Breakfast Club and Birthday Cake

Thursday morning, the gym was nearly empty. My friends Desmond and Kim were there as usual, but the three of us pretty much had the place to ourselves. Our theory is that the hardcore runners have taken advantage of the warmer weather and are doing their morning workouts outdoors. I don't understand it, myself -- there's no closed-captioned TV out there -- but I guess if it works for them, then fine.

I left the gym a little earlier than usual, though. It was the last Thursday of the month, which is the designated day to get together for breakfast with my buddies from ITN Energy Systems. When I worked there, each of us ran one of the functions within the Operations Group, and I can honestly say that I have never worked with anyone better at their jobs than these three fine gentlemen. And while my own competence is not anywhere near the level of expertise that Rob, Jim, and Chuck brought to their jobs, I felt like we functioned very well as a team. Plus, I just enjoy these guys...so it's fun to catch up once a month.

Jim is retired now, so he often has photos from his RV travels across America. The rest of us just trade stories of what's going on with our jobs. And as we all get older, there are a few tales of aches and pains, too, I'm afraid -- so it's also nice to get a little sympathy from other guys who have been there and done that.

Anyway, it was a nice visit, as usual. If you've been thinking about getting together with some of your old work buddies, especially if you respect them and enjoy their company, then I'd highly recommend that you set something up. It's a very rewarding way to spend an hour of your morning.

And after that, you can go hang out with your current coworkers. And if your workplace brings in a cake when somebody has a birthday, well, so much the better.

For the last couple of years, we have received periodic training in "Diversity", intended to help us understand and take advantage of the differences that each unique person brings to the workplace. It is definitely paying off, as I am learning how to be more accepting of people that I used to think were simply bizarre. Here's an excellent example of your diversity dollars at work:

It was Gayle's birthday. She is the Director's assistant, responsible for keeping everything running smoothly, and she does an excellent job. Usually when someone has a birthday, Liz or Christie (or one of the other socially adept people) will bring in a cake, and our small department will take a brief break to sing, eat, and talk about how fattening the cake is. But because Gayle knows and works with EVERYBODY in the Director's organization, this celebration drew a much bigger crowd.

And that's where the diversity training comes in. In my culture, "cake" is defined as a chocolate baked item, with a fluffy-to-brownie-like texture, topped by oodles of chocolate or fudge frosting. Of course, during famine, war, or other food shortages, some variation is allowed...including German chocolate (with coconutty frosting), yellow cake with fudge frosting (but only in an emergency), or various other pastel colored interiors -- as long as the icing is thick and sugary, preferably with edible decorations.

Cake-shaped ice cream is acceptable, as well. But the so-called "carrot cake" is a vegetable, not a cake, and offering it as a birthday snack is an insult to everyone in the room. Likewise, anything with fruit in it is a direct violation of the Ten Commandments (though I forget which one, specifically), and should be greeted with extreme hostility.

Or at least that's what my culture has taught me to believe. But thanks to my diversity training, I was able to open my mind and actually listen to what was being said. I was astonished!

There are actually people who consider "carrot cake" to be a legitimate treat, and would prefer it to chocolate. (I suspect that these are the same people who consider Carrot Top to be a comedian, but I'm not going to go there.) And what's up with cream cheese frosting? Cheese goes on pizza and tacos...not confections.

And there are people who like the cake part and discard even a nice fudge frosting! There are those who won't eat the candy decorations! And then there are the really weird ones -- who eat the coconut from the German chocolate cake, but leave the chocolate part.

Hmm. Before Diversity Training, I probably would've jumped up on a desk and shouted to the crowd to repent their evil ways. I would've expected lightning bolts to strike down the infidels who falsely believe that orange is a legitimate color for a non-halloween based snack. But now, with my heart and mind full of tolerance and respect for differing viewpoints, I merely responded by saying supportive things, such as "how interesting", and "I applaud your individuality".

As part of a vibrant cultural exchange to promote team-building in the workplace, I now see clearly that it is my duty to accept and support whatever outlandish substances my coworkers declare to be cake, and at the same time, strive to teach others about the rich cultural heritage that my choco-centric upbringing has bestowed upon me. Perhaps on my birthday, I shall request both a normal, upstanding all-American chocolate cake...and one of the fruity-veggie save-the-whales socialist "cakes" (perhaps something with mangoes), to prove that I do indeed embrace my differently-tastebudded coworkers as equals, and as valuable members of our team.

Until then, let me just wish a very Happy Birthday to everyone who has had a birthday this month. Please, please feel free to sing whatever song you want, blow out the candles or not, chuckle at the lame card or not, and eat all the liver and pickle "cake" you want, if that's what floats your cultural boat. I'm there for you, man.

