moves--nothing downhill. With the smaller wheels and squishy front fork, I thought I was just too prone to spilling over the top.

We were doing our normal thing in which we ride along the flowy singletrack for awhile, and then stop in a play area to try difficult moves. About halfway through the ride, for whatever reason, I entered the magical, elusive state of mind that sports announcers call "the Zone."

I'm not in great shape right now, but I made it up the Triple Ledge Move, which is the crux move of all crux moves (the above image is of Kenny on the Triple). I rode up a serrated wall that looked impossible to climb, and then sat on my bike at the top shouting advice to Ricky, paying him back for the day I couldn't make the Daniel Day Lewis move in Draper.

And I started cleaning drops off ledges that I had always walked my bike down in previous years. In short, I was on fire. En fuego. Sur le feu. Auf feuer. It's a great feeling.

I hereby vow that I shall never sell The System.

"Oh my God! Phill, you were in the hospital last night!"
"Yeah, I guess I was."
"Are you okay?"

I have bruises, cuts, and scrapes all over my body, and I only remember falling twice. Maybe three times. There is a huge bruise of many colors on my thigh, and I don't remember ever getting hit on my thigh.

My wrist is so sore I can barely move it. When did that happen? What the hell?

And we're the three best friends that anyone could have!

Nick took a video of Dug going down a particularly sketchy shelf. Dug goes first, and then Mark:

And here’s part 2 of Nick’s video. I go first, and then Jon:

"I'm thinking of getting my bartender's license."

Good times.

Holy Mackerel

2010-10-19T21:26:00.000-07:00

When it's my turn to put the boys down to bed, I sing them each a song. Tonight, I asked Luke what song he wanted to hear.

"The Cheese-It one," he said.

"I don't know a Cheese-It song. Do you want me to make one up?" I then started to sing a Cheese-It ditty.

"No! No! Sing the real Cheese-It song!"

"I'm telling you. I've never sung it before. Have you heard me sing it?"

"Yes, but you haven't sung it to me since I was, oh, about five."

"What does it go like?"

"It has a crib, and it ends with 'in the hay' and not 'on the hay'. Remember?"

So I sang him "Away in the Manger," the Christmas song about Baby Cheese-It, who grew up to become Our Lord and Savior Cheese-It Christ. You know the guy -- he hangs around with Heavenly Fodder and the Whole Wheat Ghost.

Public schools just aren't what they used to be.

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Final Wiffleball Update

2010-09-28T14:48:00.000-07:00

Wiffleball season has been over for almost two weeks, and I can just now bring myself to write about it.

Setting: For the Wiffleball Championship Series, the team to win 2 out of 3 games is to be declared champion of the Adobe Wiffleball League. Before the game, someone played the national anthem on a trumpet, and then one of the vice-presidents threw out the first pitch. Two guys announced the game over loudspeakers.

Game 1: We won 1-0. I didn't pitch, but I hit a home run.

Game 2: We lost 5-0. I pitched poorly and had a miserable game at the plate, striking out three times. At this point, I would talk about the fascinating mental gynmastics that go on during the course of a game, and how being psyched up can benefit one's play, and how becoming demoralized can lead to poor results, but I am too demoralized to discuss it.

Before the deciding Game 3: I went mountain biking near Mount Rainier with my international friends, Nick, Tony, and Volker. While going down a super steep set of switchbacks that would make a mountain goat pause, I attempted to make one of the switchbacks. I almost had it. Almost. Instead, my front wheel slipped over the edge, I went over the bike headfirst, bounced, and then free fell. This was a real free fall, complete with 32 feet per second squared type of acceleration (not including wind resistance). I'm telling you, this was a "where's my rip cord?" type of free fall. I bounced on loose dirt and slid and ended up about 70 feet down from where I missed the switchback.

The point of the story? I separated my shoulder.*

* In the interest of full disclosure, I actually separated my shoulder the day before when I was crossing a road 50 yards from our hotel, when all of a sudden my tube blew out of my tire on a slant, and I slammed hard to the ground. Let's just say the next day's free fall didn't help my shoulder. M'kay?

Game 3: With a separated shoulder, I could barely swing. One meatball pitch, high and outside just as I like it, looked so fat and sweet that it surprised me when I fouled it off. Why didn't that fly over the rightfield fence like those other ones?

Bases loaded, 2 outs, the other team at the plate. Lazy fly ball to left field. Dropped. End of game. End of season. End of joy.

I can't talk about next year. I can't be proud of our team or of my clutch hitting and pitching during the season. I can only think of falling apart on the mound in game 2 and swinging barely under the meatball pitch in game 3. That ball spins in my mind like the one ring spun in Frodo's mind as he approached Mount Doom.

OK, I'm over it now. We'll get 'em next year. (Whew, that was close. I almost dwelt on the negative.)

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Wiffleball Update

2010-09-08T15:28:00.000-07:00

I know that you care about my wiffleball tournament, and it's been killing you not to have a status update. I know that. Don't you think I know that?

When I last left you, my team -- Ken Wiffey, Jr. -- lost the first game of a three-game semifinal series against the Belgian Wiffles. With the season on the line, I was scheduled to pitch. And pitch I did. With co-workers eating lunch out on the patio and watching from the balcony above the grounds, I wanted to give the appearance that this was all fun and games. I smiled and joked with opponents and mock-argued with the umpire. Inside, I was no less intense than Nolan Ryan.

I stuck to just two pitches: my fastball, which I threw either high and inside or low and away, and my looping curveball, which I threw only high and inside. The score was tied 0-0 after four innings. The opposing pitcher was a decent pitcher, but we were too impatient. In the top of the fifth and final inning, our first two batters struck out on pitches outside the strike zone. I was thinking that the best I could hope for was extra innings. The next batter walked, bringing up Laura at the bottom of the lineup.

How do I describe Laura's hitting style? Is it sexist to say that she swings like a girl? Yes, so I won't say that, because I believe that language is a form of social policing. So Laura swings like a person who is inexperienced in the ways of baseball. After two quick strikes, she took a wild pitch, and then swung at the next pitch.

Crack!

The ball flew into right field and rolled past the cones for a triple! We're up 1-0. I think it's safe to say that I've never heard a louder roar at a wiffleball game than when Laura hit that triple. She scored on a single and I pitched a 1-2-3 inning in the ninth for the 2-0 victory. Whew.

In the rubber match game of the semifinals, we scored three runs in the bottom of the first and ended up winning 4-1. Now we're in the finals.

And now you're all caught up with the Adobe Wiffleball League playoffs.

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Pobrecito Barnes & Noble

2010-08-31T11:06:00.000-07:00

In Spanish, "pobrecito" is the third most popular word, trailing only "el" and "la." Peruvians in particular like to refer anyone who's struggling or put upon as a pobrecito, which roughly translates to "poor little thing." Their hearts would weep for the Barnes & Noble franchise, which is having to close a few stores due to the lousy economy and online booksellers like Amazon.

People browsing at the Lincoln Center store on Monday lamented the loss of one of the city’s largest and most prominent bookstores, a sprawling space with a cafe on the fourth floor and an enormous music selection. For devoted theatergoers, it was a reliable site for readings and events that focused on the performing arts.

But many of those same people conceded that they have not bought as many books there as they did in the past. Some said they were more likely to browse the shelves, then head home and make purchases online. Others said they prized the store most for its sunny cafe or its magazines and other nonbook items.

I do not weep for Barnes & Noble. I still remember when Barnes & Noble and (pobrecito) Media Play opened their stores in Utah County, causing my favorite local bookstores to struggle. I particularly disliked the bait 'n switch technique of opening the stores with tons of books and movies, and then slowly whittling down the selections. Same thing with the cozy reading areas -- they get rid of those over time.

That said, when my mother asks me what I want for Christmas, I say, "Gift Certificate to Barnes & Noble." So there.

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Summer Highlights

2010-08-30T16:13:00.000-07:00

Biking

No Leadville for me this year, so I haven't trained. If it weren't for wiffleball, I'd be sad. In a couple of weeks, I'll be heading up to Mt. Rainier for a 3-day biking weekend with Nick and a couple other guys. I'm going to start doing bursts on my way home from work to get into tip-top shape. I may even start doing knee bends.

Wiffleball

Yes, I play on a wiffleball team at work. Wiffleball seems like a joke sport at first glance, and maybe even at the second and third glances as well. Here's the thing -- I haven't had this much fun playing a sport since the days when I could play snow football or flag football. There are 12 teams in the league, six players to a side. No one has to run hard. Hits and outs depend on where the ball is hit, so baserunners are essentially placeholders. It all comes down to pitching and hitting and a little bit of fielding. If the pitcher hits the target behind the plate, it's a strike, no matter where the ball crosses the plate. Spectators line up on the balcony above the field to watch the game while eating lunch. Players greet each other in the hallway and talk smack in meetings. It's got the perfect balance of being fun and competitive.

I'm one of the pitchers for the team that finished with the number 1 seed for the playoffs. I have a wicked curveball that, when I throw it right, goes right by the head of the batter and smacks the upper right corner of the strike target. I also mix in a fastball and change-up. We're in the semifinals now, but we lost our first game in a best 2 out of 3 series. I pitch again Wednesday night in a must-win wiffleball game. If we lose, I will not be able to sleep the following night.

You think I'm kidding.

Work

Just found out I'm keeping my job at Adobe. I'm working on a fun project -- using InDesign to create digital magazines for the iPad. Right in my wheelhouse. I've never enjoyed being at Adobe more.

More later. Really. I'm going to write about the letter of rejection I got from a Hollywood exec for one of my screenplays. The guy didn't think it was realistic for a man on a deserted island to perform kidney replacement surgery on both himself and his son without anesthesia and using only a swiss-army knife. Did I tell you he's from Hollywood? And that he can talk about realism with a straight face? I'll comment later on his letter. You won't believe it.

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Top 5 Self-Opposing Words

2010-07-01T09:33:00.000-07:00

Any good web log entry first states what it's not about. I'll conform. This entry is not about auto-antonyms (also called "contronyms" and "antagonyms"). That's when a word has two opposing meanings, like "adumbrate," which means both to disclose and to obscure, and "sanction," which means both to permit and to restrict. No, those kinds of words don't interest me, at least not enough to write about, unless I need to use them as examples of what I don't want to write about.

No.

Here's what I want to write about--words that imply the opposite meaning from their appearance. With only a little more ado, I shall now proceed with the list:

1. tranquill

I'll also accept "trainquil" for this entry. Reading either word makes you a little tense, admit it.

2. disentanglement

Interesting fact: the Cambridge Language Police Society attempted to abolish this word in 1937, but the swing voter refused to say Aye unless everyone agreed to abolish "marmot" as well. Gridlock ensued.

3. relaxxx

I just made up this word. Does it relax you? No. It makes you think of illicit imagery.

4. mispelled

I can't decide whether this word is really self-opposing. Perhaps it belongs in my Top 5 Self-Actualization Words entry, which I'm nearly certain to write in the near future.

5. spendthrift

Here we go. The most deceptive word in the English language.

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The Language Test

2010-05-28T13:49:00.000-07:00

So I was riding my biking to work yesterday while listening to Malcolm Gladwell's Blink. Just as I had ridden over the West Seattle Bridge to turn onto Alaska Way, Gladwell asked me to imagine that he was a professor and I was walking down a long hallway into his office. When I reached his office, I was to piece together a four-word sentence from each of these 5-word groups:

01 him was worried she always
02 from are Florida oranges temperature
03 ball the throws toss silently
04 shoes give replace old the
05 he observes occasionally people watches
06 be will sweat lonely they
07 sky the seamless gray is
08 should now withdraw forgetful we
09 us bingo sing play let
10 sunlight makes temperature wrinkle raisins

As I was forming the sentences, I got a little distracted. I started thinking about how tired I was. I didn't want to ride anymore. I had planned on riding the longer route to work along the beautiful Myrtle Edwards Park, but now I was thinking about cutting across downtown. Or maybe just throw the bike on a bus. "The sky is gray." The 26 and 28 both head from downtown to Fremont. "Let us sing bingo." No, that's too cumbersome. I'll just ride it out, and maybe take a nap under my desk when I get there.

Here's what Gladwell had to say about the list:

"That seemed straightforward, right? Actually it wasn't. After you finished that test -- believe it or not -- you would have walked out of my office and back down the hall more slowly than you walked in. With that test, I affected the way you behaved. How? Well, look back at the list. Scattered throughout it are certain words, such as "worried," "Florida," "old," "lonely," "gray," "bingo," and "wrinkle." You thought that I was just making you take a language test. But, in fact, what I was also doing was making the big computer in your brain -- your adaptive unconscious -- think about the state of being old. It didn't inform the rest of your brain about its sudden obsession. But it took all this talk of old age so seriously that by the time you finished and walked down the corridor, you acted old. You walked slowly."

Or, in my case, rode slowly. On a sunny day when I was feeling perfectly healthy, I contemplated putting my bike on a bus--something I've done only once in the pouring rain.

I'm just glad that nothing else affects me on a subconscious level, or I'd be worried about being manipulated.

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Fish in a Barrel

2010-05-20T07:10:00.000-07:00

I was sitting on the sideline while Coach Dave ran soccer practice when all of a sudden, he pulled up lame with a torn calf muscle. Coach Dave asked me if I would run the drills. "Sure," I said, putting away my cell phone.

For the first -- and what turned out to be the only -- drill I participated in, the kids had to run through a gauntlet in a British Bulldog type game. My job was to line up balls along the sideline and kick them at the kids while they ran from one end of the course to the other. If I hit a kid in the leg, he or she would join me and try to knock out other kids, until there was only one kid left.

The first run was quite possibly a thing of beauty. I suppose it depends on how you define "beauty." For certain people, it doesn't get more beautiful than getting a clean shot on a wild animal and watching it collapse in a dead bundle of flesh. The people who think shooting a wild animal is beautiful would have enjoyed my shot. As the kids ran across the field during the first pass, I kicked all the balls and missed as they dodged my shots. But on the last ball, I kicked it in front of the kids. Just before Keira reached the finish line, the ball passed between her legs and trapped her foot coming forward, flinging her forward. She got up and stood still with her head down. Coach Dave limped over and comforted her.

On the next round, I was being extra cautious. I'm not a hunter. That's when Thane, the smallest kid on the team, started talking trash. "You ca-an't hit me, you ca-an't hit me." In an attempt to put a little more heat on the ball, my pivot foot slid on the damp grass, causing me to kick slightly under the ball. I don't even need to tell you what happened, but I will anyway just to remove all doubt -- the ball bounced off Thane's head. Poing.

To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, nothing is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.

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Excerpts from the Hand-Written Journal

2010-04-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

Confession time. Apart from this blog, I write in an old-fashioned journal using a pen and notebook. I like to call it a "journal" because that's a little more manly than calling it a "diary." The kinds of people who write in diaries might wander off in despair, put rocks in their pockets, and wade into a deep stream. The kind of person who writes in a journal, on the other hand, is likely to log scientific data.

One problem with writing in a journal is that my life -- and this is painful to admit -- is fairly boring. To fix that, I sometimes adopt a persona, and write away. I've gathered a few of my favorite entries, and typed them into the computer.

Bear Stearns Stockbroker

As I lie here in my tent at 27,800 feet above sea level on my quest to climb Mount Everest, I am proud of my Sherpa. I am also proud to be able to call him "mine." For he is my Sherpa. Without him, reaching the top of this mountain would be a struggle. For example, while he was short-roping me up from Camp III to Camp IV, I complained that the rope around my waist was demoralizing, and insisted that he drag me in the supply stretcher. He said no, and I shouted at him. Punjab has ugly yellow teeth full of gaps and does not like to be shouted at. Nor does he like to have his family threatened. After he towed me up to the Camp IV tent on the stretcher, he left me alone to go back for the supplies that he had set aside. This angered me, for I do not like to be left alone that high on the mountain. Upon his return, I checked my temper. Instead of kicking him, I simply said, "Hot tea" and put my oxygen mask back on.

Professional Football Player Who Recently Joined Twitter

I'm glad I'm so handsome!! Makes taking pics so much easier! I kno, I'm very humble whn I wanna b! Lol

Mormon Housewife

I need to learn to control my temper better. This morning, when LeDon said he was leaving for the weekend to do a ski trip, I glared at him. Now I feel terrible. I know the baby is only three weeks old and the 3-year-old has an ear infection and the twins are about ready to take their first steps, but it's not my place to judge other people. I run the household and LeDon is the provider. Period. End of story. That's God's plan. ~~But I have to say in my defense that it would sure help if LeDon got a job!!!!~~ If I read the scriptures and pray and put my trust in the Lord, I will be forgiven. I know that with the bottom of my heart.

George W. Bush

I was arguing with Brownie the other day while we were sitting in a bar and shooting the bull. Get this. He said that all you gotta do to figure out pi is to divide 22 by 7. I told him the value of pi is the ratio of the circle's circumference to its diameter, and that you can determine the value of pi only by drawing a perfect circle and then measuring its circumference and diameter, taking the ratio -- which sure as shit ain't 22 over 7 -- and that's it. That's pi. And then I said, "Hey Brownie, wanna hear a joke?" And he said "Sure." And I said, "Pi, pi, poke in the eye!" and jabbed my finger in his socket. Now that was funny. I'd like to see that Kenyan think of something like that.

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120% Effort

2010-04-14T11:44:00.000-07:00

The regular coach of Max's soccer team couldn't make it to practice, so I subbed. As I gathered the 6-year-old kids together for the practice and wondered what was going to happen, as if I were a mere observer, I wanted to give a little speech about trying hard and giving a full effort. When Henry grabbed Keira around the waist and spun her around, I decided the speech was a bad idea, so I had them run around the field.

For the entire hour, I was breaking up wrestling matches and putting a stop to impromptu tag games. It was a mess. At that point, I realized what the problem was. I wasn't giving 120% effort.

I thought back to something I had seen on television. It was one of those fantastic MTV challenge shows in which the young and beautiful drink alcohol, have flings, and compete to avoid getting eliminated. When a contestant lost a challenge, she said something like, "We both gave 120% effort, but their 120% was stronger than ours."

Now, at first glance, that statement seems accurate, especially if you've been hit in the head recently. But you might realize that it's possible that one of the teams was only giving 115% effort, which could account for the loss. How do you express the idea of one team's more-than-maximum effort being weaker than someone else's more-than-maximum effort? Perhaps it's better to express this heady notion using different percentage values rather than rating the strength of identical values.

And that's when I realized that as a substitute soccer coach, I was able to give only 115% effort.

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A Minister Without a Gun

2010-03-29T11:58:00.000-07:00

We spent a week in Sedona, Arizona last week for my sister-in-law's wedding. Kim married a guy named Jerome.

A couple of days before the wedding, Kim and Jerome hadn't found a minister to perform the ceremony. By stating this fact, I do not mean to imply that Kim lacks interest or ability in planning. All I'm saying is that two days before the wedding, they didn't have anyone to perform the ceremony. Just that. And only that.

One possibility was Michael. He's a large, confident fellow with a booming voice. But he has been married -- twice -- to the bride, so there were concerns. They asked me to do it, and to my surprise, I said yes.

While I am a holder of two types of priesthood--the Aaronic and the Melchizedek--I do not have the legal authority to use either of these powers to perform a wedding ceremony. However, i do have a laptop with access to Google.com, so within minutes I became an ordained minister of what I'm fairly certain is the Universal Life Church.

I realize that some people who rely on me for spiritual guidance may be concerned that my previous priesthood powers have become compromised with the new ordination. You may be asking whether the various powers can be used together, if one supersedes the other, or if they cancel each other out. If you are concerned, I simply ask that you continue to be concerned, because it means that you care, and it's a healthy distraction from your own mortality. Yeah, verily.

And it came to pass that on the Saturday of the wedding, Max did become ill with a fever most feverish in nature. And I became concerned, yeah, for I begat Max.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'll stop talking that way. Anyway, Max was running a fever on the day of the wedding, but we all had roles to play in the ceremony, which was being held about ten yards away from a hiking trail just outside of town. The wedding circle consisted of rocks placed in a circle. The circle was roughly 15 cubits in diameter, or 7.5 cubits in radius, with a circumference of 47.1 cubits and an area of 176.6 cubits. Verily.

At the east and west ends of the circle were openings in the rock formation. The women entered the circle through the west end; the men entered through the east end. Before we entered, a guy "smudged" participants. He asked each person to stand before him while he used a feather to fan the smoke from a burning sage branch onto them, front and back. (If you doubt me, Google "smudge.")

The ringbearers, Luke and Max, accepted the smudging stoically and passed into the circle. I, myself, tried to counter the cleansing ritual by decentering my chakra, resulting in a vortex upheaval that no one expected or noticed. Smudged, I picked up Max and comforted him with the idea that this will all be over soon. The bride's party entered the circle. Thus, I spake.

As I read the ceremony from the cards, I kept telling myself that it was just a ceremony--don't fight it--but I didn't exactly agree with what I read. The first sentiment was about not believing in something just because you heard it, or just because it's written somewhere. That's all fine and good, but then the quote implies that you should believe in something only after you've studied it out. That's misguided. It puts too much credence in one's own thoughts. People often study and meditate and think things through, and still come up with preposterous ideas. Just look at Ayn Rand. Being a free thinker doesn't prevent someone from being silly in the head.

When I finished reading the ceremony, the smudger played some kind of glass instrument. As he ran a mallet around the rim of the glass bowl, the vibrations made a strange musical noise. He then went around to everyone in the wedding circle and made this musical noise in front of them. While I was standing there, I wondered whether the bowl guy (his name was actually Guy) could learn something about a person by holding the vibrating bowl in front of him. I have no doubt that he thinks he can, but does he really? Let's just say I'm open to the possibility.

He then waved the glass thing between Kim and Jerome to, I don't know, reveal their heart energy through the medium of timbre. I then announced that we were going to observe two minutes of silence. Guy sat on the ground and started to pull something out of his pocket. What was it? My mind raced. Was it a sacred arrowhead? Was it some kind of amber healing stone? Nope. It was a stop watch. When two minutes had elapsed, he used a little mallet to ding the bowl.

"Jerome!" I said.

This was Jerome's cue to say his vows. The words were supposed to come from his heart, but in all fairness, doing extemporaneous wedding vows is just a terrible idea, even for people who embrace things like the equinox and Sedona vortexes (again, google). "Words cannot express, um, how deeply..." When he finished, he nodded at me.

"Kim!" I announced.

Have I mentioned that it's a bad idea to ad lib wedding vows? Expressing love through tears is an intimate act that only a couple--and perhaps their ULC minister--should participate in. It's not something that friends and family and hiking passers-by need to hear.

"Bring forth the rings!" I bellowed.

Luke came out of his daze, stood up from his blanket in the middle of the circle, and handed Jerome's ring to Kim. Max, who was still feverish, remained seated on his blanket. At this point, I probably should have said something like "Max, give Jerome the ring." But here's the thing, and I'm dead serious about this. It wasn't on the cue cards. Good or bad, I was sticking to the script. For about ten seconds, Max sat on the ground, perfectly oblivious to the proceedings. I think Jerome probably wanted to say something, but he couldn't tell the difference between Luke and Max. I'm just guessing. Finally, Wendy loudly whispered, "Max! The ring!"

"Jerome, do you take Kim onward?" I said as Jerome put the ring on Kim's finger.

"Kim, do you take Jerome onward?" I said as Kim put the ring on Jerome's finger.

"By the power vested in me, and [reading from cue cards] all of the universal seen and the unseen [no longer reading], I now pronounce you husband and wife. Jerome, you may kiss the bride."

Clapping. Tears. Hugs. Laughter.

Max and I hung out in the hotel room and watched March Madness while everyone else danced at the reception. Fun was had by all.

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Phrase of the Day

2010-03-03T10:06:00.000-08:00

Max and Luke now have separate bedrooms. While they were playing in Luke's room before school, I went in and parentally urged them to get dressed. Max left Luke's room, while Luke went through the motions of getting dressed. I don't believe Luke was trying to make me mad with his boondoggling -- part of me believes that that's just how little kids are -- but I wasn't sure. I guess a child just can't take pajamas off and put clothes on without interrupting the process at regular intervals to pick up a lego here and bottle cap there. Oh, what's this thing stuck to the side of my dresser? I know I'm late for school, but I don't mind taking a few minutes to pick at it.

A minute or so later, Max came back into Luke's room, fully dressed, while Luke had barely managed to get his pajama tops off.

"What took you so short?" Luke asked.

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Roller Derby

2010-02-17T07:16:00.000-08:00

First, I'd like to apologize for the misleading title. This is not about roller derby. This is about roller skating. I just wanted a catchy title to draw in the readers. And now that I have your attention, I'll do what I can to hang on to it. For example, I'll start a new paragraph to give the eye a break and create a sense of drama.

I took the boys roller skating.

There. What seems like a common parental activity now seems fascinating, and it's all due to a clever formatting trick. I'll continue to use these tricks throughout to maintain your level of interest.

The boys just got wrist pads for their roller skates (Max) and roller blades (Luke), and they were excited. Excuse me, they were excited!!! So I looked up a roller skating rink using my iPhone, and sure enough, King Skates in Bellevue was open all day on Monday for public skating.

As soon as we walked in, the boys heard their favorite song -- "I Gotta Feelin" by the Black Eyed Peas. They looked out at the lights flashing on the skaters, and you could tell these 6-year-olds thought we had just stumbled into the coolest place on earth.

