Fall Moab 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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