Let's just share in celebrating this special occasion, OK? And have a great day!

Recycling

I hate throwing stuff out, especially if I think there is somebody, somewhere who might have a use for it.

I suppose that a small part of these feelings are driven by my worries over the environmental impact of contributing to landfills, the extra energy resources needed to fabricate new goods vs. recycling old ones, and the fear that Al Gore will show up at my home and give me an interminable monotone lecture about my despicable carbon footprint. But mostly it's just that I hate the fact that I paid boatloads of money for this stuff!

When I carried two large trash bags full of VHS tapes out to the dumpster after my memorial day cleaning project, I wasn't thinking about the toxicity of chlorofluorocarbons or noble, stone-faced Native Americans who might someday shed a tear over my decadent consumerism -- no, I was thinking "There's gotta be a couple hundred bucks worth of tapes in those bags!"

Yeah, I know, you can't determine present-day utility and/or value based on the price paid for an item (see Brian Bosworth, Mike Hampton, Reza Pahlavi, et. al.) -- after all, I've probably spent over a hundred billion dollars on Microsoft Windows upgrades alone, and what do I have to show for it? One, count 'em, one functioning computer and several trash bags full of floppy disks, CDs, and celophane bags that ended up in a landfill.

My three most powerful obsolescence regrets are:

1. My first video camera. I paid well over $3000 for it, and dreamed of making my fortune as a filmmaker, supporting myself during the formative years of my art by shooting wedding videos. And I did actually shoot a couple of weddings, but the technology improved so quickly that I was out of business before I could even pay for the 3-piece suit I had to buy to even be allowed to attend the weddings I planned to tape. The new camcorders were much smaller, worked in lower light, and cost a fraction of what I had paid for my suitcase-sized contraption. It went from state-of-the-art to landfill item in the time it takes Kobayashi to eat a hot dog.
   
   
2. My first computer. Again, a $3000 piece of equiment that quickly became nothing more than a paperweight. But I loved that machine, and learning how to use it did provide me with knowledge that helped me earn an income for many years, so I have never regretted the purchase -- I only regret that it can't still be of use to someone. The darn thing runs every bit as well today as it did the day I bought it, but (sigh) nobody needs an 8-inch monochrome screen and a word processor that doesn't know how to make italics. And since the abovementioned Mr. Gore hadn't yet invented the Internet when this device was purchased, it has no connectivity whatsoever. And so...it sits and rusts. Sad.
   
   
3. Peter Parker. Yes, I actually owned an original copy of the very first comic book that Spiderman appeared in. Pete going in the ring with Bonesaw, Uncle Ben getting whacked, Aunt May being old and frail, and Spidey swearing to never again let bad guys get away -- it's all in there. If I still had that issue, I could go on Antiques Roadshow and make a roomful of appraisers salivate. I would be the envy of all my coworkers. Chicks would dig me. I'd be totally cool.
   
   Well, OK -- some of that stuff probably wouldn't happen...but the point is that I was temporarily in possession of something that should never, ever wind up in a landfill. And yet, sometime before I became a responsible adult, it got tossed. I'm sure that this priceless treasure has long since turned into compost, and that, my friends, is worthy of several tears from Mr. stoneface landfill weeper.
   
   And since I don't remember ever throwing it out myself, I shall choose to blame my brother. I don't know if he can ever make it up to me, but a large cash endowment would be a good start, don't you think?

But stuff sometimes does need to be thrown away. What're ya gonna do?

I can't say that I enjoyed making my latest contribution to clogging Mother Nature's arteries, but I did indeed toss all those videotapes into the bin. A thousand years from now, some kid playing in a field somewhere will see something black and shiny buried in the ground, and will unearth it expectantly. He'll clutch his find to his chest, run to his mom and shout, "Look what I found! I don't know what it is, but it has writing on it! Mom, what is 'Emilio Estevez'?"

Hmm. My next project is to transfer my most valued videotapes onto DVD. That way, in another 10 or 15 years, I can take several bags of shiny silver disks out to the trash. It's the circle of life, amigos.

Hakuna Matata etc. etc. And have a great day!

Memorial Day

Back in high school and college, I made a few movies with my friend and creative mentor, Doug Smith. Prior to our teaming, Doug had participated with Skiff Bailey and Lee McCroskey in making the "Nocto, the Boy Vampire" series, and I had made some commercial parodies and "art" films for school projects with fellow trumpet player, Tim Carson.