Observation 1: There are men and women in their 30s and 40s who go to roller skating rinks alone and skate dance. Sometimes they skate backward, and sometimes they skate forward, but they're dancing the whole time. At first, I thought this was strange behavior. And then I thought about it a little more, and thought about the battle against peer pressure and the joy of exercise, and I came to the realization that this was REALLY strange behavior. They should be on a treadmill in a gymnasium.

Observation 2: Pop music from the 70s has an enduring quality that will outlive us all. Did you know our grandchildren's grandchildren will roller blade to "Do the Hustle," "YMCA" and "Dancing Queen"?

Observation 3: There has been some really good pop music made over the last five or thirty years. I can't tell how long some of that pop music was, because I had never heard it. But I found myself snapping my fingers while skating, and then bending my knees a little bit. And then I started to weave my skating pattern just a little bit, and there's no way to weave your skates without getting your hips involved, and before I knew it, all the other skaters had lined up along the wall, and they were clapping in rhythm and shouting encouragement to me whenever my skates left the floor for a double axel or a triple toe loop.

In summary, roller skating is FUN!!!

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Super Bowl XLIV Analysis and Prediction

2010-02-05T07:11:00.000-08:00

It's difficult to find someone on the World Wide Web of the Internet who is willing to discuss the upcoming Super Bowl between the Colts and the Saints, so I'll fill in the gap.

Sport Being Played

American Football.

Ways in Which the Game May Play Out

This isn't quite like last year's game between the Steelers and Cardinals, when you could tell in the first quarter what kind of game it would be. This year, with the two best teams playing, the game won't be decided early. Both teams have explosive offenses, and both teams have come back repeatedly from large deficits. So even if one team goes up early by a couple of scores, I don't think the game will turn into a rout.

Scenario 1: Shoot-out. Both teams move the ball at will. In this scenario, forcing the opponent to kick a field goal will be considered a victory for the defense. Forcing a punt is a huge momentum swing. Last team with the ball wins.

Scenario 2: Slopfest. The defenses get pressure on both quarterbacks, there are lots of turnovers, young receivers drop passes, and announcers continue to praise the quarterbacks because they're contractually obligated. Drew Brees looks nervous, and Peyton Manning yells at his linemen.

Scenario 3: Low-scoring battle. Both offenses dominate, especially in the running game, but they eat up the clock with long drives that frequently end up with field goal attempts. Even though neither defense appears particularly effective, there's something like a 16-12 score in the fourth quarter.

Scenario 4: Blowout. I suppose this is a possibility. The Saints blowing out the Colts would be a shock. The Colts blowing out the Saints wouldn't be quite as shocking, especially if Brees seems off his game, but it seems unlikely.

I'm going with Scenario 3 - a tight, low-scoring game that either team can win.

Quarterback Play

If you watch ESPN, which I do, you might think that Peyton Manning went through some kind of apotheosis during the Jets game and became a football god, while Drew Brees is some kind of scrappy waterboy who somehow found himself playing quarterback in the Super Bowl. In my arrogant opinion, both quarterbacks have played equally well this year. This year, they're the two best players in the league.

Their styles are different. The Colts use only a few formations with hardly any pre-snap motion, while the Saints try to confuse defenses with lots of formations and motion. One of the reasons analysts have been deifying Manning is because he calls his own plays and acts like a coach on the field. While that's impressive, it doesn't mean that a quarterback who lets coaches call the plays can't be effective. In the last 20 years, coaches have called plays for Tom Brady, Joe Montana, Drew Brees, and every quarterback not named Peyton. Manning is 9-8 in playoff games. That's not exactly a divine record.

Manning used to let the pressure of a big game get to him. Under pressure, he'd get out of his rhythm. So far this year, he hasn't flailed in a big game. In fact, he's been clutch, even heroic. If anything, Brees is more likely to let the pressure get to him than Manning.

Defensive Pressure

Despite what people say, both teams have only average defenses. The Saints have to get pressure on Manning, or he'll continue to play out of his gourd.

If you're still reading this, you know that the Colts' best defensive player, Dwight Freeney, has a badly sprained ankle and may not be able to play. In the championship game, the Saints offense struggled because they used an extra blocker to stop Jared Allen, a Freeney-like rusher. If Freeney doesn't play, the Saints should be able to send an extra receiver out on a pattern, forcing the Colts to blitz more to get pressure. In turn, they expose themselves to big plays.

Jerraud Powers is also injured for the Colts. Even though he's a rookie, Powers has started all year and played well. In fact, the Colts have lost three of their four starting defensive backs, but they've still played relatively well, primarily due to the two rookies, Powers and Jacob Lacey. Against the Saints, who use multiple receivers, the Colts badly need Powers so that Lacey can cover the extra receiver. If Powers can't go, you'll see Brees picking on a guy named Tim Jennings. That's a mismatch.

Intangibles

Luck is an important factor. When a pass gets tipped, does the ball fall harmlessly to the ground, or is it picked off? When a team gets called for a penalty, does it nullify a big play? Are there bad calls at key moments? Will there be big plays on special teams? Does an open receiver drop a pass when it's 3rd and 2? Does a safety guess right and pick off a pass on a hunch?

Are the Saints so nervous playing for the first time in the Super Bowl that they overthrow open receivers, get called for stupid penalties, and get out of position because they're too eager to make a big play? Does the Colts' Super Bowl experience keep them calm and confident?

Are the Colts overconfident? The Saints are playing up that "No one believes in us but us" angle, which is a surprisingly strong motivator to get a bunch of grown men whooping like dogs. That mentality helped the Giants beat the Patriots a couple years ago, and these two teams are much more evenly matched than those two teams. At one time, they were both 13-0. That's never happened before. Both teams let up at the end, and the Colts finished 14-2 and the Saints 13-3. The "We get no respect" angle could be key.

The Who is playing at halftime. I hate The Who. You better you better you bet.

Prediction

I played several simulation games using my old electronic football game that vibrates players into moving. I hobbled the tight end on the Saints and the defensive end on the Colts to make the game more accurate. I've come to the conclusion that the Colts have a 53% chance of winning, while the Saints have a 47% chance of winning. If my simulation is correct, Peyton Manning will rush for 332 yards and two touchdowns.

On the other hand, the Colts are my favorite team, and The Who is playing at halftime. I can't imagine the Colts winning on the same day I have to sit through 65-year-old men singing songs that have menaced me for 40 years.

Final score: Saints 19 Colts 16. Party on Bourbon Street. Gloom in Bloomington.

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Cereal Box Plastic

2010-02-04T10:07:00.000-08:00

Has anyone else noticed that the plastic liners inside cereal boxes now require scissors to open properly. All my life, I've been able to pull the sides of the plastic bag to pop it open. Starting about 10 years ago, the cereal I bought at places like Trader Joe's and other health stores had flawed plastic liners. If you try to pop them open, the glue was too strong, so you just ended up shredding the plastic, resulting in an uneven cereal pour that left a lot of cereal flakes between the liner and the bottom of the box. (You can make your own cereal killer joke.) And now, even cereal from the name brands like Post and Kellogs provide these difficult-to-open liners.

If Ralph Nader were elected back in 2000, we could have avoided this mess.

Tomorrow, as promised, you'll get the Super Bowl XLIV preview!

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My State of the Union Address

2010-02-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

A commenter named "Anonymous" wrote the following:

How about a recap on the current status of the Democrats. Kind of like the ones you did about the right wing morons. The Democrats have been so good for the country, nay, the world. And they are only getting better.

Your wish is my suggestion. I will now tell you what I think of the Democrats in a rambling, semi-coherent matter. And later this week, I'll provide you with my Super Bowl pre-game analysis and prediction. That's right. I'm promising two blog entries in one week!

The best thing about the Democrats, in my humble opinion, is that they're not Republicans. And the best thing about Obama is that he's not Bush.

That may seem trite, but for me it's huge. Having Obama take over was like waking up from a nightmare. The day may not be perfect, what with the root canal appointment and all, but at least it's not a nightmare.

You wouldn't think it would be necessary to remind people of this, but let's go over it again. Bush failed to adequately address the 9/11 attacks by ignoring a number of warnings, and then they used that awful terrorist attack as an excuse to invade Iraq and torture suspected terrorists. He and the Republicans advanced tax breaks that disproportionately benefitted the super rich. The combination of wars and tax breaks and struggling economy converted the surplus budget he inherited into a record deficit. In his final year, the economy collapsed, pushing us on the brink of a possible Depression. None of these points are even worth arguing. They're a matter of record.

When Obama and the Democrats took over, they inherited two wars, a devastated economy on the brink of collapse, and a record deficit with expiring tax breaks that act like political poison pills when they expire. (Obama is raising taxes! He's a tax and spend liberal! He's a socialist! HE WASN'T EVEN BORN IN AMERICA!!!)

McCain and many Republicans thought the solution to the bad economy was a spending freeze. Simply put, that's stupid. It's appropriate for the government to run up a deficit to help us out of bad economic times, and they should pay down debt during boom times. As much as I dislike running up the deficit, I thought the bailouts and stimulus packages trotted out by both Bush and Obama were necessary. The details of the bailouts and stimulus packages were highly questionable (typically political?) in both instances, but I don't want to get into those details. By the way, where were the teabaggers during the "Deficits don't matter" Bush years?

The Republican party is using the crappy economy -- the same one they played a major role in creating -- as a way of criticizing Democrats. And it's working! On a related note, I don't have a problem with Republicans opposing the Democratic agenda, but I don't like the way the filibuster has become so commonplace. Without getting into Constitutional issues, I prefer a simple majority rule.

One thing that frustrates me about both parties is that they've failed to take opposing stances in a few key areas. The Republicans used to represent business while the Democrats represented labor. Since the Clinton days, the Democrats have catered to businesses a lot more, effectively abandoning labor. And Republicans used to represent conservative fiscal policies while Democrats were more willing to spend and drive up deficits, but Republicans have obviously abandoned fiscal prudence. In a two-party system, those shifts are especially damaging. We need a five party system: Labor, Whig, Tory, War, and Green.

The fact that the Republican party has shifted so far to the right is incredibly frustrating to me. Instead of being able to maintain an independent stance and vote right or left depending on the circumstances, the wingnuts have essentially forced me into voting straight-ticket Democrat. Having only Republicans in charge isn't healthy in Utah, and having only Democrats in charge isn't healthy in the Puget Sound region.

It frustrates me that Obama has continued many of Bush's awful programs that permit torture and questionable spying practices. I understand why he's doing it from a political standpoint -- to be viewed as centrist for the next election. If it keeps a charming lunatic like Palin or Huckabee from being elected, I suppose that's the price that has to be paid. Still...

The health care system is broken. Even die-hard Bush-loving Republicans would have to admit that. If the Democrats fail to push through a decent health care reform bill, I'll be angry. I'm still waiting to see what happens with that story.

Grades

Republicans: F*
Democrats: D+

* The Republicans also received a 0 for citizenship and have been put on notice by this blog.

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The Tooth Fairy Strikes!

2010-01-29T07:37:00.000-08:00

We had everything worked out. Max had a loose tooth, so we told the boys that when their baby teeth fall out, they just put the tooth under their pillow and the tooth fairy sneaks in after they're asleep and replaces it with money.

"How does the tooth fairy know when a tooth comes out."

"She just knows."

"But what if her forgets?"*

"We can send him email."

"Yes, send email. Is the tooth fairy a boy or girl?"

"Oh, I don't think the tooth fairy is either, really. It's more like an entity."

[* That's one of their favorite toddler constructions that they still go back to every now and then. "Him died. Give it to she." I don't have the heart to correct them most of the time.]

Everything was fine, until the neighbor girl butted in. Her parents do not believe in lying to children. They explicitly tell her that Santa Claus isn't real, the Easter Bunny isn't real, and the tooth fairy doesn't exist. That's just awful. It's arrogant to pretend you know the truth about things. When that little girl grows up, she's going to have the mistaken notion that her parents knew the truth about things, and they weren't full of shit. She's going to grow up being one of those annoying people who say "My mother is my best friend." That's a perfectly awful thing to say. Here are five perfectly awful things to say.

1. I don't have a television.

2. My father/mother is my best friend.

3. I'm sorry for your loss.

4. I'm sending you positive vibes.

5. I don't have any regrets.

Luke and Max want to keep their baby teeth, but I assume there's a reason to take them away. After all, that's what everyone does. Same thing with singing songs like "Rock a Bye Baby" -- it's perfectly fine to sing lullaby songs about death, because everyone else does it. If we think everyone is basically healthy and good, like we all live in Bedford Falls, then I suppose that's a good thing. But what if we live in Pottersville?

So Max knows I'm the tooth fairy, and he received a dollar for his tooth. Now he wants his tooth back, and he knows I have it. He is willing to pay me a dollar for the tooth.

I believe that when my anti-Santa, anti-Tooth Fairy neighbor dies, he is going to a place where flames lick at his feet and a red devil with a pitch fork laughs and tells him true things.

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The True Meaning of Christmas

2009-12-18T21:24:00.000-08:00

One of the difficult things about being a parent is that you don't raise your kids in a vacuum. Cultural influences help shape their world view, especially as they get older. By the time they're teenagers, I assume they'll want parental advice about as much as a referee wants advice from an angry crowd.

We try hard to keep Christmas about wrapped presents and glittery ornaments and open sleighs pulled by a single horse. Now that the twins are almost six, they're asking questions about that little baby in the manger. In fact, Luke insisted on setting up a nativity scene with the three wise men, the shepherds abiding their flocks by night, and other assorted Jewish figurines.

Mass media doesn't help matters.

Indoctrination vehicles like "A Charlie Brown Christmas" fill my boys' heads with the notion that all the showy glitz is insignificant compared to the deeper meaning of Christmas -- virgin mothers and baby kings and talking angels. The show backs off from its inverted morality at the end, leaving me something to work with. "See, Max? They were able to work together to light up the little tree. That keeps the dark out. Now all the tree needs is presents underneath it, and everyone will be momentarily happy. And if the presents are plentiful and expensive, we can pull ourselves out of this recession."

Exposure to these twisted Christmas tales is only going to get worse. In a few years, they'll sit down to watch "It's a Wonderful Life." I suppose that's where my role as a parent enters the picture. I can step in and say, "You know, the alternate version of Bedford Falls that exists if George Bailey was never born isn't such a bad place with its crowded bars and dance halls and neon signs. In fact, every town and city in America is like that now, so don't look around for a place you'll never find."

It's a battle, but I'll keep fighting the good fight.

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iPhone Recommendations

2009-12-11T19:13:00.000-08:00

I am a proud owner of a new iPhone. And yet, I need advice. In fact, I turned on commenting so that you can spill your guts. One problem, however, is that since I don't post often, my readership may have dwindled. It's possible. Good Lord, what if no one leaves a comment because no one is reading my power blog?

Deep breath - I cannot fret over things that I cannot control. I must proceed down the path with armed with courage, and hope for added strength beyond the bend - Exhale . . .

So give me your advice on good iPhone apps. Here are my needs:

* I want a few fun games to play for when I'm waiting in line at the soup kitchen.

* I want to track sporting events when I'm out and about. I'd like an app that lets me listen to football games on the radio, or a gamecast-type apps that tells me what the score is and who has the ball and that kind of thing.

* Any other iPhone app that you recommend.

Come on, let it out.

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ESPN Headline: "Woods at Fault in One-Car Crash"

2009-12-01T15:45:00.000-08:00

So, if ESPN is correct, it was Tiger Woods who was at fault when he drove his car off the road. This is good to know. I assume that during their investigation, the police cleared both the fire hydrant and the tree.

UPDATE: Details here.

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Fall Moab 2009 - Fruita Edition

2009-11-09T17:22:00.000-08:00

Just spent the weekend riding with friends in Fruita, Colorado. For the last seven years or so, after every Fall Moab, I've written a summary of the trip by handing out awards based on movie quotes. I'm not going to do that this time, and I'm not going to tell you why. In order to tell you why, I'd have to make up a reason, and then you'd think that what I wrote was really the reason, giving you a illusory awareness. Although I want you to be unencumbered by speculation, I can't explain why.

A Brief History

The Fall Moab event has evolved over the years. When Fall Moab started, email was a new tool to play with, the World Wide Web of the Internet was still a twinkle in Al Gore's eye, and we rode Slickrock in shorts, t-shirts, and sandals. At first, we called it Fall Moab to distinguish it from Spring Moab and Solstice Moab and the other times of the year when we headed down to the Canyonlands.

In the early days, we went to Moab in groups of two or three guys -- often for just a single day -- and we went several times a year. I went down whenever anyone else did. I was single. The married guys had a more difficult time getting away, and when the married guys started having kids, it wasn't easy for them to get away, at least not without making a huge withdrawal from the bank of good will.

"Would you rather spend time with your friends or be with me?" says the wife.

"I'd rather be with you! But every once in awhile, for the teeniest bit of time, I want to have fun with my friends. But I love you more than biking and more than my friends. Have no illusions. You mean everything to me. You are my buttercup, my golden dove. I just want to ride my bicycle a little bit." So says the husband.

We came up with a name. Fall Moab.

"Honey, I just fixed the garage door and sent that package to your Aunt. Oh, by the way, Fall Moab this year is the first weekend in November. We're leaving on Friday morning and coming back on Sunday."

Even then, it didn't always work. Some of the guys couldn't make it for whatever reason. Fall Moab really became what it is now in the late 90s when guys moved out of the state and needed to make travel arrangements.

"Sugar Pod, I just cleaned out the attack and washed the car. Say, that reminds me -- Bob and Elden and Gary are flying back to Utah the first weekend in November. You know, Fall Moab."

How We Know Each Other

Dug, Ricky, Gary, Elden, and I all worked at WordPerfect. Dug and Brad lived next to each other in student housing. Paul and I knew each other when we were cub scouts. Brad did Paul's mortgage. Kenny rode Leadville with Elden and printed photos for my mother. Jeremy, Ryan, Scott, and Racer all worked in bike shops. Sleepy and Rick S. are Dug's brothers-in-law. Rick S. and I both work for Adobe. Paul knew Tom in high school. Dug invited Tom to ride with us. Tom invited Rich. Rich and Elden were neighbors. Elden is now dating Rich's ex-wife.

I love seeing these guys every Fall. And every year, a few new guys show up, which is great because it gives us a chance to tell the same stories. The red rock country feels more like home to me than any place in the Northwest.

This Year's Highlights

* Ryan's amazing drop off the cliff was something you had to see to believe.

* Rocky, Elden's brother-in-law who lives in Fruita, was an amazing tour guide. My only disappointment with him is that he somehow thinks I am either (A) a talented cyclist or (B) a fool, because he kept encouraging me to do things like ride my bike off tall ledges. On one such ledge, which required me to get speed, make a turn, and wheelie drop off the ledge, I didn't have enough speed to fly over it, and I didn't pull up hard enough to wheelie drop, so I went off the ledge awkwardly, slammed on my front wheel, and ended up with a flat tire and hurt feelings. Thanks, Rocky.

* Riding on those amazing trails that dipped into slot canyons and scrambled over ledges is one of my favorite things in life.

* All the riders on this trip were talented. I'm in pretty decent shape right now, and if we had a race, I would have finished in last place.

* We ate beer-brats and told stories around the campfire. Has anyone ever not had a good time telling stories around a campfire?

Good times.

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Drifters or Grifters?

2009-10-31T09:28:00.000-07:00

So I was riding my bike home on Wednesday night, minding my own business -- as always -- when I passed through a group of homeless people who have been hanging around this part of the bike trail for the last few weeks.

Now that I think about it, they could have been hanging out there for years. The city just extended the bike path on Alaska Way near the football and baseball stadiums (stadia?), so I've only recently been riding that new section, which just happens to be near Pioneer Square.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Seattle, Pioneer Square is an old and beautiful section of Seattle that's famous for (1) Elliot Bay Bookstore, (2) the underground ruins, (3) live music hopping, and (4) crime and homelessness. Unfortunately, crime and homelessness is on the rise in Pioneer Square, as evidenced by the fact that Elliot Bay Bookstore will be moving to Capitol Hill soon.

Anyway, a number of Pioneer Square ragamuffins have been making their way down to the bike path that runs under the Aurora Bridge and hanging out in a certain area, forcing cyclists to slow down and weave through them.

On Wednesday, as I was making my way through the crowd, I noticed a homeless guy look at me and then start riding ahead of me in the same direction. I was musing about why the guy decided to hop on his 45-pound mountain bike, and why he was riding in the middle of the path, and whether I should pass him on the left or right, when all the sudden he slammed on his brakes and turned his bike sideways.

I slammed on my brakes and t-boned his chain stay, barely pulling myself out of an endo. When I glanced at the guy for a reaction, he had a funny look on his face, as if he were trying to look sorry but was secretly disappointed. A few of the other loiterers approached the scene of the collision, and a woman was yelling, "Are you OK? Are you OK! Are you hurt?"

Something felt wrong. The last time I'd been in a situation like that was in Barcelona, when two guys hopped on the subway in front of me and started jostling each other unnaturally, which led me to think that they were trying to pull something over on someone. As it dawned on me that that someone was me, I turned around and noticed that a third guy had opened my fanny pack -- which was filled only with tourist maps and a bike lock* -- and was trying to pull out the coiled bike lock. I grabbed the other end of the bike lock, hopped on the subway, and won the little tug-o-war as the train pulled away.

* I have been using the coiled Avenir bike lock since 1989. Still works great.**

** Footnotes are frequently distracting.

Anyway, as I was standing next to this homeless guy I had crashed into while a woman behind me seemed overly concerned, I had one thought -- get the hell away from these people. No apologies, no demands for apologies, no lectures. Without saying a word, I hopped on my bike and rode off, even though the front fender was scraping against my wheel. I spent the rest of the ride home wondering whether this was a dopey accident or a lame scam.

I still don't know what that was all about. When I was riding home on Friday, I thought about skipping the new section of trail where the homeless loiter and just riding on the Alaska Way shoulder, but I was too curious. I rode along the homeless section on the night before Halloween with my head on a swivel, riding over leaves that may or may not have been covering cracked vials, used needles, and burnt spoons, looking for a person dressed in rags to jump out at me.

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Race Across the Sky

2009-10-23T06:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, Wendy and I went downtown to see Race Across the Sky, a documentary about the 2009 Leadville race. The movie was shown as a special event in theaters across the country, which I think is a cool thing for movies with a relatively small but enthusiastic audience -- vertical markets, as marketing people would call them.

The people who created the documentary did a good job of showing what the race is about. It's primarily a race for amateur cyclists who want to test themselves. Even though the Lance Armstrong-Dave Wiens battle is the focus of the movie, the filmmakers emphasized the grassroots nature of the event, cutting back and forth between the leaders and the unknown cyclists battling to finish. Personally, I would have preferred a little more of the unknown cyclist and a little less of the top riders.

Here's what I liked:

* Near the beginning of the movie, they showed the terrain by tracking a yellow line over a Google Earth-like map. They cut back and forth between the racers and this map, letting viewers know exactly where the racers are on the course.

* I was wondering how they would show the heartbreak of failure, which is very much a part of the Leadville experience, as Dug wrote about in my favorite Leadville write-up. Dug talks about a wife and kids waiting for their husband and father to roll across the finish line in under 12 hours, and the disappointment on their faces as the shotgun goes off and he's nowhere to be seen. You can't end the movie on a downbeat note like that, so instead of showing some of the tragic figures who cross after 12 hours -- I was one of those people in 2007 -- they show the people being pulled off the course before the Columbine climb because they missed the cut-off time. It's a great agony of defeat moment.

* They did a good job of emphasizing the altitude and its effects. All four times I've done the race, I've traveled from Seattle. The thin air isn't that big a deal to my Utah friends, but it's a major factor for some of us.

* They showed what a great job the volunteers and medical staff do. I was telling Wendy after the movie what a cool experience it is to pull into an aid station and get treated like royalty, despite the fact that I curse them while spitting half-eaten banana chunks at their feet. OK, that's not true.

* The scene where Lance is riding across the top of Columbine with a huge drop-off in the background. Purple mountain majesty that.

Here's what I didn't like:

* No mention of the 9-hour belt buckle. I guess they didn't want to over-complicate the story, but breaking the 9-hour mark is a huge deal to about a quarter of the racers.

* Not enough Fat Cyclist jerseys. I actually saw more Racer's jerseys than Fat Cyclist jerseys.

* Bob Roll narrates the movie and does a good job despite a few wince-inducing lines, but where were Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwin? They might very well have had something to say about Lance Armstrong.

I loved the movie. It's going to join my DVD collection as soon as it's available.

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October Update

2009-10-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

It is a possibility that my readership is dwindling.

I like to think that this is not the case. In fact, I assume that the longer I go between web log entries, the more hits I get, as devoted readers continue to click the link to my web site a couple times in the morning, once in the afternoon, and several times in the evening, and then more and more people join in the clicking fray. Unfortunately, there is no way to determine how many hits a web site gets, or else I would test this hypothesis using some kind of analytics program. For now, I'll treat it as a theory, like the theory of relativity, and assume that it is true because it falls under the umbrella of science.

Fatherhood

It turns out that I don't have much in common with 5-year-old boys. They like to talk about things that I don't care for, and I am frequently bored. Let's take last night as an example.

It was my turn to put the boys down. I gave them a bath and sat in their room while they toweled off and put on their pajamas. For people in their forties, toweling off and putting on pajamas takes less than a minute. For 5-year-olds, this task takes 7 hours unless they are prodded and coaxed and threatened. An argument broke out.

Max was upset because he had the idea of putting underwear on over his pajamas, superhero-style. Unfortunately, because he had put two pairs of pajamas on, and I made him take off the second pair, he watched in horror as Luke put underwear over his pajamas. You see, that was Max's idea. Max threw a fit. He shouted invectives at the brother born 20 minute before him.

Frankly, I wasn't interested in the argument. It was beneath me. So I just said things like, "It looks like there's no way out of this jam" and "Only one superhero wears his underwear over his pajamas, and that's Aquaman." Then I pressed my forefinger and thumb against the bridge of my nose and sighed. No one listens to me.

In case you're wondering how it played out, Luke put underwear on top of his head and hung his long soccer socks from each of the holes, making him a Super Rabbit of sorts. Max, seeing that Luke's version of a superhero differed from his, stopped throwing his fit, and covered his arms with socks. Both willingly brushed their teeth and succumbed to the ritual of reading books.

Good night, young superheroes. Now let me relax.

Weight Loss

When I rode in the Livestrong event in June, I weighed 194 pounds. A few weeks later, when Stan and Grey came up from Portland to visit, Grey noticed that several of us were fat and challenged us all to a weight loss contest. It was actually a smart contest. We must lose a certain amount of weight in two months, and stay below that target weight at a weigh-in five months later. If we fail to make our weight at either weigh-in, we must pay $75 to everyone else in the contest.

I was inspired enough to change my diet. No more grazing. No more apple fritters the size of my head. I permitted myself to eat whatever I wanted for breakfast and dinner, but I could eat only one dinner. No seconds. And just soup or salad for lunch. Given the fact that I lost 12 pounds in two weeks, you could imagine what my eating habits were before. Now I weigh 173 pounds or so, and I'm down to an A cup.

MS Bike Ride

In the summer, I got fired up about doing Leadville in 2010 on a singlespeed. Since I didn't sign up for any races this year, I treated the MS Bike Ride as if it were going to be a grueling event that required ferocious training. So I went on long weekend rides and did hill climbs and burst riding.

The MS Ride itself was laid back and charming. I camped with a bunch of other Adobe folks, but I rode on my own, at my own pace. The first day was a 90-mile ride around Whitbey Island. On the second day, I wanted to get back in time to see the end of the Colts game, so I rode the 70 miles averaging nearly 20 mph. This is fast for me. I was able to watch the end of the Colts game, which they won 14-12.

One drawback -- camping without a campfire is like having sex without an erection. For a man, I mean.

The First Week of School

Public school? Charter school? Private school? Try as I might, I couldn't avoid that discussion. We settled on public school.

The kindergarten teacher at our local public elementary school came by to visit us before school started. I looked at this as a positive sign. Also, our local elementary school shifted its budget a few years ago to prioritize small class sizes -- another positive sign. Unfortunately, that approach works for only a year or two in a good economy. In a bad economy, schools in bad neighborhoods shut down, and the poor kids flood into the neighboring schools, and the small class size advantage disappears as superintendents try for fairness.

I'll write about this some other time, but for now, let's just say that I have complex, conflicting opinions about race.

The first two weeks of school were rough. When I dropped the boys off while Wendy was working, I was shocked by the chaos. Instead of simply meeting in front of their classrooms, all the kids in the school, including the 70+ refugees from Senegal, met in a huge playground and lined up for their classes as the bell rang. Each teacher then led a class to their rooms, or tried to, as the different lines circled back and crossed each other. Children frequently spaced out and didn't keep up, so they ended up wandering around and crying. "I can't find my backpack!" It was heartbreaking.

Luke and Max each professed to hating school. As in, "I hate school. I have a tummy ache."

As expected, the kids have settled into a rhythm and now claim they love school. Just when I was thinking it wasn't such a bad idea to send our boys to a public Seattle school, we got a flyer yesterday that said one of the kids in the class has head lice, so we need to check the boys' scalps regularly for crawling critters. I'm trying to look at it as an adventure.

But I'm going to be doing some supplemental teaching.

Groundwork

As I continue to read mindless books and avoid creative endeavors of all types, I am laying the groundwork of a mid-life crisis. I imagine my mid-life crisis will not take the form of a sports car and young girlfriend. Instead, i expect to be kayaking in South America or sighing heavily between play dates. We'll see.

Go Mariners

2009-09-30T13:42:00.000-07:00

A friend forwarded me this post called "Call of the Year." Even though I knew what was going to happen, I still got chills.

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Top 5 Favorite Parking Lots

2009-09-01T12:31:00.000-07:00

Is it true that anticipation is better than satisfaction? For children on Christmas Eve and newly married virgins, I'd say yes. For people looking forward to Arbor Day, I'd say no. For mountain bikers, I'd say maybe.

The five parking lots that get me the most giddy with anticipation are as follows (in reverse order for dramatic suspense):

(5) Tiger Mountain

At one point, riding Tiger Mountain used to depress me. Instead of riding with the Core Team -- Dug, Elden, Rick, Brad, Gary -- I rode alone. Pulling into the parking lot at Tiger Mountain made me think that I made a huge mistake in moving up to Seattle.

Now, Tiger Mountain is one of my favorite rides. When I pull into the parking lot, I wonder if I can make the crux moves on the Iverson trail. I wonder if I'll have the guts to ride across the log after the second switchback on Preston Trail.

I do this ride alone most of the time, but I'm fine with that now. I like Seattle, sure, but more importantly, I have an iPod. An iPod makes friends irrelevant.

(4) Gooseberry Mesa

I'm always a little pissy pulling into the Gooseberry Mesa parking area because I'm sick of driving on all those dirt roads. Then when I pull my bike off the rack and start thinking about the twisting trail and crux moves, the grumpiness fades away.

(3) Tibble Fork

A few years ago, Tibble Fork would have battled for the number one slot, which I won't give away at this point in the web log entry because I don't want to ruin the dramatic suspense. Single-speed bikes makes Tibble not quite as exciting for me as it used to be.

The first mile of nasty, steep, gnarly trail is rideable only on a geared bike. In fact, we used to see who could "no-dab" it -- ride the whole mile without stopping or touching your foot on the ground. I was so excited I used to stretch out and warm up my legs before starting the ride to improve my chances of making it up the double switchback move.

For a brief time every year, I was in good enough shape to recover while riding up the less steep sections of that trail. If everything came together -- if my legs were warm, my lungs were fit, the trail was packed but dry -- I could no-dab it. I think. I actually can't remember if I ever no-dabbed it to the saddle. Let's just go ahead and assume I did, for the sake of argument.

(2) Gold Bar Rim

The parking lot itself is nothing special, but pulling in to the Gold Bar Rim trailhead means we'll be riding all day long. It means the start of the Main Event of Fall Moab.

(1) Slickrock

This wins. For one thing, the parking lot is paved. That's really good for drinking beer and playing derby.

For another thing, the moonscape scenery is striking. And there is a bathroom. And a metal grate that you ride over to start the ride.

Most important, there is all the history. It's where we started naming moves -- Easy As Pie (where a guy said the steep move was easy as pie just before he crashed), The Bowl, Hair Lip Hill (where the upper ledge used to give us fits), The Z Move, Egg Puke Hill (where some random rider lost his breakfast), The Sand Trap.

Slickrock is the first ride where I rode on clipless pedals. Slickrock is where Dug and I used to race each other, back before there was such a thing as the Leadville 100.

Slickrock is where I fell in love with mountain biking. Pulling into the Slickrock parking lot is like pulling out a box of old letters from friends. I can't wait until the next time I get to ride over that metal grate.

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Embarrassing Conversations with My Children, Part XIV

2009-08-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

Wendy's family just left town. Wendy is out of town on a business trip. My parents are coming in to visit on tomorrow. That means that for about 26 hours, the boys and I have the house to ourselves. To celebrate, we did our ritualistic trip to Barnes & Noble. First we eat lunch, and then we go into the Children's Literature section where we sit in our secret corner to read books.

To my sons' frustration, we don't make a direct route from the food area to the kids' books area. I stop by the Audiobooks section, the Fiction & Literature section*, and either the WWII section or the Adventure Books section, with Max grabbing my hand and saying, "Come on, Dad!"

Today, Luke pointed at the cover of a book and got excited.

"Dad! Dad!" he said. "M. C. Hammer! It's M. C. Hammer!"

"No, that's Barack Obama."

"Oh."

Two women laughed behind me. One of them was black. I was speechless.

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* Barnes & Noble has a crappy Fiction & Literature section. Sure, it's about the same as Borders, but when you go into a decent bookstore, and I'm not talking about a fantastic bookstore like Powell's or Elliot Bay -- I'm just talking about your average independent bookstore -- the Fiction section is always richer.

And here's one of my pet peeves. Barnes & Noble puts in a ton of furniture when a store first opens, and then they slowly take most of the comfy chairs away. On the Soul Rating Scale, Burger King and Barnes & Noble are in the same category. Therefore, in honor of my sister-in-law who recently shaved her head bald to get a tattoo of a chakra pyramid that will open her third eye, I am hereby sending negative vibes towards the Barnes & Noble executives. Deal with that!

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2009 MS Bike Ride

2009-08-21T10:06:00.000-07:00

Besides doing a naked monkey dance, what could be more fun than doing a bike ride for a good cause?

I'm going to ride in the Mount Vernon 2009 Bike MS Ride on Sept. 12-13. If you’ve been itching to give money to a good cause but just can’t find the right charity, consider the National MS Society. If you’d like to contribute, here’s my page:

Bob's MS Donation Page

It's for a good cause. But you know, if you need your money for other things like gambling and prostitution, Jerry Lewis' kids will understand.

A Swing and a Wiff

2009-08-13T22:27:00.000-07:00

When I got the announcement that the Second Annual Adobe Wiffleball League was starting, I meant to join. I used to spend hours playing wiffleball in grade school and high school. And college. Unfortunately, a part of me resists Seattle in general and the Adobe culture in particular. For that reason or some other, I didn't sign up.

A member of the Knee Sox came into my office and said I needed to be on the team. "Sure." When I went to play in my first game, 18 players showed up for our team. Only 6 can play at one time. There's an old wiffleball saying, "Six is company, eighteen is a crowd," so I looked for a new team. A player on Ken Wiffey Jr Fan Club had just gotten injured, so the captain of the Knee Sox happily traded me to Ken Wiffey. He joked that I was being traded for a bag of peanuts.

Everyone thought this was a great solution except for Dylan. Dylan is the mentally challenged mail deliverer. And by "mentally challenged," I don't mean that he struggles with 4-star Sudoku puzzles. I mean he is mentally retarded. No matter where he is, he speaks loudly, slowly, and clearly.

"WE HAVE A BIG GAME TODAY, BOB. IF WE SCORE A LOT OF RUNS, WE HAVE A GOOD CHANCE OF WINNING."

That was the last thing Dylan said to me. Now he doesn't talk to me. You see, my new team, Ken Wiffey, played against my old team, the Knee Sox, and we destroyed them. Whenever I came up to bat, people made jokes about my being a traitor, and then I would crush the ball, and that would be followed by "enjoy your peanuts" humor.

The next time I saw Dylan, I told him it was very hot outside. Instead of saying, "YES, IT IS SO HOT I WOULD RATHER STAY INSIDE," he stared at the floor of the elevator. My friend who convinced me to join the league told me that Dylan was still upset that I switched teams.

Here's the odd thing. I really got into wiffleball, as challenged as that sounds. Our team won five games in a row and moved into playoff position. In last Thursday's game, with two out and two on in the top of the final inning of a tight game, I smacked a three-run homer that went over the bushes and landed on the Burke-Gilman Trail. And by smacked, I mean crushed, creamed, smeared, whacked, cold-cocked. I jogged around the bases, stepped on home plate, and bashed forearms with delighted teammates.

I know it's goofy, but I walked around after the last few games with a smile on my face. It put me in a good mood. When I saw a guy on my team, we stopped and chatted about the next game. All we had to do was win the final game -- against a team that was 1-9 -- and we're in the playoffs.

We played tight. In the last inning, we were down a run, and I was the first batter. I needed to get on base to start a rally. The pitcher threw two curves, both balls, and I knew he would come in with a fat pitch to get a strike. Instead of calmly waiting on the pitch and driving it, I opened my hips early, peeked at the Burke-Gilman Trail, and hit a dribbler. Out. Two batters later and our season was over.

Here's the thing. I'm going to have a difficult time sleeping tonight. I choked. I am going to toss and turn worse tonight than I did after the Colts lost to the Chargers in the playoffs last year.

I need to forget about the whole thing. I need to keep this failure in perspective. I need to settle my rift with Dylan and put it past me. I need to trick myself into believing that wiffleball isn't that important.

No way. Wait til next year.

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Susan's Funeral

2009-08-11T16:10:00.000-07:00

When Dug and I showed up at Elden's door for a Saturday morning ride, I'm not quite sure what I expected. I certainly didn't expect Elden to answer the door with a howdy-ho cheerfulness.

"Hey! I'll open the garage. Which bike do you want to use, Bobby? The Superfly or the Fisher? Do you have a helmet?"

Dug had just picked me up at the airport, and we weren't even sure Elden would be up for a ride. So we loaded our bike stuff onto Dug's car and drove up to a parking lot at the top of the Alpine Loop, where we waited for the other guys to show up.

Whenever you're waiting at a parking lot for other riders, you derby. It isn't even a question. No one says "Go!" and no one even says, "Derby on!" You just ride in front of someone and stop, or you t-bone someone, and that's the start. There are only two rules in derby -- 1) hands on handlebars, 2) feet on pedals. As long as you follow those rules, you do whatever you can to knock other guys off their bikes.

Dug has the most experience. His elbowing is adequate and his balance is above average, but it's his head-butting that gives him his edge. Elden is -- and always will be -- slightly clumsier than any other rider, and that can work to his advantage. He's capable of taking anyone down with him.

Kenny and Larry finally showed up, and the four of us rode through the mountains, chatting comfortably and joking.

During the whole ride -- in fact, during the whole weekend -- I thought about Susan's death. I thought about how much she meant to Elden, and how much she meant to her children, and how much they would miss her.

I thought about how the cancer destroyed her body and tortured her for months. For years. I wondered how helpless and heartsick her family had to have felt as they watched her battle.

While all these thoughts were bouncing around in my head, we talked about singlespeeds and Leadville and audiobooks.

The funeral service on Monday morning was packed with people who showed up to mourn Susan's death and support the people she left behind. The service itself was beautiful. Elden somehow managed to give a tribute without breaking down, and the other speakers conveyed a good sense of what made Susan unique.

Susan didn't just try to be good. She was good. Genuinely good. She was warm-hearted and selfless and sincere.

I'll miss her.

Something else that was rattling inside my head during the trip was how Elden and Susan and their friends and family fought so hard and gave so much to help each other. Witnessing all that love and sacrifice made me feel hope and -- something totally unexpected at a funeral -- joy.

Rest in Peace, Susan

2009-08-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

Susan Nelson finally died tonight after a long battle with cancer. She and Elden inspired thousands of people and helped raise more than a half million dollars -- so far -- for the Livestrong Foundation. A great fight like that is always a victory.

On the flip side of the coin, my sister Lisa seems to have gotten rid of cancer. She's feeling much better.

I may be going out on a limb to say this, but I'll do it anyway. Cancer sucks.

Another Wedding Video

2009-07-24T13:12:00.001-07:00

My niece was recently engaged to be married. At first, she and her fiance were going to be married in a Utah temple and then have two receptions -- one with her Dad's side of the family in Utah and one with her Mom's side of the family in California. So far, so good (except for the fact that she's only 19 years old, and it's no longer 1947).

Then the plans changed, so the reception and wedding were going to take place at the same time in California. My ex-brother-in law, Kirk, insisted on inviting his second wife's extended family to the wedding, but Shari wasn't too keen on that idea. She would likely get stuck paying for the whole shebang since Kirk owes more money to more people than Lenny Dykstra and Bernie Madoff combined.

Kirk probably said that (A) he's good for it, and (B) they should just have a pot luck dinner in which everyone brings potato salad and Jello and meat products. Kind of like at his first wedding, the one in Bluebell, Utah. (My favorite dessert at that wedding was animal crackers.) I'm just guessing. I have no idea what happened.

Anyway, if the wedding had taken place, there would have been underlying hostility, which goes against the very idea of a wedding. You know, where the community gathers to celebrate a couple's commitment to each other.

Like this wedding:

The Old Man and the Putter

2009-07-20T06:47:00.000-07:00

Tom Watson will turn 60 next month, yet he led the British Open -- one of the four majors -- going in to the final hole. All he needed was a par to win. When Jack Nicklaus won the Masters at the old age of 46, people went nuts about how the old man turned back the clock, sent a message to the younsters, etc. Watson was 14 years older than Nicklaus. A 60-year-old is old enough to be a 46-year-old's father, especially back in the 1940s, when birth control was managed with lunar cycles and cod liver oil.

We were watching history unfold.

After making a birdie on the 17th hole, Watson simply needed to par the 18th hole to win the British Open. Of course, the 25 mph winds weren't making it easy. The old man stepped up and drilled the drive right down the middle of the fairway. If he could knock the second shot over the sand traps and onto the green, he'd win, causing the likes of Rick Reilly to wax profound. Watson's victory would join the pantheon of great Cinderella sporting events -- Buster Douglas knocking out Mike Tyson, Bobby Thompson's Shot Heard Round the World, Villanova's win over Georgetown, Seabiscuit.

Watson addressed the ball, still refusing to look nervous. He swung smoothly. The camera focused on his reaction. He smiled, nodded his head, and seemed to tear up a bit, as if he'd come through in hitting the perfect shot. I pumped my fist. The camera then showed the ball landing on the green just past the deep sand traps. The ball hit hard, lurched forward and rolled toward the pin. It looked good. And then it rolled slowly past the pin, and just kept rolling slowly, slowly, Titleist 3, Titleist 3, until it rolled off the green and down a steep hill.

Instead of having an easy two-putt par for the victory, Watson now had to make a difficult up-and-down. I was surprised the announcers didn't make a bigger deal of Watson having to make the transition from thinking he had hit a perfect shot to getting out of trouble.

It reminded me of a tennis tournament I watched 15 or so years ago between Andre Agassi and Boris Becker. Agassi, at the peak of his "Image is everything" phase, was rolling along, up a set and a break. He said something playful to the crowd, and people laughed. Then Becker did something brilliant and brutal. He laughed sarcastically and glared at Agassi. When the camera showed Agassi getting ready to serve, he looked ashamed, as if an older kid had just stolen his A-Team lunch box during recess. (Not that I'm still bitter about my A-Team lunch box being stolen. That has nothing to do with this. I don't even miss my A-Team lunch box.) Anyway, Agassi was never the same. Becker broke back, won the set, and then won the next two sets. The announcers, of course, failed to mention why the momentum switched. But I knew. And if I hadn't been watching the tennis match alone, anyone else in the room would have known, too.

With Watson's beautifully struck shot that bizarrely ended up in danger, I don't know if that made him fall apart. I think it did. In my mind, he never recovered from thinking he'd hit the winning shot. After that, he used his putter to chip it 8 feet passed the hole, and then his old man hands faltered badly on the 8-foot putt. He never had a chance in the 4-hole playoff against a guy who will be known forever as The Evil Stewart Cink.

What a sad loss. It proved that old people just can't do things as well as young people.

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There Is Forgiveness in my Heart

2009-07-10T19:04:00.000-07:00

My friend Dug has been waxing eloquently of late. Even though his prose is overwrought, his heart seems to be in the right place.

When a Friend Gets Awkward

2009-07-08T11:21:00.001-07:00

I don't know if you're like this, but there are times when a friend, someone I've known for years and years, surprises me with odd behavior. In the last year, I've been disappointed a couple of times, causing me to re-evaluate my perception of a friend. Most recently, this happened with Dug.

Dug is supposed to be a crank. We all know that and accept that. If you make a bad joke or use a word incorrectly, he calls you on it. Because he's a crank.

He acts like he doesn't care about anyone or anything. If anyone else acted that way, you'd back off, but with Dug, it's different. You know, deep down, that it's a facade. Dug is a good soul. He just never shows it.

Until now.

Dug just recently posted a blog entry that made me feel uncomfortable. It's just too much information. I don't want to see that kind of emotion expressed, especially from someone who gets so much mileage out of being cranky.

I don't know what to think of Dug anymore.

Camping Seattle Style

2009-07-03T07:24:00.000-07:00

Back when I lived in Provo, I missed camping. These were the days before kayaking and mountain biking trips, so I wasn't getting my fill of the outdoors. So I tried convincing some friends to go camping with me. I lived in the same apartment complex with several friends, kind of like a Melrose Place situation (in fact, it was exactly like Melrose Place), and I thought the smartest thing to do would be to organize everything. I planned the meals and got the tarps and tents and all that. It was a huge hassle. Despite my efforts, the people complained. "Don't you have a warmer sleeping bag? I was freezing last night!"

The next summer, I took the opposite approach. I told a few people that I was going camping, and if anyone wanted to come along, my pickup truck was leaving at 5:30 pm sharp. But you have to get your own gear, and make your own meals, and if you can't fit in the back of the truck, you have to find your own ride. As you can guess, that approach worked great, and Friday camping turned into a tradition. We just drove a little ways up the canyon on a Friday afternoon and set up our tents. In fact, talking about this reminded me of something I hadn't thought about in years.

I had a sling shot -- a wrist rocket -- that helped me menace small animals and trees. I never hit any squirrels, but I did nab a few trees, the bigger and less darty ones. And then one day, a herd of deer wandered near our camp site. I took careful aim -- Say hello to my little friend -- and wham!. I shot a deer in the butt. The deer reacted cartoonishly, jumping about 15 feet straight up in the air and then, when it finally landed, bolted off into the woods, unharmed but humiliated.

Camping in Seattle isn't as easy as camping in Provo. For one thing, in order to get the same kind of campground here in Seattle, we had to drive about 100 miles and pay Motel 6 rates to set up camp near Roslyn, the little town where Northern Exposure was filmed. For another thing, I couldn't just tell everyone they're on their own. We had to find gear for the boys, as well as for Kim and Bethany, my sister-in-law and niece.

Bethany's sleeping bag was too cold. I have mixed feelings about this. Back when we lived in Indiana, Bethany needed to borrow one of our sleeping bags for some kind of girl scout outing, so I loaned her my black zero-degree Kelty bag, which I had bought for climbing glaciers in Washington. When Bethany returned my sleeping bag to me, it was green instead of black. I asked her what happened to my bag, and I got an odd, befuddling story that teenagers are wont to tell. It put me in that awkward situation where I had to decide between letting it go or making a big deal of it, so I let it go. And now, after shivering all night long in the green sleeping bag, Bethany wishes that I had made a big deal of it. Like rain on your wedding day, it's ironic.

And here's another element of irony. In order to "relax" for a few days of camping, you have to spend roughly half the amount of time (0.5x) bustling to get ready to camp. In other words, a 72-hour camp trip requires 36 hours of preparatory bustling.

Lake Cooper is stunningly beautiful, however, and the relaxing is therapeutic. All that relaxation goes away quickly when the boys need to get ready for bed. Luke and Max wore shorts, t-shirts, and sandals, they "helped" with the fire, and what food they didn't eat still managed to touch a part of their body. To use understatement, they were dirty. To use mild hyperbole, if they showed up for a scene in a movie based on a Dickens novel, they'd be sent back to the make-up room because "people don't get that dirty working in a coal mine."

Having been pulled out of my reverie, I was in a grouchy mood, so I set up an assembly line. I had the boys strip down and stand on the picnic table, and then I washed them down with a bucket of water that very quickly started looking like that sludge coffee from Saving Private Ryan. Max started crying and demanding a band-aid because I rubbed one of his owies, but I would have none of it. After I got on their jammies in the dark, I pulled out their toothbrushes and smeared on toothpaste. While I bustled elsewhere, I told them to brush their teeth. They started brushing, and then looked at each other.

"This doesn't taste right."

"This tastes bitter."

"Yeah, this tastes bitter."

I reached into the plastic bag and realized I had grabbed the wrong tube.

"Of course it tastes bad. That's shampoo. Now give me your brushes and let's do it right this time!"

Zen and the art of camping.

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Two Great REM Songs

2009-06-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

From 1986 to 1992, "R.E.M." used to be my answer to the question, "What's your favorite band?' Then, from 1992 to 1999, my answer was "The Band," and from 1999 to 2005, my answer was "Radiohead." Now, music reporters have stopped "catching up to" me to fire questions at me. And frankly, I am enjoying the anonymity.

But wait. I was talking about R.E.M., not my decline in popularity among music critics. Here is R.E.M.'s finest song, "Fall on Me":

And here is a great song from the unplugged MTV show that didn't make it onto the unplugged CD for whatever reason.

There's that great moment when Mike Mills breaks in and takes over the vocals. It gives me chills. I should write a blog entry called something like "Greatest Little Outbursts in Songs." I'd add the moment when Neil Young sings the "Ma, send me money now / I'm gonna make it somehow / I need another chance" in "Cinnamon Girl" and when Bruce Springsteen sings"But I remember us riding in my brother's car / Her body tan and wet down in the reservoir" in "The River." But I don't want to take the suspense away from the future exciting web log entry that I'll most surely write.

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Best Movie-Going Experiences

2009-06-15T21:39:00.000-07:00

Andy and I were talking about movies, and the issue of how various factors can affect someone's appreciation of the movie. This seems so obvious, yet rarely do people like Roger Ebert say things like, "I thought I would have enjoyed Room Without a View more, but the theater restroom had rough toilet paper, thus putting me in a state of discomfiture. That, and the movie sucked."

I know I've seen movies that I should have liked more. There was The Sacrifice by Tarkovsky, which I walked out of. You see, I was caught up in March Madness at the time, so I wasn't in the right frame of mind to appreciate dripping water. I would have been fine with three or four minutes of dripping water, but forty-three minutes of dripping water was too much.