(In our case, "art" meant that the protagonist ends up getting a pie in the face. We were deep, man. Like, totally.)

The first project that Doug and I did together was a kung fu epic that borrowed liberally from Bruce Lee's "Enter the Dragon". I played the part of Lee, and spent most of the film beating up my swim team buddies in the name of vengeance for the murder of my best friend. The highlights of the film include deadly ping pong matches, an evil mafia boss with a snake fetish, a corrupt policeman who kills himself by leaping off a 10-story parking garage, and ironclad, courtroom-ready evidence collected by hiding a cassette tape recorder in the bad guy's trashcan.

The following summer, we made our Ian Fleming Tribute movie, "Dr. Thunderfinger is Forever", starring Doug as James Bond, and my college roommate Mickey Canaday as Dr. Thunderfinger. This movie had almost all of the Bond requisites—high-tech gadgets, giant lasers, fast cars, mute-but-deadly henchmen, and sophisticatedly clever dialog. (The only missing element was Bond women, but since none of us actually had the nerve to talk to any girls, we were unable to recruit any ladies to participate in the project. Sigh.)

We shot both projects on Super 8 film (videotape hadn't been invented yet), edited the scenes by cutting and gluing the fragments together, and then recorded a cassette tape soundtrack by gathering all the actors in the basement and repeating our lines around a community microphone. Any ambient sounds (tires squealing, doors opening, bodies falling, etc.) were provided by the actors doing their best to simulate the noises with whatever vocal or hand-clapping techniques they could. (It's obvious that a couple of the karate yells are made by multiple voices...but we were pressed for time, so we went with it. If asked about it, our answer always was, "We meant to do that. It adds drama, don't you think?")

These movies were a huge hit among our swim team, primarily because all of the actors were swimmers themselves. We played our films whenever we could get an audience, and the reviews were always positive. (Hey, laughter is positive, isn't it?)

Over the years, a couple of problems arose. Film, being a fragile strip of celluloid running repeatedly through a set of metal gears in front of a hot lamp, tends to break on a regular basis—and each repair required one or two frames to be sacrificed to the cutting and gluing process. In the case of Dr. Thunderfinger, there was also editing required for content.

No, it wasn't anything offensive...just boring. You see, Doug had bought a special suction-mounted tripod to use in the driving scenes. We mounted it on the hood of the car for some shots, and on the side door panels for others. It made for some pretty dramatic camera angles; definitely impressive for a low-budget high-school project. But therein lies a paradox; since the tripod purchase used up a significant percentage of our entire budget (it cost about $30), we darn sure wanted to get our money's worth out of it. So we shot a LOT of driving footage.

Therefore, our first "director's cut" contained about 10 minutes of driving in a 40-minute movie. We're not talking stunt driving, either...no flips, crashes, skids, or donuts -- just scenes of Mr. Bond travelling from one location to another. It was all very...boring.

So we hacked out the majority of those scenes. Unfortunately, we had no way to edit either of the cassette tape soundtracks to match the cuts and repairs we'd made to the films. And if that weren't bad enough, over the years the tape itself stretched, so the run time varied significantly from the original takes. The sound no longer matched the picture.

On top of that, the films themselves were getting pretty beat up from repeated showings. Scratches, cat hairs, and faded colors all marred the quality of the images that could be projected. So the films went back into the can, and the cans went into deep storage.

A couple of years ago, though, I dug them out and paid a photolab to have the movies transferred to DVD. All I needed to do after that was to use my new digital editing software to manipulate the soundtracks to once again match what you see on the screen. And that, my friends, brings us to Memorial Day, 2008.

I had started this editing project a while back, and had finished synching up "The Tiger and the Dragon". But this was the weekend that I planned to finish "Dr. Thunderfinger". Unfortunately, I hadn't been able to locate the original soundtrack cassette tape, so I had nothing to work with. I knew I had it, somewhere, but would have to dig through all of my storage boxes to find it.

And you know how that stuff goes, right? Open a box looking for a cassette tape, but find your old sock monkey instead. "Oh wow, my old sock monkey!", you exclaim, and then waste the next 20 minutes lost in nostalgia about the good times you had once shared.

OK, perhaps I exaggerate, but what I did run across a lot of forgotten memorabilia, including my old VHS tape collection. Lordy, what could I have been thinking with this collection? Why on earth would anyone even bother to record "Biodome"...and why would I bother to put it into a storage box rather than beating it to death with a hammer? How many PBS specials (complete with the obligatory begging interludes) do I need to remind me of the do-wop sounds of the Sixties? And what's up with the 30-plus episodes of "Bill Nye the Science Guy?"