Then the subject turned to which movies Andy most enjoyed in the theater. I asked him to separate what he felt about the movie afterwards or in repeated viewings, and just try to think of the experience itself. He gave his list, but fortunately for you, dear reader, I wasn't able to give my list, for dinner was served. The frustration of an incomplete conversation led to this web log entry.

Here's my list, in order of viewings:

Silent Movie - This Mel Brooks movie was on cable television the other night, but I refused to watch it. Deep down, I know it's a crappy movie, but I want to preserve it. When I saw it in the theater, I was a young teenager with a bunch of friends -- Paul, Steve, Mark, Dave, and Lance I think -- and we were all sitting in the same row, and the laughter was infectious. I've never laughed harder during a movie. The only thing I remember about the movie was a slapstick scene with clumsy people dressed in armor. Oh, and Marcel Marceau is the only person who speaks during the movie. Get it? He's a mime.

Jaws - My parents wouldn't let me see this movie because it was too violent. When they finally relented, the buzz built up my expectations to impossible heights, yet Jaws was one of those rare movies that couldn't be overhyped.

Citizen Kane - Pretentiousness alert. Sorry, but it's true. I loved this movie so much when I saw it in the old Joseph Smith Building auditorium that I sat through the next viewing as well. I was taken in by a bunch of movies I saw for that film class at BYU -- Shane, The Story of Adele H, The General, Nanook of the North, The Best Years of Our Lives, Being There. The only movie I really didn't like at the time was The Best Years of Our Lives because it didn't have enough action for an alleged World War II movie. Now it's my favorite movie on the list. Go figure.

Raiders of the Lost Ark - I saw this movie the day before I left home to go on my mission to Peru. Fantastic thrill ride. The movie, I mean. Well, the mission was exciting too. I vomited on a family and had bricks dropped at me from tops of buildings. But the movie was even more exciting, because it had jungles and snakes.

Silence of the Lambs - While Anthony Hopkins was great as Hannibal Lecter in that movie, that other guy was just as good as Jame Gumb.

"Wait, was she a great big fat person?"

"Yeah, she was a big girl."

The Sixth Sense - This nearly forgotten movie totally sucked me in.

Titanic - No, I wasn't a 13-year-old girl when I saw this movie. The scene where the upraised stern starts sinking is one of the finest moments in cinema history, along with the horse ride through fire scene in Gone With the Wind and the shower scene in Private School.

The Hangover - I bent over with guffaws at least three times. "Tigers love pepper. They hate cinnamon."

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The Most Irritating Driving Move

2009-06-09T06:58:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to think of the most irritating driving move. For a time, I thought it was the guy who weaves through traffic under the premise that no one else will change speeds or switch lanes. But that's not it. That kind of person is actually interesting in a way. I imagine he thinks everyone else is an automaton, whereas he is a rebel, a maverick -- someone who stands high enough above the crowd to push everyone out of his way. There's something about that guy I respect. I wouldn't even mind listening to his collection of self-actualization cassettes.

What about the Bloomington woman who yields her rightful turn at a four-way stop because she's a very nice person. No, I know I stopped here before you, but you go ahead. No, you go ahead. I've very nice. Go ahead. Oh, I'm sorry. We both started to go at the same time! You go. Just go ahead. Oh, and maybe you should turn that frown up-side-down! She's in the running.

There's the guy who tailgates, and there's the guy who turns without using his blinker. I'm a little reluctant to throw stones at those guys, because sometimes I drive too close to the car in front of me, and if I'm holding something in one hand, a lot of times it's much easier to make a turn without turning on the blinker, and only later do I realize someone was behind me and had a moment of confusion due to my failure to use a blinker. So I'm inclined to give those guys a pass.

There's the oblivious cell phone driver. Yeah, Dude, I'm totally gonna buy pretzels. I said I'd buy pretzels and that means I'm going to buy pretzels. Don't bring up the Doritos again. I never said I'd bring Doritos. I said I might bring Doritos. Dude, you're pissing me off, and there's some dude in a Rodeo giving me the bird.

As a commuter cyclist, I have to call out the people who drive too close to me when there's no oncoming traffic. If I happen to dodge a pothole or broken glass at the wrong time, there's going to be an ugly collision. I could get bounced backwards off the windshield and go flying in the air, and maybe strike a speed limit sign, which would knock the wind out of me. Then I'd have to fish for my cell phone to call Wendy and tell her to come pick me up because my bike is jammed in someone's wheel well.

Or there's the classic goofball move of speeding up to pass a cyclist and then cutting him off with a right turn. I'd guess that happens to me once a month.

Or there's the person who gets grouchy and honks at me when I roll through a red light, even if it's a red light at a t-intersection where there's no danger to my right, and no reason for me to stop, other than the law. I've dealt with enough guilt and shame as a Mormon without having to fight off the guilt imposed by jealous honkers. But let's forget about cyclists and get back to drivers.

I just thought of a winner. It's the guy who's behind you when you approach a bus or some other slow vehicle, moves out in the left lane and doesn't make it clear whether he's going to pass you or let you pass in front of him. He just kind of hangs out behind and to the left of your rear bumper while you approach the bus. If he zips past you, fine. If he hangs back and lets you pass, fine. But just sitting there, zoned out, thinking about his dog and how much he likes his dog and how much his dog means to him and how much meaning his dog adds to his life, well, I think we have a winner.

Rambling Thoughts on Politics

2009-05-13T21:31:00.000-07:00

It's been several months since I've addressed the nation -- indeed, the world -- on politics.

Barack Obama

I don't know what to think about President Obama. That's not exactly a bold thing to say, is it? Trust me, I'm not afraid of using this web log to take a strong stand. I really, truly, honestly don't know what to think about him.

Torture

What bothers me so much about this is that the subject of torture has somehow migrated from right vs. wrong to left vs. right. When the Abu Ghraib photos came out, I don't recall anyone on the right saying, "Yes, we Americans are torturing our enemies, but it's yielding valuable information." No. Everyone was shocked and angry. Republicans were mad at the likes of Lyndie England, along with any partisan leftist who dared inquire whether these sordid actions were systemic mandates.

Now, the logic from an alarming number of the right is that torture is necessary to protect the country. This is further evidence that contemporary Republicans have a cowardly streak in them. Abandoning a moral code in the face of danger is cowardly.

The State of the Republican Party

Speaking of Republicans, there's a debate right now in Republican circles about the best way to return to power. The Cut Taxes/Bring It On/Remember 9/11 approach hasn't quite gotten it done recently, so what next? Should the Republicans move towards the conservative center or the extreme right?

In a two-party system, we can't afford for one of the parties to be so messed up. We need a somewhat respectable party to balance whatever ways in which the Democrats push the sliders too far to the left.

Update: Apparently, a Republican official named Lawrence Wilkerson discusses this issue of torture and the decline of the Republican party.

Likewise, what I have learned is that as the administration authorized harsh interrogation in April and May of 2002--well before the Justice Department had rendered any legal opinion--its principal priority for intelligence was not aimed at pre-empting another terrorist attack on the U.S. but discovering a smoking gun linking Iraq and al-Qa'ida.

So furious was this effort that on one particular detainee, even when the interrogation team had reported to Cheney's office that their detainee "was compliant" (meaning the team recommended no more torture), the VP's office ordered them to continue the enhanced methods. The detainee had not revealed any al-Qa'ida-Baghdad contacts yet. This ceased only after Ibn al-Shaykh al-Libi, under waterboarding in Egypt, "revealed" such contacts. Of course later we learned that al-Libi revealed these contacts only to get the torture to stop.

There in fact were no such contacts. (Incidentally, al-Libi just "committed suicide" in Libya. Interestingly, several U.S. lawyers working with tortured detainees were attempting to get the Libyan government to allow them to interview al-Libi....)

Less important but still busting my chops as a Republican, is the damage that the Sith Lord Cheney is doing to my political party.

He and Rush Limbaugh seem to be its leaders now. Lindsay Graham, John McCain, John Boehner, and all other Republicans of note seem to be either so enamored of Cheney-Limbaugh (or fearful of them?) or, on the other hand, so appalled by them, that the cat has their tongues. And meanwhile fewer Americans identify as Republicans than at any time since WWII. We're at 21% and falling--right in line with the number of cranks, reprobates, and loonies in the country.

When will we hear from those in my party who give a damn about their country and about the party of Lincoln?

When will someone of stature tell Dick Cheney that enough is enough? Go home. Spend your 70 million. Luxuriate in your Eastern Shore mansion. Shoot quail with your friends--and your friends.

Stay out of our way as we try to repair the extensive damage you've done--to the country and to its Republican Party.

-- Lawrence Wilkerson

If it's true that Americans were torturing people to uncover a link between Al Qaeda and Iraq to justify going to war, does it get uglier than that? And going back to Obama, should he help expose the torturers, or is he playing it smart by distancing himself from it? I dunno.

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On Writing Well

2009-05-07T07:23:00.000-07:00

Even I'll admit that I haven't been writing much lately. Fortunately, I'm not the only writer in the family. Max and Luke have been composing fiction. Let's start with Max's story:

Date: April 28, 2009
Name: Max

Once upon a time, there was a big pokey ball. And the big pokey ball one day hit the ground. And then it exploded. And then they made a new one. But it was different. It was different because the inside of the other one didn't have anything in it. And the other one, it had some stuff in it, and the stuff was metal. And this time, when it hit the ground, it didn't explode. It bounced up, but it made a big hole in the ground. And it made a BIG explosion. And it made a new cloud. And the man in it, in the crane that has the ball, he wished for a wishing diamond. And one day the whole crane got broken. But they made a new one, and it was blacker. And the other one, the ball went bouncing away. So they made a new one. And this time, the metal was darker. And this time, they made a face on the crane. And then they made an even better crane. And this time the crane had two balls. One was little and one was big. And then they made a new ball, and this time the ball was orange. And it was medium sized.

The End

Fine art both invites and resists interpretation. With Max's story, it's easy to get so caught up in the rising action and falling action of the plot that you miss the underlying symbolism. The crane as a Christ figure. The pokey ball as the symbol of post-industrialism. The man in the crane as a communist sympathizer. Indeed, the conflict between capitalism and communism is no less evocative than the battle between Good and Evil. Notice the biblical style. Replace "And" with "And it came to pass," break it up into new paragraphs, and add paragraph numbering, and you have scripture.

He even uses the King James trick of pulling an adjective out of one sentence and forming a second sentence. Instead of writing, "It had some metal stuff in it," he wrote, "It had some stuff in it. And the stuff was metal." No, concerned prigs and marms, that sentence does not need to "be tightened." It's majestic. It's emphatic. The metal is significant. Think about the metal. Ponder it. Revel in it, you sinning fascist. While doing so, notice the sexual imagery, and notice that the sexual imagery is underlying.

Like all art, Max's story is open to multiple interpretations. However, it's important not to get so caught up in critical conjecture that you dismiss the story. It is a story that is not real, but is reality itself. It does not mean, but is.

Now, on to Luke's story:

Date: April 28, 2009
Name: Luke

Once upon a time there was a horse. And it couldn't talk.

The End

I feel the same way about post-modernism that I feel about hip-hop music. When will this derivative self-parody be recognized as the fad it is and go away like disco? I don't want to be too hard on Luke, because he's a young writer with plenty of promise, but anyone can do that kind of thing. "Once upon a time there was a red wheelbarrow, and it wasn't glazed in rain water. The end." Please. I prefer his neo-post-Colonial fiction.

Tax Day

2009-04-15T13:38:00.000-07:00

On April 15, 1452, Leonardo DaVinci was born. Leonardo painted the Mona Lisa and served as the inspiration for a mutant ninja turtle.

On April 15, 1843, Henry James was born. Shortly after his entrance into the world, he is reported to have said, "Indeed."

On April 15, 1861, the American Civil War started. Abraham Lincoln declared there was an insurrection uprising and called out union troops. The South would have won that war had they not run outta amnition.

On April 15, 1865, Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in what must be the disappointing performance by an actor in a theater.

On April 15, 1912, the Titanic took a little more than 2 1/2 hours to sink. With 2,223 people on board, the lifeboats had the capacity for 1,178 passengers, but only 706 survived. 1,517 people died, including a young man named Jack, who could not float on the same piece of wood as his new girlfriend and thus sunk dead, reaching skyward. His heart still goes on.

On April 15, 1947, Jackie Robinson made his debut for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Unfortunately, black people are no longer all that interested in baseball.

On April 15, 2009, you have to pay your taxes to the United States government.

I Want You

2009-04-10T08:09:00.000-07:00

Bob Dylan's "I Want You" is one of my favorite songs, only not when Dylan sings it. Don't get me wrong -- I think Dylan is a fine performer, and Blonde on Blonde is one of my favorite albums. It's just that Dylan's version of "I Want You" is a bit too folky or melancholy or flat or boring. In the context of Blonde on Blonde, it's perfectly decent.

At least two other singers have done better renditions.

In the original broadcast of Bob Dylan's 30th Anniversary Special, someone named Sophie B. Hawkins did an excellent cover of "I Want You" that came closer to fulfilling the divine nature of what the song could have been had not Bob Dylan flattened the song. For some reason likely related to a financial dispute, Hawkins' version isn't on the video or the album. Hey, here it is:

While reading a book about Bruce Springsteen called Born to Run, I read that Bruce did a version of this song as well. Twitterpated, I had to skip my fatherly duties and go find it. This is especially bad because today is Wendy's birthday, and I'm ignoring everyone to hunt down Mr. Springsteen's version. Here's Bruce Springsteen's version, which contains the appropriate degree of longing:

The Quorum of the Twelve Apostates

2009-04-06T22:54:00.000-07:00

I get Google Alerts to track what's going on in the InDesign world. One of the hits was about an awkward typo that caused the BYU school newspaper to be pulled off the racks and reprinted -- more than 18,000 copies.

This Deseret News article has the details:

After a day of student interviews and reviewing audit trails, Evans said he believes the gaffe ironically occurred during a spell check. The Daily Universe was using Adobe software called InDesign, which, when it found the word apostle misspelled as "apsotale," suggested "apostate" at the top of its correction list.

"She quickly clicked on the first (suggestion) and moved on," Evans said. "A real unfortunate mistake."

The Deseret News, which also uses the InDesign software, replicated the misspelling and found that Adobe's software does suggest apostate before apostle; Microsoft Word offers it in reverse order.

Imagine how heart-broken I am that my beloved software could inspire such a demonic mistake. InDesign, failing to recognize the sacred nature of an apsotale, offered "apostate" before "apostle." The bleary-eyed student editor, likely late for an Uno game, was so inveigled by InDesign that she picked the first suggested word. Not coincidentally, InDesign has six menu commands and six default panels. Version 6, that is.

According to school officials, there is nothing amusing about this sad, costly, non-Freudian mishap. However, several apsotales were indeed amused. Yeah, verily, they did snicker.

A Breakdown: Moab vs. St. George

2009-03-27T15:47:00.000-07:00

Coke vs. Pepsi. Pacino vs. DeNiro. Sopranos vs. The Wire. Luke vs. Max. Some epic battles can be decided only with a Dr. Jack-style breakdown a la Bill Simmons. Let's get right to it.

REPUTATION

When you say you're going mountain biking in Moab, that carries a lot of weight with the average cyclist. It's like saying you're going skiing in Vail. Sure, Steamboat Springs may have better terrain, and Alta may have better snow, but Vail has the name.

If I'm going biking in Moab, I tell people I'm going to Moab. If I'm going biking in St. George, I tell people I'm going to Southern Utah, or I'm going biking near Zion's National Park. Doesn't have the same weight.

Strong Edge: Moab

LOCATION

St. George requires a lot more travel than Moab. For one thing, Moab is a little over three hours from Racer's Bike shop in Provo, whereas St. George takes an hour longer to get there.

Of course, you rarely drive to St. George. Usually, you -- and by you I mean me and my buddies -- drive straight to Gooseberry Mesa through Hurricane. And if you want to do a ride away from Gooseberry, you have to drive back along a bumpy dirt road for at least 30 minutes to get to the next trailhead. That's a lot of car time, which is fine unless Dug is playing the Sensitive Guy playlist on his iPod, which includes, but is not limited to, the Indigo Girls.

Here's another drawback to St. George. The epic "St. George" rides are actually an hour away from St. George. On the other hand, the Moab rides are all close to town. Whether you're staying in a hotel in town or camping near Slickrock, you're within a 20-minute drive on paved roads to practically any trailhead.

It's looking like a Strong Edge win for Moab, right? Not so fast.

Being in St. George forces us to camp. And the camping in St. George is fantastic. For one thing, not many people camp next to the windmill, so there's plenty of firewood all around. We're so far away from town that we can see the stars in their full Milky Way glory. Plus, Brad will get his yurts built soon, so the camping will be even better. At Moab, you have to bring your own firewood if you're camping, and it doesn't feel as remote.

Upon further review, the superior camping in St. George isn't enough to offset all that extra car time.

Strong Edge: Moab

CROWDS

Moab is usually so crowded that it's sometimes frustrating to be there in the Spring or Fall, which is why we made a habit of doing Fall Moab in the first week of November, when the crowds have died off enough. Hotel rooms are available and the wait for restaurants is minimal.

When we went to St. George last week during Spring Break, we saw only a dozen or so riders during the four rides we did in three days. I guarantee Moab was so packed that weekend that there would have been a waiting line to drop into the bowl at Slickrock. Not to mention a 45-minute wait outside Moab Brewery.

Strong Edge: St. George

THE BIG SATURDAY RIDE

It's about time we discuss the actual riding. While the most famous ride in Moab is Slickrock, Gold Bar Rim is the ride we pick to do on Saturday. It's got everything -- rolling singletrack, ledge drops, ledge climbs, a top-notch crux move, which I'll discuss later, and plenty of trail options. You can make it a there-and-back ride, or you can drop down the Portal Trail or Poison Spider Mesa.

On the other hand, Gooseberry Mesa in St. George has rolling singletrack, ledge drops, ledge climbs, a couple of decent crux moves, and plenty of trail options. Plus, it has the otherworldly section through Hidden Canyon, where you duck your head below overhanging rock formations.

I need a tiebreaker. Let's try this. When the cars pull up to the trailhead, and everyone is pulling their bikes off the racks and getting ready to ride, where am I more excited? Gooseberry or Goldbar? Interestingly, the two rides with the highest tingle factor for me are Tibble Fork and Slickrock. So that doesn't help.

This one is just too close to call.

Edge: Even

THE 'B' RIDES

For the Friday afternoon/Sunday morning rides, Moab has Porcupine Rim, Slickrock, Amasa Back, the highly overrated Flat Pass, and a few other obscure gems like the Sovereign Trail and Moab Rim, which is no longer an option on singlespeeds.

St. George has Little Creek, where I ride -- and frankly there's no other word to describe it -- heroically. That's right. I ride heroically there. There's also the Jem/Gould loop, which includes the greatest one-mile stretch of singletrack I've ever been on. This is not an exaggeration. I was laughing while sprinting through this winding bobsled run. It was thrilling adventure. Unfortunately, I'm built like a Weeble right now, so I paid for my outburst during the rest of the 26-mile desert ride.

St. George also has the Zen Trail right in town. By the way, while riding the Zen Trail, I pulled up to a resting point where the other riders had gathered and announced that I felt like I'd reached a state beyond fear and desire. No one responded. Frankly, I thought that deserved at least a token laugh.

Slight Edge: Moab

MEMORIES

I've been going to Moab at least once a year now since the early '90s. I remember sharing a bed with Stuart and waking up soaking wet in what I mistakenly thought was my own urine. I remember getting so upset when I found out my friends did a new ride they'd promised not to do that I became a belligerent drunk that evening and was nearly thrown into a creek. I remember letting my friends convince me to perform a belly dance by the campfire. That's a lot of memories in Moab.

Strong Edge: St. George

THE CRUX MOVES

Now that we ride singlespeed bikes, crux moves aren't as important. Crux moves used to be a good way to measure your biking skills. We'd all gather around a place and take turns trying the move and busting chops. We still do that, but not as often, and not as long. The singlespeed riding lends itself more to cruising along the trail in a road-like rhythm.

The best crux moves at Moab are the Triple-Ledge move at Gold Bar, the aptly named Crux Move near the top of Amasa Back, and a handful of others at Slickrock.

The best crux moves at St. George are the Toilet Bowl and Sidewinder moves at Gooseberry and the Double-Ledge Canyon move at Little Creek.

Edge: Even

FINAL VERDICT

Here's the bottom line. If I go mountain biking anywhere in the world -- Fruita, CO, Bend, OR, Durango, CO, Asheville, NC, Squamish, BC, or some Alpine town in Germany, I'd compare that place to Moab. Not St. George. So while St. George is in the same league as Moab, I'm afraid I can't call it the champ.

That title belongs to Moab.

I am Bob. I have spoken.

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Throw-away Post

2009-03-25T16:15:00.000-07:00

The three actresses who look most alike are Emily Watson, Miranda Otto, and Emily Mortimer. I can't tell the difference between them. In fact, if someone told me it was the same actress who doesn't want to risk overexposure, I'd look skeptically and say, "Really?"

The two actors who look most alike are Christopher Meloni and Elias Koteas. If I see one of those guys in a movie, I'd ask if that's the guy from one of those detective shows or if it's the guy from that other war movie.

That's right. That's the end of this message. When I get some free time, I'm going to do a lengthy comparison of mountain bike trails in St. George and Moab. It's surprisingly close.

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Now that security is improving...

2009-03-16T12:06:00.000-07:00

I just read this on ESPN.

BAGHDAD -- Police say an Iraqi soccer player has been shot dead just as he was about to kick what could have been the tying goal in a weekend game south of Baghdad.

Police Maj. Muthanna Khalid says a striker from the Buhairat amateur team was facing only the goalie during a Sunday match in Hillah when a supporter of the rival Sinjar club shot him in the head in the final minute of play.

Sinjar was leading 1-0 when the shooting occurred. Khalid said a spectator was arrested.

More Iraqis are turning out for sports events now that security is improving.

I couldn't imagine living in conditions like that.

On a related note, my sons have started playing soccer. Their first game was something to behold. A team of kindergarteners destroyed my kids' preschool team. The good news was that Max scored two goals. The bad news was that he scored them against his own team. The worse news was that Luke was the goalie.

Pop Media I've Been Consuming

2009-03-12T20:36:00.000-07:00

Winter is usually when I retreat from adventure. Rather than climbing mountains in the Andes or performing interpretive dance in Prague, I amuse myself with books, movies, and television. As a result, one could make the argument that my life is boring from an external perspective. I like to say that boring is relative, unless I'm nodding asleep, in which case I mumble and slobber.

Books

I went on a World War II phase, reading about six WWII books in a month. The best one was called The Mammoth Book of Eyewitness World War II. I know. It's a stupid title. But it was excellent, with personal accounts from infantry and brass on both sides. It's similar to the fascinating The "Good" War by Studs Terkel, only with less poignant artistic value and more battle stories.

The best part of the book is the account of France's fall. The conservative party in charge was faced with either fighting the Germans and losing elections to the leftists or signing an armistice treaty that allowed them to keep power in Vichy France. Before they signed away most of their country, they coaxed a few key Frence generals into intentional bad maneuvers that allowed German troops to blitz into France. If I had to choose between that conservative French government and the Bush Republicans, wow. What a tough call.

I also read a few Band of Brothers accounts, along with an excellent book called With the Old Breed by Eugene Sledge, one of two books on which is based "The Pacific," with is a 10-part HBO mini-series that comes out next year. Yes, I'll re-subscribe to HBO.

I also tried to read a book by Jonathon Kellerman. That didn't work.

Television

Mad Men, Season 2 - Just as good as the first season. Don Draper is the most compelling television character since Tony Soprano. It's a smart show.

30 Rock - Tiny Fey is the funniest woman of all time. Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? Tell me who's funnier. Ellen? Sarah Silverman? Ok, maybe Julia-Louis Dreyfus. Still, she's in the running.

Top Chef - Wendy got me into this show. Now I'm hooked, even though I'm not a foodie.

Sports - I'm getting ready for March Madness.

Magazines

None.

Audiobooks

Adam Bede by George Elliot - One of my favorite novels in college, but I have a difficult time thinking I understood it as a 21-year-old kid.

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzin - I'd read this before and thought it was in the running for The Great American Novel. It doesn't quite hold up.

When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris - Hilarious, as usual.

It's almost 10 o'clock. Time to go to bed.

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Inverted Social Pyramids

2009-02-26T15:31:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, I didn't care at all about grades. They didn't matter. Once, with two weeks left in the year, my 6th grade teacher told me that all I needed to do to get an A in Social Studies was to write a one-page report on Mexico. "Isn't that great!" she exclaimed.

I asked her what grade I would get if didn't write the report. When she told me I'd get a B, I said, "That's above average, right? I'll take it!"

I wouldn't even have minded writing a one-page paper on Mexico. I was just so happy with being above average that I wanted to bask in the glow.

I didn't care about being smart, or being perceived as smart. I was a wannabe jock. As the smallest kid in the class, I would have been thrilled to be just make it onto any junior high school sports team.

So one day, I was sitting at a table with a few other kids, including one of the best athletes in the school. His name was Bruno -- I wouldn't make that up. I felt cool for sitting at the same table as him, even if he did make fun of me every now and then. When I heard Bruno say something stupid, I laughed. I can't recall what Bruno said -- maybe he asserted that Arizona was the capital of California, or vice versa, but it was dumb. I said something like, "Man, don't be stupid."

Just then, our teacher came up behind me and said, "Bob, come with me please." I knew I was in trouble -- I'm not stupid, you know -- but I had no idea why I was in trouble. Had I forgotten to turn in a paper?

After shutting the door in a little room behind us, the teacher could barely control his voice. "You NEVER call someone stupid," he said. "How do you think that makes Bruno feel?"

I said nothing. I thought this guy was crazy. Bruno feels great. He's one of the best athletes in school! He dates cheerleaders!

"Well? How would you like it if someone called you 'stupid'?"

Again, I said nothing. Is being called stupid worse than shrimp, or faggot, or punk, or pussy?

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," I stammered.

"That's better. You need to learn to respect other people."

How I Won $28 Betting on the Oscars

2009-02-23T07:19:00.000-08:00

Last night we had an Oscar party. Wendy's sister's family is in town this week, and Minette and Andy came over with ballots that everyone could fill out and submit, along with a $5 processing fee that the winner processed. (I call it a processing fee because gambling is illegal, and the Feds have been all over me recently. You don't think I see those helicopters, g-men?)

I wasn't sure I wanted to fill out the predictions for three reasons -- 1) I haven't seen many movies this year, 2) some Oscar nights leave me feeling sick and sad about the movie industry, and 3) I was tired from riding the Chilly Hilly yesterday morning.

Breaking News - Mini Ride Report

I should give a ride report, since it was an official cycling event. The Chilly Hilly is a 33-mile ride with 2,875 feet of elevation gain. To put this in perspective, if each foot of elevation gain were a piece of paper, and if you stacked the papers on top of each other, the stack would nearly be eight inches tall.

I rode from my house to the ferry, and then I rode around the well-marked course on Bainbridge Island, took the ferry back to downtown Seattle, and then rode home. It was a solid ride.

Now, back to the Academy Awards. The tricky thing about the Academy is that no one really knows who belongs to the Academy. Or at least I don't. I have the feeling that quite a few Academy members don't see all the nominated movies. They like leftist causes like the Gay Agenda and Giving a Hand Up to Black People, and they have elitist sensibilities. But above all, they want the financial success that comes from successful Hollywood movies. Oh, and many members of the academy happen to be members of the Jewish community. Did I mention that they don't watch all the movies? That's about all I know.

As I went through the ballot, I used my knowledge of the Academy to make my picks. By the way, has anyone pointed out what a weak year it was in movies? Maybe the worst since the mid-30s. The Dark Knight and Iron Man were good, but they're superhero movies for crying out loud. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was quirky but forgettable. And Slumdog Millionaire? Ugh. I kept whispering to Wendy what was going to happen next, and I was right in every case. ("Pssst. He's not going to guess B." "Psst, the final question will be 'Who's the third muskateer?'") That movie was so predictable, and so unbelievable, and so cheesy, and so violent, that the four of us left the theater without asking, "What did you think?" We stormed halfway back to the car before someone broke the silence with, "I need a shower."

The only reason I watched Slumdog was because it was supposed to dominate the Academy Awards. You'd think I would have learned by now that dominating the Academy Awards doesn't mean a movie's great, or even good. Crash and The English Patient won Academy Awards. Try staying awake through either of those movies.

Predicting the main awards is pretty simple. I go by buzz and some simple logic. Meryl Streep is a fine actress, but it's really time to celebrate Kate Winslet. Sean Penn just won the award a couple years ago, so Mickey Rourke has a better chance to win. Needless to say, I'm not always right. It's difficult to predict what the scatterbrained Academy is going to do.

Predicting the smaller awards is even more difficult. I don't know what the difference is between Sound Editing and Sound Mixing, and neither do members of the Academy. For the foreign movies and short movies, which neither I nor the Academy members have seen, I go through a simple process. Are any movies about the Holocaust? If yes, vote for it. If the movie is not about the Holocaust, pick the Frenchiest sounding movie, because the French make fine wine, fine food, and fine movies.

In our little contest, we agreed to have a weighted scale. Best Picture is worth 3 points, Best Actor, Actress, Director, Cinematography, and a few others are worth 2 points. The rest of the awards like sound and foreign short are worth 1 point.

Early on, I took a 1-point lead over Minette, with Andy and Wendy following close behind. Kim appeared to make random guesses, and Michael apparently filled in write-in ballots, so they fell behind. Then Minette went on a roll. She got both of the Sound awards right while I got them wrong, and for some Short Film category, I picked a French movie while she picked a German movie. During the announcements, when it became apparent that the German movie was about the Holocaust, I cursed and Minette pumped her fist. She took a two-point lead.

I narrowed the gap back to a point by picking the right Slumdog song to win -- have I mentioned what a predictable and cheesy movie that was? -- and since Minette and I made the same guesses for Movie, Director, and Actor, it all came down to Kate Winslet. If she won, I won. If she lost, Minette won.

This year, instead of having one or two presenters, they decided to have five presenters, each one of whom spoke directly to one of the candidates. This was so painfully self-indulgent that I wanted to start doing the dishes. Still, I somehow managed to stay put through all the schmaltz. "Meryl Streep, you're a shining beacon unto all yada yada yada." I wondered what would happen if one of the presenters gave a real critique. "Ms. Hathaway, you're a fine actress, but you look too much like a cricket to win this award."

And the Oscar goes to . . . Kate Winslet!!! I fist-pumped my chest twice and pointed towards the ceiling. Mad props, Big Guy. I owe it all to You.

A Power-Packed Post

2009-02-17T13:50:00.001-08:00

As the title of this web log entry points out, I have much to discuss today. Instead of talking about the whys and wherefores of this purported flurry of information dissemination, I've decided to avoid talking about it altogether. Indeed, any further discussion of this point would be anathema to my claim. In short, I shall proceed and continue to address two important issues.

Item 1 - Owl Puke

Max recently showed Minette a book on owl puke. Max's favorite animal is the owl, whereas Luke seems to favor the penguin. Although it's difficult to assess their favorites, because both boys have now taken to giving Wendy and me each a penguin in the morning when they come into our bedroom.

Max climbs into bed, taps me on the shoulder whether or not I'm awake, and says, "Daddy, here's your stuffed aminal." I then take the stuffed animal, which is a penguin wearing a Santa hat, and pretend to enjoy sleeping next to it.

Luke, who started the ritual, varies in his delivery method. Sometimes he simply lays the animal (a non-Santa penguin) next to me, sometimes he wakes me up and hands it to me, and every now and then he throws it at my face. Top o' the mornin' to ya!

But I was talking about owls. When Minette saw this Owl Puke book of Max's, she decided an adventure was in order. She and Andy went down to Lincoln Park and foraged for owl pellets under the trees where she'd seen owls. She then brought these owl pellets over to our house, and invited all of us to participate.

Please humor me if you already know what an owl pellet is, but I just learned myself. When an owl eats something like a rodent, the food remains in the gullet for a time while the owl's innards extract the meat that it can process. Once that process (pronounced PRO-sess in Canada) is complete, the owl then throws up the equivalent of a hairball. A biologist or naturalist then scoops up the pellet and finds someone else's home to unwrap everything. That's because owl pellets smell worse than owl feces.

The boys were fascinated by the unveiling of bones and skulls. See Minette's Flickr page for details. (If you're reading this some time after February 21, the first photo in the series is here.)

Item 2 - This Goes to 11 Again

Vanity Fair has a great interview with the keys members of Spinal Tap. Here's my favorite part:

Tufnel: Their breakup has been great for us, because I’ve seen him a bit more. My interests have changed. I’ve been breeding miniature horses. The very small ones, even smaller than the Mongolian horses, it turns out. And trying to find a business venture where I would race them. But I’m trying to find jockeys that are basically 26, 28 inches tall—and that’s been a problem, actually.

How about the dwarves from the “Stonehenge” setup?

Tufnel: They’re way too big.… I don’t know the answer, but I was captivated by these little horses, they’re so sweet. They don’t run terribly fast … but from an environmental standpoint it’s great, because they’re using less of everything.

Derek Smalls: Well, it’s less horseshit.

Tufnel: Less horseshit. Less grass in the infield … Less dirt. Saddles are smaller—less leather. Less money, it turns out, because no one actually wants to see it. Less interest. It’s a less is more.

I make an end.

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Non-Leadville Update

2009-02-14T18:35:00.000-08:00

This year, I did not enter Leadville. It's been too time-consuming for me to get into racing shape the last couple of years, and since I finished in under 12 hours this last year, I thought good riddance.

Now I regret that decision.

For one thing, I now weigh 194 pounds. To put that in perspective, I weighed 168 pounds at Leadville last year. The tricky thing is to determine what percentage of that weight gain is fat versus muscle. Since I haven't been swimming, lifting weights, or doing any physical exercise other than riding my bike slowly into work a few days a week, it's fairly safe to say that of those 26 pounds, approximately 100% is fat.

The scary thing is that I haven't been eating that bad in January and February. At the end of last year, I used to eat these huge apple fritters 3 or 4 times a week. I justified it by saying, "I don't care if eating these things costs me 10 years of my life. They're yummy!"

OK, now I recall that I often have second and third helpings of dinner, and I graze all evening long. We also got a bread-maker for Christmas. If I'm given a last supper, bread with butter and honey would definitely be part of it. In fact, last night I ate so much bread and pizza that I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I needed to throw up. But please don't think of me as a glutton. Greed and gluttony aren't really sins anymore.

What I'm saying is that I need motivation to get in shape. The mirror obviously isn't working as a deterrent. I'm still sexy as hell. I need Leadville.

Since I can't do Leadville this year, I need to find something else. I thought about triathlons, but my knee hurts too much to run, and swimming at the YMCA is a drag. So what can be my carrot?

I'm going to try to get into RAMROD (Ride Around Mount Rainier [in] One Day). If I get in, I'll change this blog title to "Bob's RAMROD." If I don't get in, I'll change it to "Bob's Failed RAMROD."

So that's all I have to say about that.

-

Super Bowl Preview

2009-01-30T15:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I write about sports and politics, since talented writers make a living writing about these subjects. OK, I just lied. I do know why I write about sports and politics. Because I want to. That's why.

Before I make my official prediction, I'm going to break down the game for you. By the way, it cracks me up when sportswriters announce that they won't be making their prediction until later in the week. You know, once the facts are all in.

There are four possible scenarios in this game. I say "four," because I have just enough time to describe four scenarios. If I get long-winded, this number may change to "three" or "two," but you won't know any better because I have word-processing capabilities that include, but are not limited to, editing.

Factoids that all serious football fans are sick of

* Pittsburgh is favored to win by 7 points over Arizona.
* Pittsburgh has a great defense -- best in the league -- and they're especially good against the run and at pressuring the quarterback. They have a good offense with a line that's struggled at times this season.
* Arizona has a very good passing offense and a so-so running game. They have a good defense that's been playing reasonably well lately.

Scenario 1 - Pittsburgh Rout

This will most likely happen if the Steelers pass rush gets to Kurt Warner. The effectiveness of the Steelers pash rush is the single most important factor in this game. I should know, because I played flag football on a college intramural team. When Warner has time to throw, he's as good as any quarterback who's ever played the game. When the pash rush is getting to Warner, he's as bad as any quarterback who's ever played the game, at least in terms of fumbling.

So if you see Warner getting hit on nearly every play, and if you see him fumbling a lot, this scenario is likely. And on the other side of the ball, if the Steelers' offense moves the ball and forces the Cardinals to over-pursue, it's over. But if Warner is standing back in the pocket and waiting for his receivers to get open, and the Steelers offense is merely good, no routing will take place. At least not by Pittsburgh.

Scenario 2 - Arizona Rout

Unlikely. Even if they manage to get a decent lead in the first half, Pittsburgh is just too good to get blown out by Arizona. Of course, I would have said that when Arizona played Carolina a few weeks ago, but you don't want sportswriters to hem and haw and on-the-other-hand. You want us to give bold assertions! And by "us" I mean sportswriters.

Scenario 3 - Close Pittsburgh win

I think this is the most likely scenario, which is why I put it at the 3 spot. I think the Cardinals' offense matches up pretty well against the Steelers' defense, and they'll likely score a few touchdowns but cough up a few key turnovers. The Steelers' quarterback, Ben Roethlesburger, who's name I spelled either correctly or incorrectly from memory, doesn't have a history of playing well in big games, but he does have a history of winning them ugly, as any Seahawk or Raven fan will attest. I think he'll make enough plays against the Cardinals' defense to win.

Scenario 4 - Close Arizona win

Arizona could win this game in the same way the Giants beat the superior team last year. They could do one thing very well to take the opponent out of their game enough to keep it close, and then a few unknown players could make spectacular plays in the fourth quarter. In the Giants-Pats game, the Giants' defensive line destroyed the Patriots' offensive line. And then a fifth-string receiver scored a touchdown and made the incredible "Helmet Catch" in the fourth quarter.

In this game, the Cardinals could score a couple of touchdowns on special teams, or the offensive line could neutralize the Steelers's front 7, and some slot receiver could end up making several big catches.

I don't know. I'll find out during the game.

Personal Game Plan

I will be making seven-layer dip. Wendy will be making hot wings and homemade bread. Andy, who has been researching "humanity's interest in sporting activities," has decided to strip down to his waist and paint his torso in Cardinals' red. I'll lay out newspapers for him to sit on the couch. Stan will cheer mightily for the Steelers because he found out that I'm rooting for the Cardinals. Grey will be biding her time, waiting for a post-game poker rematch. Minette will be in Oregon. Others will attend as well, but I'm going to be focused on the game in general, and the Cardinals' offensive line in particular.

Prediction

Steelers 25 Cardinals 19

New Phase

2009-01-29T07:31:00.000-08:00

Luke and Max are now five years old, as they'll be happy to report if you ask them. The fact that they are becoming so self-contained has been startling to me. It's like I have a part of my pre-children life back. Although it hasn't been an instantaneous change, like some of the other transitions, the new phase is noticeable. Here are the other major transitions:

3 weeks - We settled into a rhythm that made us believe it was possible to keep the two children alive without completely losing our sanity. It was still round-the-clock work, but we were able to take showers and get a few other 4- to 7-minute breaks. I think I even went on a bike ride around this time.

3 months - This is when we started being able to sleep in blocks of 2 to 3 hours.

1 year - Both boys were walking and saying words. It wasn't such a big deal for one spouse to abandon the other spouse for a day, although the spouse staying home was wiped out at the end of the day.

2 1/2 years - I don't remember exactly when it happened, but Wendy and I made the brilliant decision to alternate putting the boys down at night. It was actually easier for me to put the boys down by myself because they weren't constantly fighting -- "No, Mommy brushes my teeth! Mommy!" And on the nights when Wendy put the boys down, I could kick my legs up on the coffee table and work my remote control magic.

5 years - If I came home from work early last year, ka-blam! I had stuff to do. Now, the boys might be so absorbed in some game they're playing that they barely acknowledge me. The other night, I picked up a book and read for a half hour! On weekends, if Wendy goes out to a movie, the boys might decide to play with Legos, which means I can go in a different room and read or work on my newest dance moves.

This new phase is not without its problems. Sometimes the boys creep downstairs after they've been put to bed, so one of us has to put them down all over again. So last night, when it was my turn to put them down, I urged them to stay in bed. I swear on my neighbor's cat's freshly dug grave that this exact conversation took place.

Me: "Night night!! Don't let the bed bugs bite! Stay in your beds!"

Luke: "I'm nocturnal. Not diurnal. Nocturnal!"

Me: "No! You're diurnal! Stay in bed. Go to sleep!"

Yes, the boys use the words nocturnal and diurnal properly. It's because of Minette.

-

Blue Cut Rocks!

2009-01-26T11:23:00.000-08:00

Some of you who actually know me may recall that we moved away from Seattle back in 2002 to live close to Wendy's sister's family. We lived there for three years, and then we moved back to Seattle.

I miss living close to their family. I've written about them on my old blog, and I know I mentioned them a few times on this blog. Anyway, there is a CBS "family-faceoff" contest in which the winner gets to play live on the CBS morning show. Here's their entry:

It's a catchy tune, don't you think? My only regret is that I wasn't there to dance and play the tambourine. In fact, I'm angry about the exclusion. So I've decided that I'm going to sing "Paper Steak" with Luke and Max (Wendy, you play the cowbell, m'kay?), and we're going to make our own entry. I just hope the two families are on opposite sides of the bracket, so that we can meet in the finals.

Obama and Race

2009-01-21T07:07:00.000-08:00

When Barack Obama was elected, I was disappointed with all the chatter about the fact that he's an African American. For me, that was a minor issue by comparison. The key issue was that a grown-up was going to be president. I don't think Obama is some kind of savior who can work miracles. As I've mentioned before, I think we're in a depression that's going to last years. And I have no idea what's going to happen in Iraq or Afghanistan. Still, Obama is articulate and has the right kind of intelligence to lead. When he talks, he doesn't make me to throw a shoe at the television.

Yesterday, while watching the inauguration, I finally started thinking about the significance of race. When Wendy mentioned that Obama was the first black president, Luke thought it was hilarious that she called him black. "He's brown!" That got me wondering how Luke and Max are going to think about race in general and black people in particular.

I grew up with racist notions. Don't get me wrong. I'm not an extreme skinhead-type racist. Still, if a black person were running for president in the 70s, there is no way I would have wanted him to win, and as sad as it sounds nowadays, the idea of a black person being in the white house would have bothered me.

As our society and I have became more liberal-minded in terms of race, I've tried to check my racist notions. While political correctness causes resentment, knowing that I have unfair racist tendencies makes me suspicious of any thought I have about race. For example, I genuinely believe that a disproportionate number of Asians are terrible drivers. I'm fairly certain I arrived at that conclusion on my own, and laughed when I heard someone else mention it. (Of course, it's also possible that I heard it first, and the notion worked its way into my system without my realizing it. The brain is a tricky organ.)

So when I see a car half parked and backing up into an intersection with the wrong blinker on, is it racist for me to say, "Yup, Asian"? Probably. Would insurance companies raise the rates of Asian drivers if they could? I dunno. I digress.

The point I want to get at is that we've come a long way in overcoming racism. The fact that a black guy named Barack Hussein Obama was elected president is a powerful symbol. And for me, the fact that I've worked out my racist issues enough to root for, caucus for, donate to, and vote for Barack Obama is a sign of progress.

Or maybe I just hate Texans.

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Top 5 Lessons from the Bush Administration

2009-01-15T12:08:00.000-08:00

In six more days, George W. Bush will no longer be the President of the United States.

Huzzah!

There was a time when people actually got upset if you bashed Bush, but those times are long gone. When a host of key members of the Republican party – an outfit that derives much of its power by dropping their differences with each other and uniting for the good of the party – bash Bush, you know a guy is a miserable screw-up. As Lee J. Cobb said, "You can throw out all the other evidence!"

For now, I'll just ignore the "Bin Laden Determined..." and "We do not torture" and "grave and growing threat" and "Helluva job, Brownie" and "The fundamentals of the economy are sound" tidbits, and I'll ignore all the ugly secrecy and blatant incompetence and insane debt tallies, and I'll get straight to the issue at hand: What have we learned?

1. In some cases, there is a significant difference between Democrats and Republicans

Back in the 80s and 90s, I heard well-educated friends say they weren't going to vote because there aren't any significant differences between the parties. Ralph Nader relied on this misunderstanding to nab a few key percentage points from Al Gore, tipping the election to the wildly ill-prepared George W. Bush.

In the past, a much stronger case could be made for this sentiment. The country wouldn't have been that different had Mondale defeated Reagan in '84 or had Dole defeated Clinton in '96. Issues like business vs. environment or unions vs. corporations would have had the balance tipped slightly in one direction or other, but it's hard to imagine the country being significantly different under, say, Bob Dole from '96 to 2000.

George W. Bush and his Mayberry Machiavellis shattered this notion, at least for now. The Republican primaries in 2000 scared me enough to make politics a personal obsession. I'm sorry to say that I was right about Bush. And so was The Onion. They wrote this in 2001, a few days before Bush was inaugurated. Please read it -- it's worth the time -- and then come back. I'm not done.

2. A puppet leader can sometimes take the strings away

There was a common sentiment back around the 2000 election that it's fine if Bush is out of his depth. Republicans are sane and responsible, and Bush will have no choice but to surround himself with capable leaders. I even comforted myself with this logic.

The problem is that Bush is a more forceful leader than anyone expected. He was able to impose his will. He and Cheney were able to purge the government of capable workers like Richard Clarke and fill the spots with a bunch of creepy yes men like Alberto Gonzalez.

3. Democrats make a lousy opposition party

John Kerry, John Edwards, and Hillary Clinton all vote to give Bush the power to go to war. Weenies. They didn't realize that when someone like Dubya is the leader, united we fall, divided we stand.

4. No matter how much damage bad Republican leaders can inflict, they still get half of the country's votes

The same could be said of Democrats, of course, but I'm talking about lessons we learned from the Bush Era. After Bush ran the country into the ground in several ways, and after the economy collapsed during the bumbling McCain campaign, the Republicans still got 47% of the votes. Almost half.

I think it all comes down to social issues. When I was a teenager, it was infuriatingly difficult to see a woman's bare breasts anywhere. I had to rely on my imagination while scanning the underwear section of the Sears catalog, or every now and then a friend would score a Playboy. Now I can turn on the television in the middle of the day and see nudity, and we're not even getting HBO or Showtime. It's fantastic!

But some people don't think so. Some people think that instead of being appropriately ashamed of themselves, homos have the gall to try to get married. And with all these navel piercings and tattoos and premarital sex, who's going to stop all this?

The Republicans. That's who. At least that's the claim.

5. Freedom Is Just Another Word for Nothin'-Left-to-Lose

One of the premises our country is founded on is that we need a system of checks and balances in order to prevent any individual or group from taking too much power. Our country's foundation made what happened to Germany when the Nazi party took power seem impossible in our country.

Now, I'm not so sure. For the first time in my life, I think it's possible for one party to become controlled by its lunatic fringe, take power, undo the system of balances, and turn our country into a banana republic.

I know, I know. This blog is depressing.

Photographic Evidence

2009-01-14T10:02:00.001-08:00

I just discovered a great set of tools created by Microsoft. Granted, I'm not a big Microsoft fan, after having worked at WordPerfect and Novell, both of which were run into the ground by the powerful Microsoft machinery. Before I get caught up in a long, depressing digression about Microsoft's thuggish behavior in the 90s, I wanted to compliment them.

The Windows Live products are excellent (and free). In particular, Windows Live Writer is a great blogging tool. I've written blogs using several different tools, and all of them have limitations. MSN Spaces wouldn't let me embed YouTube clips, and Blogger makes it difficult to insert pictures. It basically forces you to include only one picture at the top of a blog entry. Of course, I can add pictures using HTML code, but that's a hassle. Windows Live fixes that.

Here, I'll prove it. Here's a set of photos that Wendy took of Luke and Max after they got fancy new suits. Luke breaks down.

Both kids are happy at first.

Mugging for the camera.

Wendy said, "Look handsome." This is what they came up with.

Something wasn't quite fair...

And when something isn't fair...

Misery!

"...7...8...9...10"

"Look, just don't toy with my emotions like that. Got it?"

All I had to do was choose Insert > Picture, choose the image, and click OK. That's how it should be. No HTML code, no figuring out pixel sizes.

Thanks, Microsoft. Now please fix Word and send a rebate out to anyone who foolishly bought Vista, and we'll be on speaking terms again.

My Neighbor Friend

2009-01-13T11:34:00.000-08:00

I have a nosy neighbor who happens to be a chatterbox. If you ask her a simple question, you're going to get an answer that takes her 10 to 15 minutes to roll out. In fact, if I took out a stopwatch, clicked it, and set it on the table, it wouldn't faze her. She'd just keep talking. If she knows something about the subject, she tells you everything she knows. If she doesn't know about the subject, she explains in scattershot detail why she doesn't know it.

I like her. Every neighborhood needs a nosy chatterbox. I just can't spend more than a half hour with her -- roughly two subjects -- before I feel like I'm stuck in the middle of a pew, and the droning speaker announces that his message is so important that he's going to extend the meeting.

The chatterbox is married to a -- surprise! -- soft-spoken guy. He's a huge Buffalo Bills fan, and he plays bass guitar in a struggling band that does covers of Russian rock songs. One day, in early December, he brought his son over to play with our boys. He and I were drinking beer and quietly watching a football game when his wife and Wendy came into the room.

"Wow! Would you look at that! What is that? A Christmas village? How long did it take you to put that together? Hey, [husband's name], why don't we do something like that? We're never organized enough to do something like that . . ."

She went on to talk for another ten or fifteen minutes about their family's shortcomings in terms of Christmas decorations. All the husband did was shrug every few minutes. She turned to me.

"You've probably already bought Wendy her Christmas present, haven't you?"

"Yes. I bought it in April," I deadpanned.

"See? [Husband's name] always waits until the last minute-"

"Whoa," I said. "Hold on. I was joking."

"Why are you men like that? The boyfriend I had before this one did the exact same thing. I looked at the receipt for a birthday gift he'd gotten me, and it was the same day as my birthday! The exact same day!"

The husband closed his eyes and took a long swig from his beer. I didn't know how to respond. I could have continued the sarcasm: "Good thing you dumped that loser." I could have asked what was on my mind: "Why were you looking at the receipt date in the first place? Who does that?" Instead, I just sat there.

She kept talking.

New Post!

2009-01-09T08:02:00.000-08:00

I have to write a new web log entry because that last one is a stinker. I actually wrote a bunch more that ended up being too personal and too whiny, so I deleted it. We're all safe and healthy in our house, and one of us still has a job, so why complain? It does bother me that excess becomes the norm and is therefore expected, so we're going to struggle for a bit while a new norm is established. So what?

So what should I write about? My practice swing is still rock solid, even though I'm releasing my hips too soon, resulting in a loss of power. I'm still pounding 300-yard imaginary drives, so there's not much more to say about that.

This blog is experiencing a death rattle. Is there a term for that? Maybe eDeathRattle. You know a blog is hurting when the author talks about blogging.

I could write about losing a long-time friend over something he did a few months ago, but that's too personal. Hmm.

Oh, the Colts lost, just as I expected. The night they played, I set up a date with Wendy so I wouldn't have to watch the game. We went and saw the Seattle Symphony perform Beethoven's Ninth. On the way home, I turned on the radio and ended up hearing, "The Colts went out on a nine-game win streak." I watched just enough highlights to torment myself. That night, with the triumphant Ode to Joy refrain in my head, I kept thinking about Peyton Manning completing a pass on third down to steal the game. Instead, he pump faked and got sacked. I'd try to put it out of my mind, and think about more pleasant thoughts, like mutual funds, and then wham -- I'd bolt wide awake and see Manning's happy feet in my mind's eye.

There. Now that's a blog entry.

This Depression Is Depressing

2009-01-08T16:41:00.000-08:00

People are starting to call this economic downturn a "depression" instead of a "recession." I'm staring at a newly constructed office building that should be humming with activity, but is still totally vacant. Everyone is pulling back, which means no one is buying as much as they used to, which means companies are laying off people, which means a hefty chunk of people don't have money to buy things, and down we go.

It's a problem that this is a problem. We shouldn't have to expect double-digit growth. In my mind, economic growth should mirror population growth, or slightly exceed it. Any excess should be treated as such -- excess. It's a good thing I've never studied macro-economics, or I'm fairly convinced I'd berate myself for writing such idealistic nonsense.

Anyway, if you notice that I don't blog as often as usual, you know the reason. I'm trying to save money.

Holiday Season Thoughts

2008-12-26T21:21:00.000-08:00

On Barnes & Noble

Back in the day, my favorite bookstores had a comfy couch or chair where I could kick back and browse through a collection of books I was thinking about buying. When the big chains like Borders and Barnes & Noble took over, they brought in a larger collection of books and sold them at discount. To close the deal, they furnished their stores with cushy sofas and chairs and offered poetry readings and "Staff Recommendations" sections. They acted as if they cared about books.

Have you noticed the "Staff Recommendations" sections are gone? I have. Have you noticed that as a store gets older, the furniture sections get taken away? I have.

I'm starting to rethink my fierce loyalty to Barnes & Noble.

On Leavenworth

A few decades ago, leaders from a struggling mountain town got together and decided they wanted to reinvent the town. So they created a little Bavarian village, even though no one from the town was from Germany, or even Europe. The towne centre is full of curio shops, pretzel stores, and biergartens. It's the kind of tourist trap that's easy to make fun of, but I dig it.

For one thing, it's nestled in the mountains. That's a good thing. I miss mountains. For another thing, there's a great hotel with cozy rooms with fireplaces, indoor and outdoor pools and hot spots, and a daily honking of one of those 15-foot-long horns played by an old American guy clad in lederhosen. Oh, and there are great hiking trails along the river that runs right through town.

Here's a clip of Luke and Max sledding near the downtown area:

I haven't been skiing or snowboarding in years, so I couldn't resist the temptation to hop on Luke's sled and test my downhilling skills. I still got it.

On Christmas

Luke and Max believe that Santa has a special license -- I call it the Santa clause -- that allows him to slide through the vents in our gas fireplace and deliver the boys a whole bunch of presents using the same gift wrap their parents used. Max had mixed feelings upon seeing that most of the cookies the boys had decorated and left near the fireplace had been eaten. On the one hand, Santa came! On the other hand, why didn't he eat the whole cookie?

It goes against my instincts to lie to the boys about Santa Claus. I don't like it. I'm setting the boys up for disillusionment. With their belief in Santa Claus and bucolic Christmas in Leavenworth, aren't I just leading the boys into a crushing Rosebud moment later in life? They even have the snow globes to let slip from their fingers.

Snowy in Seattle

2008-12-15T07:15:00.000-08:00

Once every two or three years in Seattle, snow sticks to the ground enough to build a snowman and go sledding. It snowed about three inches Saturday night, and it stayed cold enough for the snow to stick to the roads and sidewalks. When this happens, the whole city practically shuts down -- only buses, trucks, and SUVs test the unsalted roads.

Luke badly wanted to have a snowball fight. Whenever he saw anyone come out, like the girl next door or Neighbor Henry (who is different from Little Henry and New Henry), he packed a snowball and threw it at someone's chest. Andy and Minette got the same treatment when they came over for waffles.

After brunch, we went sledding down the sidewalk on our street. In this video, Wendy was watching out for cars at the bottom of the hill, Minette was womaning the video camera, and Andy was helping Luke up the hill after a wipeout. The sleds weren't easy to control, but that's part of the fun. As you can see, Max nearly took out his mother, but I was there to save the day.

Good times.

Yuletide Cheer

2008-12-12T14:30:00.000-08:00

I'm depressed. Have no fear -- it's not serious. I get blue every winter, only it usually hits me in January or February. December is usually too frantic. Besides, Christmas season makes me happy.

At least it used to. I like buying presents for people I love, and I like the anticipation of opening presents. I don't even care if the gift is goofy. It's free! I'm delighted to open a Pink Panther DVD starring a hit-or-miss Steve Martin in one of his worst misses. Extra large snow mittens? My hands might still grow.

This year, I haven't gotten into the Christmas spirit. For the most part, it seems like a hassle. I used to buy books for everyone in my family, but I've forgetten which books I've bought, and I don't want to give one of my sisters The Life of Pi for the third year in a row. Besides, if I go by my "Do unto others" credo, I don't want anyone to buy me a book because I already have three different stacks of unread books in three different rooms. So this year -- gift certificates! Merry Christmas, shoppers!

I do enjoy putting up the Christmas lights. My overly helpful neighbor, a guy who lights up his own house as if he wants to outdo Clark Griswold, comes over every Thanksgiving weekend when he sees me standing on the very top of my wobbly 8-foot ladder trying to hang lights on the gutter. He drags over his super long ladder, which means I have no choice but to string lights on the upper story as well.

Wendy and the boys get excited about Christmas. Wendy decorates every nook of the house, and I help with the Christmas village and tree. When we finished trimming the tree, Max shouted, "This is the best Christmas ever!"

Question: So why am I glum?

Answer A: I may just be glum. Not every emotion has to be attached to something going on in your life. Sometimes you're just glum, or happy, or horny, or angry. No reason.

Answer B: No dangling carrots. No Leadville to train for. No fascinating elections to obsess over. No interesting blog to write (I too have noticed that this blog is nearly dead). No Friday stories. No upcoming work projects. No big trips planned. No chance of the Colts playing in the Super Bowl. Not with those banged-up lines.

Answer C: The economy. I lost more than half of my savings. Suppose I had worked hard to save $350 for my retirement. In two months, that $350 has turned into $185. And let's say I bought a house for $600. That house is now worth $575, and dropping. Even though I made it through yet another round of layoffs (that's the seventh one since I've been here), the slumping housing market and depressing job market gives me a sense of being stuck. I need to stick it out at Adobe, and I need to stay put in my house. Forget about the fact that my job is good and I really like my house. No one said emotions have to be rational.

Answer D: Donuts.

Fatty's Livestrong Challenge

2008-12-02T07:22:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, Elden and Susan have been dealing with a gut-wrenching ordeal. Susan is slowly dying of cancer. As they've gone through this horrible experience, the Livestrong Foundation has helped them in a number of different ways, from providing medical information to negotiating with insurance companies.

Elden wants to give back, so he set up an ambitious fund drive. Actually, a better way of saying it is that Elden wants other people to give back for him. I suppose he thinks he's a little too important for doing any actual fundraising himself anymore. Despite the fact that I think Elden's getting a little too big for his britches, I agreed to be one of his minions.

If any of you would like to contribute to the noble cause, click here to go to my Livestrong Challenge page.

I don't know how my sister found out about my Challenge page, but she was the first person to contribute. Speaking of Lisa, her chemo treatments have been successful. Although her cancer is technically in remission, it's a nasty form of cancer, so she's currently preparing for a grueling bone-marrow transplant that requires at least a three-week stay in a hospital. If all goes well, she'll be well on her way to a full recovery in January. That's what I'm hoping for.

Oh, and by the way, the kind people in the Livestrong organization contacted both me and Lisa several times to offer support and assistance. I'm telling you, they're something else. It's a worthy cause.

The Greatest Word in the World

2008-11-24T11:50:00.000-08:00

One of the conversations we had during our drive down to Fall Moab addressed the ugliest words in the English language. Dug can't stand any word with "moist" in it -- "moisture," "moisturizer," "moisturizing ointment." He got such a sick look on his face when he said these words that I very nearly asked him if he needed a vomit bag.

I mulled over words that I dislike -- "phlegm" and "caucus" immediately came to mind -- and then I decided I was being too negative. Let's turn it around. What is the best word in the English language? You'll be surprised at the answer:

Tugboat.

It makes you smile, doesn't it? Who doesn't like a tugboat? First, unlike a word like "spendthrift," you don't have to unpack its meaning. A tugboat is a boat that tugs another boat. It seems simple enough to name a thing right, but our nomenclatative skills are often found wanting. In the nautical industry alone, we have "yacht" and "ferry" and "cruiser." On land, we must deal with "hangnails" and "inflammable" items.

Person 1: "Is that moist tugboat flammable?"

Person 2: "Yes, it's inflammable."

Person 1: "That seems incongruous."

Person 2: "No, it's congruous."

The Not-So-Prompt Awards Ceremony for Fall Moab 2008

2008-11-20T19:40:00.000-08:00

After every Fall Moab, I have a tradition of handing out imaginary awards based on movie quotes. Ergo, it should come as no surprise that I'm doing the same thing this year, as you will discover if you continue to read. And I do, in fact, command you to read.

Warning: This blog entry may not be suitable for children, Mormons, and certain wives of certain gentlemen.

Anton Chigurh: What's the most you ever lost on a coin toss.
Gas Station Proprietor: Sir?
Anton Chigurh: The most. You ever lost. On a coin toss.

This goes to ... Fatty, whose luck has not been kind of late. Hang in there. We missed you on the trip.

Carla Jean Moss: You don't have to do this.
Anton Chigurh: [smiles] People always say the same thing.

This award goes to ... Ricky, who always says the same things. And I love it. He always asks Gary about one of his old bosses from back in the Novell days. The first dozen times Ricky brought it up, the question evoked a Tourette's-style outburst from Gary. Unfortunately, it's more difficult to get Gary to bite nowadays.

And Ricky asks me the same question every time there is a campfire and alcohol. He wants me to belly dance. That's because back in the 90s, I learned how to belly dance. True story. It was Plan F in my attempt to recover from chronic fatigue syndrome. For all I know, it ended up being the cure, or maybe it was Ambien, sun meditation, or the quack scientist from Reno who claimed he had a cure for CFS and cancer (which is cause by evil spirits). I'll say the same thing to Ricky now that I've said since: "I am tired. From where the sun stands, I shall belly dance no more forever."

Anton Chigurh: That's foolish. You pick the one right tool.

This award goes to . . . the singlespeed bicycle. In Moab, it's the right tool. Since the other guys started riding singlespeeds a few years, I held out until last year, and fell in love. As a result, riding is different, maybe better. Instead of stopping every few minutes to test our skills on uphill moves, we now try moves less often, and we try more downhill moves. I like it.

I especially enjoyed the Sunday ride on the Slickrock Trail. Being on a singlespeed meant that I wasn't able to do some of my favorite moves -- like the Z move or hairlip hill -- but the overall feeling of cruising along the trail was one I hadn't enjoyed that much since I first started going to Moab. The singlespeed offers a flowing feeling that reminds me of the old "rhythm of the road" adage that roadies used to talk about. With a singlespeed, it's the Rhythm of the Trail. I can dig that.

Llewelyn Moss: What's this guy supposed to be, the ultimate badass?

The ultimate badass award goes to . . . Jeremy. Sorry, Kenny and Brad, when Jeremy shows up to ride, he's still the king -- even though he rides only a couple times a year. My favorite move was when he appeared to be struggling up hairlip hill. When he reached the top, where the "hard" line is to the right, he stayed straight and rode over the ledge, which I had never seen done before. When he caught his breath, he popped a cigarette into his mouth and smoked. Seriously. He kept stopping to take cigarette breaks.

That was nothing compared to the show he put on Saturday night, when Dug and Paul and I were out looking for Lost Tom Burch. I can't relay the nature of his report in full. Wait, why not? He said his ex-wife used to smack him around. That's hilarious. And a girl had a crush on Jeremy back in the day. Jeremy wasn't into her, so he told her he'd provide service to her only if she brought a friend along. And that's all I can say about that. This is a family blog! By the way, what's a short 'n tall stack?

Llewelyn Moss: Yeah, well, I been immobile.

I don't know who to give this award to. In years past, this award would have gone to Paul, who rode his bike only once a year -- at Fall Moab. Since he's been riding to and from the courthouse, he was on fire. The award could go to Tom because he's badly out of shape, but frankly, he already has too much hardware. Maybe I'll come back to this.

Loretta Bell: How'd you sleep?
Ed Tom Bell: I don't know. Had dreams.

This award goes to . . . two gentlemen I cannot name. Let's call them Jared and the Brother of Jared. They decided to sleep better by taking Ambien. The thing is, you need to go to sleep right away if you take Ambien, or you end up in a weird, sex-crazed sleepwalking state. Or so I've heard.

The Brother of Jared headed into the trailer to go to bed, while Jared remained around the campfire. When Jared stood up to go to bed in this condition, he could barely stand up. Dug had to escort dizzy Jared into the trailer. As he did so, Dug's phone buzzed. He read the text message, which was from the Brother of Jared: "Wanna have sex?" Dug turned and looked at the Brother of Jared, who stared up at him with bedroom eyes. When Dug turned back around to help Jared into bed, he noticed that Jared was "dibs-ing" the stove with his genitals.

If you're tempted to take Ambien, just say maybe.

Ellis: Whatcha got ain't nothin new. This country's hard on people, you can't stop what's coming, it ain't all waiting on you. That's vanity.

This goes to . . . Tom. We ain't all waiting on you. We'd rather have to call search and rescue than watch you futz around with your shoes. Oh, and Barack Obama is not a Muslim socialist who supports terrorists. He just wants to take all your extra cash and give it to poor people so they can buy malt liquor.

Ed Tom Bell: Well, age will flatten a man.

No one gets this award. For a bunch of middle-aged guys, most of us ride as well as we've ever ridden, even after leaving a long line of empties around the campsite.

On a side note, I watched this movie again, and I don't care what anyone says, the movie falls apart after the woman invites Llewelyn to drink beer by the pool. For goofballs, not showing that scene is a brave choice made by a superior artist. For people like me who enjoy good stories, it's a left turn into a drainage ditch. The rest of the movie is folk-wisdom babble. That could have been a great movie.

Wendell: It's a mess, ain't it, sheriff?
Ed Tom Bell: If it ain't, it'll do till the mess gets here.

This award goes to ... the sheriff who busted Dug's chops for having left Tom behind. Don't worry, Dug. That would have been the right move four out of five times.

Gas Station Proprietor: Is somethin' wrong?
Anton Chigurh: With what?
Gas Station Proprietor: With anything?
Anton Chigurh: Is that what you're asking me? Is there something wrong with anything?

This goes to ... Sleepy and his friend, who thought it was too cold to camp, so they slept the first night in the cab of a running truck and the next night in a comfy hotel room. Oh, was something wrong with 25-degree weather?

By the way, when I showed the boys Nick's videos (Part I and Part IA), one of them asked who made a nice move up a steep ledge. When I told them who it was, they laughed so hard they were shaking. "Sleepy! Is that his real name? Sleepy? Sleepy!"

Every time Sleepy came back into view, both boys yelled, "Sleepy!"

Anton Chigurh: You know how this is going to turn out, don't you?
Llewelyn Moss: Nope.

No award. It just wanted to include this quote because that phone call was my favorite scene in the movie.

Llewelyn Moss: Yeah, I'm going to bring you something, alright. I decided to make you a special project of mine. You ain't going have to come looking for me at all.

This award goes to ... L. Tom! Nice try, letting us get ahead of you so that you could surprise us. It would have worked if you had the ability to pedal your bicycle faster.

Carla Jean Moss: And what are you going to do?
Llewelyn Moss: I'm fixin' to do something dumber than hell, but I'm going anyways.

This award goes to ... Cori. Whenever he rode down a section of trail that would give a mountain goat pause, he let out a whoop. His luck held out better than Llewelyn's.

Boy on Bike #2: Mister? You got a bone stickin' out of your arm.
Anton Chigurh: Let me just sit here a minute.

This award goes to ... Dan, who gashed his leg with a chain saw a couple months ago, nearly died, and thought seriously about coming along anyway. Then I assume he just sat there a minute and decided against it.

Llewelyn Moss: You keep runnin' that mouth I'm gonna' take you in the back and screw ya'.
Carla Jean Moss: Big talk.
Llewelyn Moss: Keep it up.

This award goes to ... Brad. What do you want from me? Does there have to be a reason for every award? Brad gets this award because he deserves it, end of story. Got it? Sheesh.

Carla Jean Moss: Fine. I don't wanna' know. I don't even wanna' know where you been all day.
Llewelyn Moss: That'll work.

This award goes to all the guys who, upon hearing that Tom was lost up on the mesa, ate dinner at Moab Brewery, headed over to Woody's Tavern, and then drank and told stories around the campfire. That'll work.

(And yes, I'm jealous that I missed most of the campfire stories.)

Loretta Bell: Be careful.
Ed Tom Bell: I always am.
Loretta Bell: Don't get hurt.
Ed Tom Bell: I never do.

This Lifetime Achievement Award goes to ... Dug, who probably has this conversation every time he goes on a ride. I'm not saying he's an uxorious mollycoddle. What gave you that idea?

Llewelyn Moss: Where's the last guy? Ultimo hombre. Last man standing, must've been one.

This goes to Kenny, who rode his heart out all weekend. Kenny, you're the ultimo hombre. Yo tengo un cuaderno rojo en mi pupitre.

Carla Jean Moss: I got a bad feeling, Llewelyn.
Llewelyn Moss: Well I got a good feeling, so that should even out.

This goes to ... all the women back home who watched the kids while we were gone. As we sit in chairs around the campfire and boast of our sexual prowess, we often don't give you enough credit.

Carla Jean Moss: Sheriff, was that a true story about Charlie Walser?
Ed Tom Bell: Who's Charlie Walser? Oh! Well... uh... a true story? I couldn't swear to every detail but it's certainly true that it is a story.

No one gets this award, because all the stories that were told, including Jeremy's, were absolutely, 100% true.

Carson Wells: I was wondering...
Man who hires Wells: Yes?
Carson Wells: Could you validate my parking ticket?
Man who hires Wells: An attempt at humor, I suppose.

This award goes to ... Rick S. who is quietly one of the funniest people I know. An example or two would be a nice touch, but you're just going to have to believe me. In other words, you should have been there.

Ed Tom Bell: Yea. Got some hard bark on him.

This award goes to ... Nick, our mate from Australia had never ridden on slickrock before, nor had he dealt with a bizarre bunch of Utahns. Not only did he make it through the weekend, he seemed to enjoy himself. He must got some hard bark on him.

Anton Chigurh: Would you hold still, please, sir?

This award goes to ... you, the faithful reader, who made it all the way to the end of this entry oh so obediently.

Fall Moab 2008 Report

2008-11-11T07:11:00.000-08:00

In previous years, I looked forward to Fall Moab like a 7-year-old looks forward to Christmas. I get to hang out with a bunch of life-long friends, some of whom I've known since childhood, and I get to ride my bike in one of my favorite places on earth. Since earth is my favorite place in the universe, it means I get to ride my bike in my favorite place in the whole entire solar system.

This year, I thought seriously about canceling. I blame it on Elden. He selfishly put his own needs above the needs of the group by staying home and nursing his ailing wife.

Seriously, the thought of going to Moab while Elden dealt with the heartbreaking situation at home just didn't seem fun. We bucked up and did three rides over the weekend -- Porcupine Rim, Gold Bar Rim, and Slickrock. At least 23 guys rode along. Before I give out awards based on movie quotes, I'll describe the three rides.

Porcupine Rim

The plan was to arrive in Moab early enough to ride the extended version of Porcupine Rim. According to Dug, that meant riding "two miles" further up Sand Flats Road and then dropping down onto new singletrack. I know now that when Dug says "two miles," he really means SIX miles. He used the old bait-and-switch technique on us.

Not that I'm complaining. I wanted to ride six miles up a fire road. In fact, I prayed aloud that morning, "Dear Zeus and/or any other available Gods, thank you for my singlespeed bike, and bless me that I may ride it along a fire road until my legs are weary with joy, Amen."

When we finally reached the new section of trail above Porcupine, any sarcastic feelings I had were swept away as we weaved our way down between juniper trees and ledges. You'd think it would be hard to find a great new trail in Moab for someone who's been there more than forty times, but great new trails somehow keep popping up.

Unfortunately, Nick -- who had never been to Moab -- paid too much attention to us when we told him to ride soft tires on Slickrock, so he let some air out of his tires to do Porcupine Rim. To clarify, soft tires work great on the Slickrock trail, but not necessarily on all slickrock terrain. And especially not on Porcupine Rim, which probably pops more tires per capita than any other trail. Nick flatted once, replaced the tube, and then flatted again.

Since Nick was the only rider on 26" wheels, and since you can't use 29" tubes in 26" tires, Nick was out of luck. We split up. The faster guys rode down Porcupine Rim, while the Paul and Nick and I took a spur back down to Paul's car. Paul and I rode up and down the technical sections of the trail, while Nick walked his bike.

How do you like Moab so far, Nick?

Gold Bar Rim

While this was a great ride providing plentiful tales of heroic moves and splendid crashes, the real story was the fact that L. Tom Burch got separated from the group, remained up on the mesa well after dark, and was finally located by the Search & Rescue team. Here's how it happened.

L. Tom is a notorious tinkerer. When most guys get to the trailhead, they put on their gear, make a few last-minute adjustments to their bikes, and off they go. With L. Tom, it's a much different story. It's not that he rebuilds his bike. I don't even know if he does more work on his bike than anyone else. I think he just stares a lot, stumbles around, and indulges in methodical nonsense.

Our group of 15 met another Utah group at the trailhead, so there were 21 guys doing the ride. (That's because there were 6 guys in the other group. Sorry I didn't make that clear.) The plan was to ride the singletrack portion of the trail, which is marked with blue paint instead of white paint. The white trail is wider and more obvious -- it's where jeeps go -- while the blue trail is for hikers and bikers. The blue trail is especially difficult to follow after the first overlook, where we traditionally meet and take a big group picture. Only Kenny had followed the blue trail after the overlook.

L. Tom was riding slow, bringing up the rear. Like me, L. Tom does not live in Utah. He lives in Iowa. I don't think it's a coincidence that we're the two pudgiest guys. A couple of guys from Lee's group seemed to be struggling, and Paul doesn't like doing long rides. There was talk of riding to the overlook and then making a decision. Anyone who didn't want to do the long blue trail could head back down and be back at the parking lot within an hour or two.

After we all posed for the annual picture, we geared up and got ready to ride. It's not like we burst into action. Most of us are in our 40s, and we move slow after getting pounded all day (see the 9:00 mark for evidence here). Paul told me he was going to keep riding. At this point, I should have asked L. Tom what he was going to do, since I had in my mind that Paul and L. Tom were heading back down. Instead, I rode on with Paul and Nick.

Dug saw that L. Tom had his shoes and helment off. "Are you coming?"

L. Tom shrugged.

Dug assumed L. Tom wasn't coming along. When Dug told us this later, I assumed that L. Tom wanted to save face. Hey, where did everybody go? I wanted to come along, but now I guess I better ride back down. We rode slowly for about ten minutes, and then we stopped and waited another five minutes or so to make sure no one got lost. Here's the thing. Even with fifteen riders ahead of me, I still had a difficult time finding the right way to go in some places. The blue trail just isn't marked well, and the terrain is gnarly.

What we didn't know is that L. Tom decided to come along. Only instead of riding the blue trail, he stuck to the traditional white trail used by the jeeps. As he rode up and down the white trail, he could see us from below as we picked our way along the edge of the rim.

[...continued...]

L. Tom told us later that he saw us gathered at the top of the mesa where four trails converge -- the two Gold Bar trails, Poison Spider, and the Portal Trail. According to his story, he shouted to us that he was coming up, and someone from our group shouted, "You're on the wrong trail!"

Must have been someone from the other group, because we were speculating about whether L. Tom really followed us. Paul even joked about using our comments during the forthcoming deposition in a criminal trial. And this was before we realized Lost Tom Burch was on his own.

From this point, we could have gone down the Portal Trail, which is an exposed two-mile section of trail that cuts along the side of the mesa. Every few years, a cyclist falls and dies. This time, we decided to go down Poison Spider Mesa instead of the Portal Trail.

On our way down, we took a spur to the little arch and hung out a bit. I had ridden across this arch back in the day, and I secretly hoped to show off and ride across it again. In my memory, it wasn't a big deal, but when I took one look at the arch I decided against it, not with a wife and five kids at home who might have to explain that their husband/father died while showing off. "We have video footage, but frankly, it's difficult to watch."

After goofing around at the arch, we meandered down Poison Spider Mesa. Whenever someone had a mechanical (yes, the adjective works as a noun, kind of like when sports reporters say a player is "out with a knee") -- I broke a chain, and Sleepy and Gary flatted -- a small group stopped and helped out.

We got to the parking lot at dusk. A group of drivers hopped in the shuttle car while the rest of us hiked up to see the dinosaur tracks and Native American drawings. When the other drivers got back, they broke the bad news. Tom's car was still there.

Dug felt horrible, since he took responsibility for Tom. The rest of the guys drove into town and ate dinner while Paul and Dug and I drove back and forth looking for signs of Tom. It was dark.

We didn't know at the time that Tom had a lighter, warm clothes, matches, and a flashlight -- everything but a cell phone, which was in his truck. Had I known that, I would have gone into town with the boys and gotten drunk. Instead, I cycled through the emotions of guilt, frustration, and anger. Did he try to follow us along the blue trail? Did he clunk his head somewhere? Why didn't he tell us what he was doing?

Dug called the county sheriff and met up with the guys who were to go out and search for Tom. I wasn't there, so I'll have to let Dug tell the story about one or two of the guys scolding Dug for leaving a man behind. The plan was to send a hiker up the Portal Trail and several four-wheelers along the other routes.

According to L. Tom, he was hot on our trail. He barely missed us at the little arch, and then he had a mechanical. When it got dark, he realized he couldn't find his way down Poison Spider Mesa, so he walked his bike down the Portal Trail. It was the right decision. In fact, he did everything right, except for tinkering. And riding too slow. And failure to communicate.

The Portal Trail hiker found Tom near the bottom, and radioed the news to the rest of the team. As L. Tom ate dinner with Paul and Dug and me, he felt sheepish and grateful.

Slickrock

The next day we did Slickrock. It was the first time I'd ever done it on a singlespeed. More on that tomorrow, when I give out awards based on quotes from the movie, No Country for Old Men.

McCabe & Mrs. Miller

2008-11-06T12:37:00.000-08:00

McCabe & Mrs. Miller isn't a popular movie, and it doesn't seem that critically acclaimed. Sure, a few critics rave about it, but you don't see it listed on the great films lists. Or maybe it's just me. Before seeing it, I thought it was one of the inferior Robert Altman movies that has appeal only because it was an Altman film. I finally broke down and watched it.

It's one of the greatest movies I've ever seen.

I still can't get over why this movie isn't better known, other than the fact that it's bleak. Maybe it's the fact that people looking at it as western would be disappointed in its lack of western qualities, and people who look for an arty movies end up seeing a western.

The movie reminds me of Deadwood. In fact, Deadwood seems closer in spirit to McCabe & Mrs. Miller than M*A*S*H is in spirit to Altman's original movie.

If you have any poetry in you, go see it.

The McCain States

2008-11-04T20:19:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to pinpoint what the states that voted for John McCain have in common with each other, but I just can't pinpoint it. What is it about the people in Georgia, Mississippi, Texas, North Dakota, Tennessee, and South Carolina who insist on voting for the likes of George W. Bush and John McCain?

Are they all hot weather states? Land-locked states? Is it the shared ideology of trickle-down economics and free market deregulation? The love of Jeffersonian small government? If you have any theories, feel free to spout off. I'm stumped.

UPDATE: I know this post is unfair. In the immortal words of the current President of the United States, "I know that. Don't you think I know that?" As I mentioned in comments, a lot of smart, well-informed had their reasons for voting for Bush and McCain; and a lot of dumb, uninformed people voted for Obama. Most of all, I'm delighted that the Bush Era is nearly over, and I'm still mad at anyone who helped him take office. The way the Republican party used the religious right to get votes while putting policies in place to help big corporations was deeply cynical and short-lived. Despite McCain's gracious speech, he still tried to win using these same Rovian techniques.

Ultimate Election Thoughts

2008-11-02T10:03:00.000-08:00

Even though work has slowed down for me, I haven't been updating my web log because I've been obsessed with politics. I'm going to go through a serious withdrawal next week.

I'm not alone. The guy in the office next to mine is taking the whole week off next week. When his boss asked him to reconsider, he said no way -- he's not going to get anything done anyway. It's nice to know I have company. I wonder if I'm still going to spend a significant amount of my leisure time tuning in to political discussion. Before the 2000 primaries, I wasn't all that interested in politics. When Dubya hit the scene, I tuned in. I've spent eight years trolling political web sites, often in horror.

My favorite new web site is FiveThirtyEight, which offers statistical probabilities based on recent polls. According to this site, McCain has a 6.3% chance of becoming President. Barack Obama has a 93.7% chance of becoming President. Robert Raleigh has a 0.00% chance. America just isn't ready for a Native American in the White House.

The two states to watch closely in the early polling are Virginia and Pennsylvania. If Obama wins both, it's over.

In both states, the Republicans are pinning their hopes on the fact that a lot of working class white people -- many of them union guys -- are going to refuse to vote for a black man. The Bradley Effect is their greatest hope. So for you right-wingers out there reading this blog, buck up -- there's hope in racism.

By the way, it really bugs me that Jack Murtha was derided by the media and slipped in the polls because he said a lot of rednecks in Western Pennsylvania were too racist to vote for a black man. Anyone who spends any time in rural areas anywhere in the U.S. will hear lots of examples of racist rednecks who refuse to vote for Obama because he's black. Isn't this criticism an example of the political correctness that torments conservatives?

Back in 2004, after Bush defeated Kerry and the Republicans controlled both the House and the Senate, right-wing pundits shared their expertise by giving advice to the DNC. They argued that Democrats need to drop the moon-bat element (Moveon.com, DailyKOS, Michael Moore, etc.), and move further to the right. They said this as if the likes of Howard Dean were looking to The Corner for how to proceed. In reality, the best advice should have been, "Just sit tight and watch what happens when Republicans like George Bush and Tom DeLay run the country without opposition."

Now it looks like the Democrats have a 93% chance of having the same advantage. This has the likes of Rush and Sean terrified. What's going to happen to the country when Democrats take over? They'll politicize the Supreme Court! They'll run up huge budget deficits! They'll make us less safe! You'd think these guys would be more concerned about what just happened to our country than what might happen.

Penultimate 2008 Election Thoughts

2008-10-24T10:03:00.000-07:00

With a week and a half to go before the election, I realized that there isn't enough political media coverage. So I guess I'll have to put on my pundit hat and make up for the slackers who should be doing their jobs.

Poll Vaults

Nearly every poll shows Obama with a fairly comfortable lead, anywhere from 52%-39% to 49%-45%. And then out of nowhere the AP came out with a poll that showed Obama and McCain in a statistical tie, 44%-43%. I thought this had to be fishy. Sure enough, the number of evangelical Christians included in the poll was double the amount of those who voted in the previous election (46% to 23%). Unless there's been a rash of baptisms down by the river, I think it's safe to ignore that AP poll. But if you're a right-wing radio host, you should breathlessly claim that, unlike what the liberal media wants you to believe, the race is a dead heat.

Joe the Plumber

To hear McCain and his cronies speak of it, Joe the Plumber would benefit under McCain's plan. Have you seen the interview between Barack Obama and Joe the Plumber? Joe the Plumber said he was thinking about buying a business, and if his business is successful enough to earn (and report) more than $250K, why would Obama want to single him out to pay higher taxes? Obama then went on to explain his plan in excruciating detail. Joe the Plumber seemed impressed and deferential. In reality, Joe the Plumber will likely continue to earn less than $250K, in which case he'll be better off financially under Obama's plan. And if he does happen to earn (and report) more than $250K, would his tax increase really have a significant enough to affect his business? Why all the Joe the Plumber fuss?

I would say, "I don't get it," but that's not true. I get it. McCain has nothing. Except Ayers! Obama associated with Ayers! Oh, and Obama's a socialist because he believes in the same progressive tax system that's been in place since Woodrow Wilson was president.

Biased Reporting

The mainstream media has been biased against Republicans. Check out the following AP news release:

WASHINGTON (AP) — Freddie Mac secretly paid a Republican consulting firm $2 million to kill legislation that would have regulated and trimmed the mortgage finance giant and its sister company, Fannie Mae, three years before the government took control to prevent their collapse.

Looks bad for Republicans, right? However, if you keep reading the article, you'll realize that Chuck Hagel and Republicans were on the right side of regulating Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae, and the Democrats opposed it. The controversy is that the Republican lobbyist firm got involved and convinced a few Republicans to be on the wrong side -- the Democrats' side.

AM Radio

During the last week, as I've been shuttling the boys to various activities, I tune in to the Seattle station that plays right-wing radio. I've gotten to hear what the likes of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and Michael Medved have to say about the political landscape.

Limbaugh's not quite as effective as he was when he was addicted to drugs. He's mailing it in. With Hannity, I get a feeling that after the show, he gets on the phone and berates RNC pols for McCain's lame campaign. "I make $20 million a year! I deserve better than this!" With Medved, I feel like I'm listening to an overly sincere impersonation of Ned Flanders.

By the way, did you know that Freddy and Fanny are the primary cause of our economic woes? It's true! Too many black people were allowed to buy houses, and now they're getting foreclosed on, and it's driving the banks into ruin. No mention of bundled loans or the ideology of deregulation in support of the free market.

Throwing Bush under the Bus

I'm surprised McCain's assessment of Bush hasn't gotten more press:

"We just let things get completely out of hand," McCain said of his own party's rule in the past eight years.

"Spending, the conduct of the war in Iraq for years, growth in the size of government, larger than any time since the Great Society, laying a $10 trillion debt on future generations of America, owing $500 billion to China, obviously, failure to both enforce and modernize the [financial] regulatory agencies...failure to address the issue of climate change seriously," McCain told the Washington Times aboard his campaign plane en route from New Hampshire to Ohio.

Yep, that'll rally the base. Now if he can just explain why he bragged about helping Bush get elected and re-elected, and why he bragged about voting with Bush more than 90% of the time, and how his economic plans and foreign policies are fundamentally different from Bush's, he may gain some traction.

And did you know that Barack Obama pals around with terrorists?

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Back to the Future

2008-10-19T10:03:00.000-07:00

So I've finally gotten around to watching Mad Men, which presents life in the early 60s from a contemporary point of view. Uncomfortable racist and sexist scenes are predictable, but it's the small touches -- along with genuinely interesting plot lines -- that have sucked me in.

In one scene, a young child walks into the kitchen covered head to toe in a plastic bag. Of course, I immediately grabbed the couch cushions and expected the mother to yell, "Don't EVER put plastic over your head!" Instead, she bristles and tells the girl to go clean up her room. I'm waiting for the scene when kids pile into a station wagon without seat belts, and maybe the father throws a bag of McDonald's trash out the window.

Watching this retrospective has got me thinking about how our lives might be viewed if our grandchildren put together a similar series fifty years from now. What do we take for granted now that will seem absurd in 2060? Of course, it all depends on what happens between now and then, but I'll make my best guesses anyway.

Treatment of animals

Only a small percentage of people are concerned about how we treat cows and pigs and chickens to mass produce our meat and dairy. I would imagine that future generations will look at our mistreatment of animals in the same way we look back on separate water fountains for colored people.

Treatment of the environment

I imagine a scene where someone buys a new big-screen television and throws the old 36-inch television in the trash bin. Then a mother gets in one car, a father gets in another, and they both drive to the same place, with smoke belching from the exhaust pipes. There's a bumper sticker on one of the cars that says, "ECO FRIENDLY CAR" That's assuming, of course, that globally warmed people of the future still enjoy irony.

Mobility

"Do you remember when people used to go to different places? You know, before the Holodeck was invented?"

Excessive political correctness

I imagine a scene in which a husband agrees to stay home with the children while his wife goes on a business trip. This will seem very funny to men and women of the future, when men return to spitting and grabbing their crotches and dominating, while women assume the role of domestic underlings. By the way, have fun in Boston, Wendy. Hurry home!

Got any other ideas?

Of Military Brats

2008-10-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

I now subscribe to three -- and only three -- podcasts: Bill Simmons' B.S. Report, NPR's This American Life, and the New Yorker fiction podcast. A recent New Yorker podcast is particularly interesting to me, which is why I'm bringing it up. Tobias Wolff reads Stephanie Vaughn’s short story “Dog Heaven.”

This story itself is interesting -- Tobias Wolff has a keen eye for good fiction -- but what most intrigued me is that the author derives so much of her identity from having been raised on military bases. It struck me as odd that I had many of the same experiences in the military subculture, yet I haven't thought much about how military life shaped me. For me, having grown up Mormon seems far more influential than having grown up as a military brat.

So, for the purposes of this web log entry, I'm going to view my upbringing with a different lens.

Moving Around

We moved every three years. Idaho, Sacramento, Riverside, Omaha, Colorado Springs, Upper Peninsula, then Riverside again, where my Dad retired from the military. My parents, brothers, and sisters all still live near Riverside, while I continue the nomadic lifestyle. Provo, Seattle, Indiana, back to Seattle. I'm always restless, planning the next move. That's why this housing bubble is so difficult for me. After living in a place for three years, I at least need the freedom of knowing I can move on when I start feeling restless.

Growing up, we lived both on base and off base. In Colorado Springs, the fact that we were military caused the locals to keep their distance, as if we were renters in an established neighborhood. That's probably for the best, since people in Colorado Springs are assholes. And don't give me any of that I-knew-a-person-from-Colorado-Springs-who-wasn't-an-asshole nonsense. That's just the exception that proves the rule.

In Michigan, the situation was much different. There were basically three groups of kids in our high school. Locals, NCO kids, and officers' kids. The locals were mostly people of Finnish descent whose ancestors worked in ore mines, eh. The NCO kids and the officers' kids took different buses to school. It's not like we wore colors and had gang fights. For the most part, the school was divided in the typical categories of any American school in the late 70s -- jocks, freaks, and nerds. I suppose some of the officers' kids could have been considered preppies.

When I was in high school, I was a good Mormon boy -- I didn't drink or smoke or carry on -- but I probably had my rights read to me five or six times. In nearly every case, we broke curfew and someone in the car mouthed off to the patrol guard at the gate. Now that I think about it, the guards were most likely bored 20-year-old kids looking to bust someone's balls. You have the right to remain silent...

Security

When I grew up, we shopped primarily at two stores -- the BX and the Commissary. The BX is a cross between a Wall-mart and a Ye Olde General store. The Commissary is a grocery store. At both places, the prices are cheap and there are no taxes. Whenever we had to buy groceries off base, where the rabble tried to make do in their civilian lives, it always seemed like a big rip-off, the equivalent of buying groceries at a 7-11. (Speaking of 7-11, I remember when those stores were open from 7 am to 11 pm. And I remember shopping at an 8-11 store.)

The government coddled us. Living in base housing was cheap, and utilities were included. If a military man wanted his family to live off base, the government provided a stipend for helping with the rent or mortgage. When we needed medical care, we just went to the base hospital at no charge.

After having grown up with all these benefits, I thought it would be crazy to do anything but join the military. So before my freshman year at BYU, I enrolled in ROTC. My plan was to be in the military and let the government take care of me. When I went to the ROTC class early on the morning of the first day of school, something felt wrong. Nearly 30 years later, I still remember what that drab yellow classroom looked like. We were packed into that little white building in the parking lot of the Law school. After about 20 minutes of listening to the ROTC guy, something felt wrong. Military life was at cross-purposes with the university atmosphere. I stood up and walked out of the class.

In that moment, I gave up military life. No BX, no Commissary, no I.D. cards, no government coddling. I was alone in the world. Walking out of that ROTC class was nearly the equivalent of Ben Franklin walking into Philadelphia carrying only a dollar coin and a loaf of bread to make his way in the world. Of course, Ben Franklin and I are different people. For one thing, he is dead, while I, myself, am alive. That's huge.

Family Sacrifices

This thought may or may not have occurred to you, but some military personnel must participate in wars. My father did several tours in Vietnam. He'd be gone for months at a time, leaving my mother to watch us five kids. She got some help from a bitter wretch named Mrs. Storm. If I weren't such a kind-hearted person, I'd hunt her down for having sneered at us. She was a walking caricature, with a long nose and cat rim glasses.

The one benefit of my father's tours was that when he'd come back from Asia, he'd bring cool gifts. I still remember a red phonograph with AM/FM radio. I bought my first album -- Don McClean's American Pie -- and played it on that phonograph over and over. I also played two 45s: George Harrison's "What Is Life" and Vicki Lawrence's "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia": Slapped the sheriff on the back with a smile, said "Supper is waitin' at home, and I gotta get to it."

I loved that little red phonograph.

Some men died. Bobby Alley's father was declared Missing in Action when his B-52 was shot down. I also remember being in the old Buick station wagon with my father when he told us that several of his friends were shot down in B-52s during a two-week stretch, because the Vietnamese acquired Soviet technology that zeroed in on the high-flying bombers. God, I hated the Russians! It was bad enough that we had to duck and cover under their nuclear threats.

Architecture

An odd thing about military bases is that all the buildings seem intentionally ugly. From the outside, there is little difference between an airplane hangar, the gym, the movie theater, the library, or any of the office buildings. It wasn't even a matter of function over form. It was more like a macho disregard for taste. Or maybe it goes back to the notion that everything was temporary. The building isn't going to be here for long, and neither are we, so why put effort into it?

California Vacation Summary

2008-10-10T07:36:00.000-07:00

After writing a compelling title like that, I'm concerned that I can't possibly live up to it. I'll do my best.

Legoland vs. Disneyland

We borrowed my parents' car to drive to Legoland. Their car includes a Garmin GPS system they call Gertrude. It's basically like having someone read MapQuest instructions to you. "In one mile, turn right on Legoland Drive." The only problem is that she doesn't quite pronounce street names right. She told us to turn on "leGOland" drive, not "LEGoland" drive, which isn't a big deal, but "leGOland" sticks in your head. I kept asking the boys if they were having fun at leGOland and asking them which leGO toy they wanted to purchase. It caused confusion.

Legoland isn't as well-maintained as Disneyland, nor does it have the same weighty history. But Legoland does have a little water park. It was 100 degrees on the day we went, so the mini water park was a welcome relief. You can change into your swim suits and run around a big water structure. At Legoland, there are water slides and mounted water guns and spray fountains and huge buckets that fill up with water and then tip over, creating a huge loud splash every few minutes.

Legoland also isn't as crowded as Disneyland. The longest we stood in line at Legoland was ten minutes. Disneyland felt like it was one big line. I still prefer Disneyland. The music is more soothing.

Swimming

In her glass-half-empty moments, Wendy sometimes refers to ways in which we're not doing our jobs as parents. For one thing, our boys didn't know how to swim. Wendy wanted to keep putting them in swim lessons, but I thought swim lessons were a waste of time until the boys learned how to swim. This made no sense to Wendy, and I'll admit that it doesn't seem logical on the surface, but Wendy didn't take the boys to swim class -- I did. Max was so miserable that he refused to get in the water, despite my best threats and bribes.

Luke was game, but he spent most of the time shivering on the side of the pool. When it was his turn, he kicked his feet or whatever, but it wasn't doing any good. In the final lesson, the instructor -- a useless dope with an upturned nose -- took the kids for a spin around the pool in a boat. I guess she wanted to teach them how to fall out of a boat, only she didn't tell them that. As she turned the boat over, one terrified kid let go, but Luke hung on and got trapped under the boat. Little Miss Pigface then struggled to turn the boat over, and I debated whether to jump in and help Luke get out from under the boat. Luke finally came out terrified and bawling. Ugh.

Fortunately, both my parents and my sister Shari have pools, so the boys learned how to swim. Max was the first one to swim across the pool. Luke wasn't able to make it, so he got discouraged. I tried to buck him up by explaining that different children learn at different rates, etc., but it was all just words to him. He was sad. Then he figured out out how to jump off the side of the hot tub into the deep end and swim across the pool by himself. Then it was Max's turn to be sad. Both boys can dog paddle across the length of a backyard swimming pool and pick up rings on the bottom of the hot tub. Now it's time for swim lessons.

Lisa

One of the main reasons we went to California again this year was to spend time with Lisa and Hannah, who celebrated her 2nd birthday last week. Lisa's particular form of lymphoma appeared to be life threatening. Fortunately, she's responding really well to chemotherapy. My father and brother and I went over to Lisa's house to plant bushes that she'd bought for her already plush back yard, which she's transformed into a mini wonderland with a tiki hut. My Dad planted one bush, I planted five, and Mark planted none. Now you see what it was like growing up in our house. Sometimes I wonder how my family survives in California without me.

The Great Depression II?

While the family was on vacation, we lost a good chunk of our life savings. The college funds for the boys, our retirement accounts, and any extra money we squirreled away in mutual funds are nearly half gone. I keep thinking we've hit bottom and it's too late to sell, but obviously others disagree and keep selling off.

I know that Democrats and Republicans both encouraged the housing bubble to continue, and that Wall Street lobbyists donate heavily to legislatures of both parties. Given that Republicans are hell-bent on deregulating the financial industry and that the Bush administration was in power during this time, the objective part of me would put 2/3rds of the blame on Republicans. But deep down, I blame it all on George W. Bush. How come no one calls him the Disaster President? I'm starting. He's The Disaster President. Think about it. Bin Laden Determined to Attack in the United States. We'll Be Greeted in Iraq As Liberators. Brownie's Doing a Hell of a Job. The Underlying Strength of Our Economy Is Strong.

Is my venom comparable to that of the Clinton haters? Am I being as irrational? I doubt it. Clinton left the country in good shape, but even moderates were talking about "restoring dignity to the White House." Call me a partisan hack, but I'd rather have a president lying about blow jobs from interns than a president who runs the country so far into debt that we're financing botched wars with money from China, Saudi Arabia, and Brazil. We ran a surplus under Clinton for the last two years! Ugh.

Sarah Palin

If Obama wins this election, I'll look back at Sarah Palin with some fondness. If McCain can somehow pull it out, I will become a religious man again -- a deeply religious man -- and I will pray to every God for McCain's health. I will even get elk antlers like the cook in Deadwood and bow before a mounted animal. "Please, please, please, let McCain live." If that doesn't work, I can make a run for the border and pick fruit in Mexico.

Question: What's the rule with referring to a woman as "Ms." instead of "Mrs."? Specifically, I'm thinking of Sarah Palin. She took her husband's last name, so shouldn't she be "Mrs. Palin"? Is "Ms." used for professional women and "Mrs." for homemakers? Can a homemaker who took her husband's last name ask to be called "Ms."? If it's a matter of preference, does calling Sarah Palin "Ms." put off conservative voters?

RIP, Paul Newman

2008-09-27T15:07:00.000-07:00

Paul Newman died at the age of 83. Here's one of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies, when Cool Hand Luke sings a ridiculous song after hearing his mother died.

Paul Newman movies that I'll watch over and over:

Cool Hand Luke
The Sting
The Verdict
Absence of Malice
Slap Shot
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Leave Sarah Palin Alone!

2008-09-25T19:05:00.000-07:00

Many people are suggesting that John McCain bailed on an interview with David Letterman so that he could do an interview with Katie Couric, and then maybe people would ignore an interview she did with Sarah Palin earlier that day. That's a lie! And many people are suggesting that Sarah Palin may be breaking new ground as the first mentally challenged individual to become the Vice President. Another lie! Look at this interview:

She knows the meaning of most of the words she's saying. She doesn't always put them in the right fungible place, but it's kind of like a tossed salad language of. You don't need to make sure one word next another is to. You just scramble it up and take a big bite. No, she's definitely not mentally retarded. I'd say Sarah Barracuda knows more about politics and things than most 10th graders in her home town.

How the Republican Party Improves My Parenting Skills

2008-09-22T13:38:00.000-07:00

These new Republicans are great at politics and lousy at governing, but they deserve credit. They've given me a lot of good parenting tips.

Spin the Truth

I took Luke and Max to the car show festival on Sunday, and there was a booth set up for building cars out of zucchini and racing them pinewood derby style. The boys picked out their zucchini and stuck in their toothpick decorations, and I tacked on the wheels.

When it was their turn to race, I knew one of the boys was going to have hurt feelings. What I didn't know was how to handle the situation. I thought about going with the old "you win some, you lose some" theme.

The starter lifted the bar, and down flew Luke's car in first place, well ahead of the other vegetables. In contrast, Max's car was still stuck against a wall near the top of his lane. The race official redirected the car, but it kept turning into the same wall. He turned the car backwards. Same pathetic result. Finally, he just took Max's zucchini car off the track and handed it to me.

Luke was joyous. Max was near tears. What now? What would Karl Rove do?

"Luke, your car is the fastest in a straight line. And Max, your car is the fastest in a circle. But this isn't a very good track for fast-circle cars."

"My car is the fastest in a circle!" proclaimed Max.

If You Can't Spin, Lie!

After the Leadville race a few weeks ago, Max and Luke were having a difficult time understanding how I had managed to win a medal and a belt buckle without winning the entire race. I didn't have a good answer for 4-year-olds. While I trained hard, raced well, and pushed myself so much during the race that I ended up in the emergency room, I managed to finish in 504th place. I'm number Five-Oh-Four! That's not what they want to hear.

"Yes! I won the whole race!" I declared. After all, they weren't there.

"No, he didn't win," said Wendy, playing the role of an elitist blogger who wanted to make the situation needlessly complex with icky nuance. "He just won a buckle for finishing in under 12 hours."

"No, I won the whole race!" I said in my best John McCain impersonation.

Use Ironic Labels Unironically

In the spirit of the Clean Air Act, which made industrial pollution restrictions more lax, I came up with a great idea for feeding the boys lunch. I put a bunch of healthy food they don't like in a bowl and called it a Fun Bowl.

"Hey, do you guys want a Fun Bowl for lunch?"

"YES!!!"

A word of warning. A Fun Bowl needs to have more than carrots, broccoli, and the like. You need to throw in a few marshmallows or gummy fruit. There has to be some truth in the label, or it won't work.

Fire!

2008-09-19T08:17:00.001-07:00

We took the boys "camping." I put camping in quotation marks because we went to Camp Long, which is a 1.8-mile drive from our house. Camp Long is about the size of a golf course. In fact, it looks very similar to a golf course, only imagine that the fairways and greens are filled in with trees, and a few cabins appear where the clubhouse should be.

Mark drove his truck up from California to go bow hunting on the peninsula, so he stayed in the cabin with us. He and I built a fire as soon as we possibly could. I can't speak for Mark, but I know the first thing I want to do whenever I camp is build a fire. And when two guys build a fire, there's usually an unspoken debate whether to go with the log cabin approach, the tepee approach, or some combination. I prefer starting with a tepee and making the transition to a log cabin, but this only works if I'm solely responsible for the fire.

I'm not picky about the style of fire because the mere act of building a fire masks all wounds. Along with floating down a river and one or two things I can't mention on a family blog, it's a perfect activity.

In a thrilling dog bites man turn of events, Luke and Max loved the fire. Either Wendy or Aunt Kim taught them rules about fires, or they had some instinctive rules about fire safety, because they grew quite alarmed at my actions. I wasn't supposed to step over the fire, even in its early stages. I wasn't supposed to get my face close to the fire and blow on it. And most of all, I wasn't supposed to allow a flame to lick my hand when I placed a piece of wood in the fire. I was chastised regularly.

The boys and their fire rules reminded me of a time I went camping with Robert.

I had just "left" the Mormon church for what turned out to be the last time, barring unforeseen future events. I had tried leaving the church several times in the years before that, but each time I vowed I was done, I backslid, and ended up back in the pews again, a sinner kneeling before God. At the time, Robert and I were sharing an office, and I tried to explain to him in my best CS Lewis language why I was still trying to be a Christian Mormon, even though I didn't believe a lick of the Joseph Smith story -- or the Bible stories for that matter.

That experience deserves a blog entry of its own. Suffice it to say that I decided to leave the church once and for all, so I wanted to make it official somehow through ritual. One such ritual was to go out in the woods and get drunk off my ass.

I know several people who left the church around the same time in their lives as I did, and we all had similar experiences to tell. In our late 20s, we did things that a lot of teenagers would have thought immature. Again, this is a family blog, so I can't tell certain stories. But I can tell this one.

I hadn't been drinking since I was a sophomore in high school. I asked around to get some advice, and ended up going with Fuzzy Navels -- a mix of peach schnapps and orange juice. Robert went with a more manly rum and Coke, although his frequent vomiting later that night wasn't terribly manly.

We lay our sleeping bags on a tarp near a stream in Diamond Fork canyon. Then we lit a fire, roasted some processed meat, and started drinking. I shook off the willies with every swig of my first Fuzzy Navel, but an hour or so later, I was drinking my Fuzzy Navel as if I were Ernest Hemingway. After the third or fourth drink, I manfully smashed the little purple umbrella that adorned my drink.

The act of getting drunk was a sin against my Holy Residual God, which is a fearful thing. At the time, I called it the Raskolnikov Factor. An individual can't make up his own set of rules; he's still morally bound by unseen social forces. As Robert and I drunkenly discussed ideas like this, we rebelled against our newfound freedom by establishing three rules:

1) Do not step over, close to, or into the fire.
2) Do not swim in or near the river.
3) Do not drive the truck, nor any similar vehicle, nor operate heavy machinery.

These rules were comforting to fledgling atheists. We made sure we got the language just right. As we continued to drink, these rules became shackles, obstacles to true living. One of us would move very close to the fire and revel in the other's scolding. Then we took turns jumping over the fire. I wanted to go for a little swim. Robert wanted the keys to go for a quick drive in my pickup truck.

No! No! That's against the rules!

Good times.

Various and Sundry Effluvia

2008-09-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

I am going bald

I knew my hair was thinning, but it wasn't until Elden buzzed my head before Leadville that I realized that I'm headed the way of the billiard ball. Earlier in my life, going bald would have stressed me out. In fact, when my hairline changed at age 18, I purchased an expensive special shampoo and oil combination that fought the effects of male pattern baldness. And it worked!

Now, at the age of 46, I have a much more tempered world view. I understand that chicks will dig me even if I am bald.

Lance Armstrong to race the Tour de France

Here's why he wants to race again:

Then Leadville, this kind of obscure bike race, totally kick-started my engine. For me it's always been about the process.... The process of getting there is the best part. You start the season a little out of shape, a little heavy. You get in better shape. You lose some weight.

I mean you're just crafting this perfect program. For several weeks I [had] trained [for Leadville] and went riding by myself. Obviously beautiful territory and fresh air, just feeling fit, losing weight, getting strong-living a very healthy lifestyle. I thought, 'This might be fun to try again.'

Who does he think he is? How dare he call the Leadville 100 a "kind of obscure bike race"? I am so angry right now that I could snap a pencil in half. A mechanical pencil.

John McCain Might Be Our Next President

Because, you know, this Republican administration has messed things up, so it's time to replace them with a new Republican administration, a Republican for change! If we can just cut taxes and drill, drill, drill, we'll be back in the catbird seat in no time.

If you want to hit the moon, aim for the stars

When he grows up, Luke no longer wants to drive a cement mixer for a living. He wants to be a street sweeper.

Star Wars

When the boys and I watch shows, we all declare ourselves to be different characters. If The Backyardigans is on, I get to be Austen, Max is Uniqua, and Luke is Tyrone. If we watch Star Wars, Luke gets to be Luke Skywalker for obvious reasons, and Max -- this is not a joke -- gets to be Chewbacca. No, I don't know why.

Any fondness I had for the 1977 Star Wars is long gone. The dialogue is painful, Darth Vader is no longer compelling, and Luke Skywalker snivels. Still, the boys like it for the same reasons we did.

While the first Star Wars movie (excuse me, Episode IV) plummets in my estimation, the fourth movie (excuse me, Episode I) is much better than I recall. Since it's already a given that Jar Jar Binks is awful and the kid who plays the child Darth Vader is a terrible actor, the good scenes can stand out. And that fight scene between Darth Maul and the two Jedis is one of the best fight scenes in any movie.

I'd have to get my Top 5 staff back together to pinpoint its exact location in the hierarchy of fight scenes, but a preliminary stab goes like this:

1. Rocky Balboa vs. Apollo Creed
2. Darth Maul vs. Obi Wan and, um, Leam Neeson
3. Indiana Jones vs. The Shirtless Nazi
4. Danny LaRusso vs. Johnny Lawrence
5. Inigo Montoya vs. The Man in Black

Even though it doesn't qualify as a movie, Deadwood has one of my favorite fight scenes. When Dan Dority and Captain Turner square off, well, oh dear. Oh my. The showdown between King Arthur and the Black Knight also deserves special mention, along with the school hallway scene in Gross Pointe Blank and Boromir's death. A nod to Borat is also in order.

Work

There is light at the end of the tunnel. There is blood in the water. I may soon begin updating this blog more than once a week.

A Farewell to Arms

2008-09-04T07:48:00.000-07:00

As a triathlete, I am appalled by my sluggish performance in the pool. I've swum laps several times now, and I'm still not ready for the Fast Lane group. My weak arms have taken me by surprise.

Also, my Speedo suit has shrunk. It now covers only the middle portion of my behind. It looks like I either need to purchase a larger Speedo or lose some weight.

The thought occurred to me that declaring myself a triathlete was premature. It would have been much easier to declare myself a golf enthusiast.

Election '08 Thoughts

2008-08-29T12:55:00.000-07:00

* Obama's speech was wonderful in many ways. Most of all, it was genuinely inspiring. I respect this guy. And it was an effective rebuttal to the various McCain attacks. Obama was clearly not a Paris Hilton-type celebrity. He was unpatriotic only to the frightened wingnuts who forward all those ALL CAPS messages. His foreign policy ideas are a refreshing counterpoint to Bush's global failures.

* Anyone who watched that speech should have no fear that Obama would be a wise, forceful leader. He looked presidential. The more people see of Obama, the more impressed they should be.

* I wonder how many swing voters saw the speech itself, as opposed to taking in only the commentary. For those who actually saw the speech, Obama makes Democrats look like the party of strength. McCain makes Republicans look like the party of pettiness and fear. Or the party of garden gnomes.

* McCain still has a very good chance of winning the election. If Palin proves to be capable on the big stage, McCain's choice of veep will be an effective counter to Obama. And McCain doesn't need to prove that he'll be a good president. He just needs to make the election a referendum on Obama, and let the Republican smear machine take it from there.

* I'm going to enjoy the Republican convention to see how McCain balances supporting Bush and presenting himself as the candidate of change.

* I want to get back to the point of both Democrats and Republicans offering offsetting strengths and weaknesses. While the Democratic party has its problems, the Republican party brings nothing to the table. They've abandoned previous core principles like small government and fiscal responsibility. I want to see the Republicans smashed and humiliated so they can reinvent themselves into the party that I can at least partially support.

Luke Comes to Grips with Mortality

2008-08-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

Luke's fish died.

Just before I was going to put the boys down for the evening, Wendy came upstairs and mentioned to me in a somber whisper, "Luke's fish died. Should we tell him now, or should we wait till the morning?"

I couldn't stand the idea of my son sleeping peacefully while his fish was belly up in the tank, so I said she better go tell him right away. Plus, I was indexing a user guide, and I needed the extra time.

A minute or so later, I heard loud crying. Weeping. Wailing.

"KAREN IS DEAD! OH NO! KAREN? KAREN!"

I would have laughed, but the poor kid was genuinely distraught. Should I tell him about Fish Heaven? In Fish Heaven, the most obedient fish attain the highest kingdom. Should I tell him that a fish dies like any animal? When we die, our consciousness ceases, our body rots, and that's the end of the miracle we call life. I suppose I could always go the vague reincarnation route. When we die, we become something different, but no one knows what.

I didn't tell him anything, because anything I said would have meant nothing. Luke had his own cross to bear.

It was a sad day for him. I wasn't particularly fond of Karen. He was a violent fish who ate his own feces. But Luke loved him. Or he loved having him.

R.I.P. Karen
2008-2008

Olympic Disappointment

2008-08-19T11:58:00.000-07:00

I have Olympic fever. When the boys get settled, I turn on my laptop and the television, switching between the NBC channels and the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Channel).

I prefer the CBC for two reasons. First, NBC claims to broadcast some events "live," but they don't happen to mention that it's live only on the East coast. They still think they can get away with that when anyone can look up the "live" results three hours before they're broadcast by surfing the web or flipping channels. Second, I prefer Canada's coverage. High on sports, low on interviews and heart-warming bios of underdog Americans.

Wendy and I were holding hands on the couch when the following conversation took place:

Wendy: "Oh, you're turning the channel."

Me: "Yeah, I don't like watching women play basketball. The players look clumsy and frumpy."

Wendy: [Releases my hand and slides away from me.]

Me: "Did something I say upset you?"

Wendy: "Yes. Blah blah blah patriarchal society blah blah blah hegemony blah blah blah disenfranchisment blah blah blah marginalization of blah blah blah." (I'm paraphrasing here.)

Me: "For me it's a matter of preference. Men look good playing basketball or football or rugby. Women look good when doing gymnastics or diving or doing anything that brings our their grace. Both men and women look great playing volleyball. Neither look good playing field hockey. I don't want to see women play basketball, and I don't want to see men figure skating. But I'll watch anything if the USA has a chance at gold."

Wendy: "Blah blah blah sexist blah."

Me: "It's possible that I need to reevaluate my preferences and undo sexist programming. I'll work on that during football season, which is only three weeks away!"

Note: It's possible that I have not captured the nuanced nature of Wendy's arguments. And I may have embellished some of my own.

2008 Leadville Race Report

2008-08-12T12:40:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: My flight was delayed, so I have time to write. I'm going to ramble and babble.

The Leadville 100 is an out-and-back race that starts at 10,200 feet, tops out at 12,600 feet at Columbine Mine, and returns to Leadville. It includes 14,000 feet of climbing, most of which takes place in five big climbs -- St. Kevin's in, Powerline in, Columbine Mine, Powerline out, and st. Kevin's out.

After finishing last year's race in 12:26, I signed up for Leadville, started training hard during the summer, stressed and obsessed, and reduced my pastry intake by 12%.

The Start

Organizers line up everyone according to projected finish. At the front of the pack were a dozen or so of the pro racers, including Lance Armstrong and Dave Wiens. Behind them were the top 100 returners from last year's race. They were given special wrist bands. You'll have to trust me when I tell you that Elden was thrilled to be in this special group, cordoned off from the rest of us chattel.

Behind them, riders were grouped in Sub-9, 9-10, 10-11, 11-12, and 12+ sections. I knew I belonged in the 11-12 group, but these categories are flawed. Some of the riders -- many of them roadies -- are fast cyclists with mediocre technical skills. When they get to the first climb at St. Kevin's, a lot of these strong endurance athletes flail and have to get off their bikes, jamming up traffic with their antics. Knowing I'd do fine on the first climb, I jumped in the back of the 9-10 group next to "Gary," who dressed just like Dug, complete with plaid shorts, knee socks, and a handlebar basket containing a stuffed monkey. In fact, I'll go ahead and just call him "Dug."

I thought I'd be more nervous. After last year's race, when I got down on myself, I wanted to avoid emotional highs and lows and just ride hard and steady. I didn't bring a watch and I wasn't going to ask anyone how I was doing.

Bang!

When the gun goes off at Leadville, most riders have to wait anywhere between a few seconds and a few minutes to start riding. A police car and television crew (LANCE ARMSTRONG IS RACING!!!) set the pace going downhill out of town. During these few miles, riders aren't supposed to pass. Unfortunately, some goober refused to respect Elden's top 100 wristband and knocked him over while passing him.

Elden scrambled back on his bike undamaged and was noticeably upset when I went by him. I was too busy yelling to talk to him. Most of the riders have the sense to hold their lines and avoid overreacting, but it's the few spastics I want to frighten away. So I yelled things like "TURNING" or "SLOWING" or "CORNISH GAME HENS" -- whatever came to mind. Once we turned off on the dirt road, I clammed up and settled into a rhythm.

Over St. Kevin's and Sugarloaf

The ride up St. Kevin's is always interesting. There are the agro dudes who burn energy to pass in crazy places, gaining precious seconds. And there are people who just ride weird. One guy threw it in granny gear on a gradual climb and spun his legs three times as fast as anyone around him.

I borrowed a Superfly from Racer's wife, and I want to say right now that it's far and away the best racing bike I've ever ridden. At this same place the previous year, my legs felt dead and any serious effort made me dizzy. This year I felt solid. Dug and Elden passed me at some point, but I wasn't going to try to hang with anyone, especially singlespeed riders.

The descent down the paved road on St. Kevin's was a blast. No cars are allowed, so I put my belly on my seat and flew down in a tuck, yelling, "ON YOUR LEFT!!!"

The second climb of the day is up Haberman's pass to the top of Sugarloaf. You climb up a mile or so of paved road, and then you go up a long, gradual dirt road that wraps around Turquoise Lake. I was still feeling strong, but my legs were twitching now and then, as if they were going to start cramping. I tried to put it out of my mind.

The four-mile descent down Powerline on the other side of Sugarloaf is nerve-wracking. There are slow riders and fast riders and crazy riders. About every quarter mile, someone is changing a flat tire. My plan was to ride this stretch cautiously because I didn't want to wreck or flat. It turned out I didn't need to be cautious. The Superfly was steady. In biking terms, it "tracks well." It's the opposite of squirrelly.

I jumped behind a guy who was going fast and followed his line until he screwed up, and then I passed him. When I was near the bottom, where the course was lined with spectators to watch the carnage, I slowed down to ride behind a guy who was going a little too fast to pass easily. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy on the other side of the trail taking a random line. He made no effort to dodge rocks or trenches. In fact, it almost looked like he was going out of his way to hit obstacles.

He took a terrible line to pass the guy in front of me, and then he paid for it, tumbling over his handlebars right in front of the other guy. That guy slammed on his brakes and then tumbled exactly the same way. It was like an act out of circ de soleil. Synchronized endos.

As I scooted around them, asked if they were OK. One of the guys said, "It's too early to tell." Take your time! I think he ended up breaking his collarbone. That's what the nurse in the emergency room told me.

At the bottom of the downhill, there's a fun little stream crossing where you can go left to ride over a 12-foot plank to keep from getting your feet wet. After riding a few miles in pace lines on paved and dirt roads, the tents from the first aid station appear. I didn't know how fast I was going, but I looked it up later:

2007 Bob - 2:41
2008 Bob - 2:32

To Twin Lakes Dam

I stopped at the 26-mile aid station to grab something quick to eat and fill up my bottle with a sports drink. I knew I was going to feel lousy later in the race, but I had a plan. I was going to take a cocktail of ibuprofen and Tums. The race organizers warned everyone about the dangers (KIDNEY FAILURE!!!) of taking ibuprofen at altitude when you're dehydrated, so my plan was to stay good and hydrated. I drank constantly from my Camelbak.

We had a nice tailwind that carried us down the flattish road. After a few dips into a little valley, we headed over a ridge and dropped down the road that crosses the dam. That road is lined for miles with cars and support tents.

Because I was slow guy in the group, I didn't ask anyone to crew for me. Instead, I left drop bags and depended on the volunteers. The volunteers were fantastic as usual. One person grabbed my Camelback while another person brought me my drop bag. I ate a couple of banana slices to stave off cramps, restocked my jersey pockets with sugary food, drank a pop-top can of soup, and took off for the big climb.

2007 Bob - 3:37
2008 Bob - 3:26

Columbine

Before you get to Columbine, there's a ridge with a sketchy uphill portion. I rode up it while others walked it. I got to thinking -- would a no-dab Leadville be possible? Up to this point, I'd taken my foot out of the pedals twice, each time at aid stations. If I were in better shape, I think I'd try it.

We rode through a valley before taking a sharp right turn that marks the beginning of the 9-mile climb. I remembered this turn well because it was there where Floyd Landis and Dave Wiens passed me the year before. So this year, assuming that the leaders were going roughly the same speed, I figured that each minute I climbed from there put me a minute ahead of last year's pace. I climbed for a good ten or fifteen minutes before I felt the buzz up ahead.

RIDERS!

Lance Armstrong was flashing down the mountain with Dave Wiens ridely calmly off his back wheel. I know Lance retired from the sport years ago and is a shell of his former cycling self, but it was thrilling to see him coming down the mountain like that. Those guys were pedaling fast down a section where I would have been feathering my brakes.

The climb up Columbine consists of two parts -- the long road climb and the steep, rocky double-track where most riders walk. Last year, the altitude got to me on the road climb, and I had to shift down to granny gear and eventually walk my bike where I should have been riding. This year, I rode up the whole way in the middle ring, eating a Powergel every twenty minutes or so.

The only drawback was that my legs were twitching and cramping, which worried me more than anything. When we got to the hike-a-bike section, I jumped in line and hiked with everyone else.

One misleading thing about a race report like this is that it's difficult to convey a sense of time. I suppose I could say I pushed my bike up the mountain for 45 minutes, feeling weak and sick from the altitude, but that doesn't get at the feeling of hopelessness as you see a line of hike-a-bikers way up the mountain, tiny ant figures all the way up, and each step is painful. Whenever I got on or off my bike, various legs muscles cramped up. I figured it was only a matter of time before they locked up and I wouldn't be able to use my legs.

Eventually, I made it to the top of the climb and rode down into a knoll where the aid station was. I stopped, jammed a whole banana in my mouth, and hurried to drop out of that altitude as fast as I could.

2007 Bob - 6:10
2008 Bob - 5:42

Down, Down, Down

Have I mentioned that the Superfly tracks well? It does. I rode down the mountain and back into the Twin Lakes aid station, where the volunteers once again swarmed to my aid as if I were the John Belushi character in 1941.

I downed a can of soup, jammed another banana in my mouth, and set off again. By the way, I'm enjoying this comparison of my current self to my former self, also known as The Bad Guy. Failure can be a beautiful thing when there's hope of redemption.

2007 Bob - 6:59
2008 Bob - 6:25

Across the Flats

Next, the 14-mile "flat" section to the next aid station. All four times I've done Leadville, this section is where I started to fall apart. There are two nasty hike-a-bikes up small but steep hills, and the miles have gotten to me at this point. It's also signifantly more uphill going back than coming out. My legs were wobbly, my stomach was churning, I wanted to quit the race.

I tried not to think about anything. Just stay on the bike and take the pain. In the back of my mind, I hoped that the magic cocktail would work when it was time to take it. Otherwise, I'd be in serious trouble. The aid station appeared more quickly than I expected.

2007 Bob - 8:33
2008 Bob - 7:46

The Final Climbs

I didn't know how well I was doing and I didn't want to ask. As I said, I wanted to turn my brain off to avoid emotion, which is always excessive when you're worn down like that. The volunteers grabbed my drop bag. I drank another can of soup, ate more banana pieces, and then braced myself. I took a Red Bull out of the drop bag and used it to gulp down my cocktail. I wanted to rest longer in the aid station, but I forced myself back on the bike. If the cocktail didn't work, I wanted to still have a chance at a sub-12.

The cocktail worked. And how.

Along the few miles of road before the nastiest climb, I started feeling better. No headaches, no leg cramps, no nausea. After crossing the stream and starting the climb, I toyed with the idea of riding of the first steep pitch. Instead, I pushed up it quickly, passing several people along the way.

The Powerline is infamous for its false summits. After hiking about a mile up to what appears to be the top, you're really only about a third of the way up. After the first pitch, there's a little flat section, and then it goes up again. Unlike last year, when I walked up the whole thing and sat down to rest several times, I rode.

And I kept riding. After the initial pitch, I didn't get off my bike once. Emboldened by ibuprofen and taurine, I chatted with a few people who wanted to talk about the Fat Cyclist and zipped up Powerline as if it were a training ride. The rain sizzled on the wires above us.

When I got to the rolling section at the top, I allowed myself to think for the first time that I might actually make it. Naturally, my reaction to this thought was to get all choked up. I didn't want to cry, so I ended up making strange noises that probably sounded like "guh" or "gollem."

During the descent, I kept trying to get power gels or shot blocks or anything from my pocket, but I kept dropping my food because my hands were shaky. So I just gave up and waited for the St. Kevin's climb to eat.

St. Kevin's is a fairly steep 4-mile climb, but it's on pavement. That means it actually feels good after getting bounced around all day. The only problem was that I ran out of water right at the start of the climb. A guy who works in Racer's shop (Arthur?) was kind enough to give me a sip of water about halfway up.

I pulled into the last aid station, refilled my Camelbak, and drank more soup. Someone mentioned that we were not only on track for sub-12, but we had 15 minutes to spare. I thought I was further ahead than that (I was). I hopped on my bike and pedaled hard.

The Final Stretch

My legs were strong but I felt dizzy. Then I started having blurred vision. I'm not sure what was going on. Part of me felt strong enough to sprint while another part of me was sick and exhausted.

I was more careful than usual during the downhill stretches because I didn't think I had the mental agility to change a flat in my condition. When we came out of the woods into the outskirts of Leadville, I started making my guh and gollem sounds again.

As I crossed the dirt road where I'd taken the Superfly on its maiden voyage two days before, people were ringing cowbells and shouting encouragement. One guy looked just like Lance Armstrong, but I figured my blurred vision was playing tricks on me.

After I turned up what's known as the Boulevard, which is the final climb into town, another rider asked me if I'd seen Lance. Lance who? "Yeah," the guy said. "Lance Armstrong was back there drinking beer and telling us to keep going."

Then the final right turn onto 6th street.

Guh. Gollem.

As I rode toward the finish line, people were cheering and clapping and ringing cowbells, and I wasn't in any kind of condition to reject their endorsement of my magnificence.

Thank you. Thank you.

2007 Bob - 12:26:12
2008 Bob - 11:22:44

At the finish line, someone put a medal around my neck, and I looked around for my friends. No one was there. Even though 11:22:44 is a great number that's nearly Fibonacciesque, my friends were all finishing their showers and expecting me to arrive a little before (or after) 12 hours.

Finally, Nick and Sarah came over and helped me find a place to sit in dizzy stupor. I would write about feeling so nauseous and dizzy that I asked Elden to take me to the emergency room, but I don't want to.

I finished Leadville. I am now a triathlete.

Quick Leadville Results

2008-08-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

I'll go into more details later, but here's what happened:

Dave Wiens vs. Lance Armstrong

Dave won his sixth straight Leadville title, breaking the record by 13 minutes. Lance dropped away with 10 miles left to go and finished two minutes behind. For you Lance Armstrong fans out there, take pleasure in the fact that Lance won the 30-39 age group. Dave Wiens is 43.

Me

I finished in 11:22:44. Besides being a Fibonacci sequence, this number is significant because it's less than 12 hours. I won a silver belt buckle. I also ended up going to the emergency room afterwards. According to the doctor, I actually drank too much water and flushed all the electrolytes out of my system, which made me so dizzy and sick I felt drunk.

Key differences between this year and last year:

* I was in better shape.

* The bike I borrowed was fantastic. I love the Superfly.

* I made better decisions during the race.