OK, I'll keep the Bill Nye -- he's cool. But I do not need to retain instructions for the Dell computer I threw away three years ago, nor any recorded episodes of Hardcastle and McCormick, nor Entertainment Tonight reports on the dietary habits of John Travolta. They're all going in the trash.

But to decide which tapes to discard, you have to know what's on them...and that means watching them, if they're not well-labeled. And you guessed it, there were dozens of unlabeled tapes in the boxes.

Hours and hours later, I had several sacks of trash to throw out, and brand new descriptive labels on the tapes I had decided I wanted to keep. Not one iota of editing had been accomplished, and my back was really starting to hurt from swinging at baseballs and bending over to open boxes...but the good news is that I did find the soundtrack to Thunderfinger! That means that the next weekend could be used to synch it up with the pictures and build a DVD that could ultimately be distributed to anybody on the old swim team. Or to some Hollywood producer who would recognize the talent involved and offer Doug and I huge contracts to make "E.T., Part 2—Judgement Day!".

Anyway, give me a week, and I should have the DVD ready for distribution. If you are one of the actors in either of these films, I'd be happy to get you a copy. Same goes if you're a big moneybags producer. Just let me know. I'll be waiting by the phone.

Have a great day!

Swingin' for the Fence

I woke up Sunday morning with no ill effects from my jog/walk on Saturday. As far as I could tell, I was skunk-free and relatively un-arthritic. That's a pretty good start to the day. And it got better.

We didn't have a big turnout at swim practice, so our "triathlon drafting practice" set had a bunch of gaps in it. But I still enjoyed swimming circles around the diving area with my teammates, and left the pool feeling like I'd had a good workout.

After swimming, I dropped by to pick up Tanner for our weekly tennis match. First, though, we got online to check his report card from his second semester of college. Not good. Not good at all. He'd better make it big as a rock star, because his academic credentials leave much to be desired at this point. If anyone knows how to insert a good dose of responsibility and a healthy portion of planning mojo into the obscure labyrinth of a teenager's brain, please share the secret with me. Thanks.

Since it was mid-afternoon on the most gorgeous weekend day of the year so far, the tennis courts were all occupied. But the batting cages weren't, so we decided to hoist some lumber and give Mr. Spalding a ride.

(That's baseball slang for "get a bat and hit baseballs". The only problem is that this facility had only aluminum bats, and the balls are some sort of weird, dimpled yellow mutations that look like something you'd find on a miniature golf course for Sasquatch. It doesn't exactly evoke the spirit of Abner Doubleday when the ball has no stitches and the bat goes "ping". Oh well.)

Tanner noted how long it had been since he had swung a bat (~7 years) and then made a comment about how I probably couldn't hit anything either. I took that opportunity to remind him that I was the Tony Gwynn of the slow-pitch softball world, hitting over .800 when I had last played a full season in a league. My last partial season's average was even better -- I batted one thousand. (Absolutely true -- I got a single in my first at bat of the year, but then ended the season with a pulled hammie on my first outfield opportunity five minutes later. And come to think of it, my total errors have usually matched my total number of hits in every season I've played. So maybe the Tony Gywnn comparison was stretching it a bit (perhaps I was more of a George Brett) -- but I still expected to be able to show the boy some fungo prowess.)

I went first. Put the token in the slot, assumed a Mighty Casey stance, and laser-focused my eyes on the arm of the pitching machine. The pitch, the swing, and... the namby-pamby popup. Ugh.

No sweat, I thought. It was a fluke. I calmed my mind and tried to call forth my inner Reggie Jackson. (No, not Randy Jackson, and not the hypnotized queen-stalking Reggie Jackson from the Naked Gun, either...the one who hit all those post season home runs and had the candy bar named after him.)

It didn't quite work. Out of 16 pitches, I probably had 2 solid hits, 6 weak popups, 7 foul balls, and one complete whiff. Tanner was laughing, and looking forward to his turn.

I won't embarrass him, though, by describing his attempts. Let's just say that at the end of his session there were more balls behind him than in front. For both of us, the Mendoza line was beginning to look like the Great Wall of China.

We moved on to the 45mph baseball cage. It needed to be adjusted, since the balls were bouncing in front of the plate, but we adapted by moving about 5 feet closer to the pitching machine. If anyone would've been watching, there's a good chance that we'd have ended up on America's Funniest Videos. Let's just say that no major league scouts will be calling us any time soon.

But we had fun, and that's the point after all, right?

And after a good exercise outing like that, what's the next logical step for a father and son team to take? That's right -- massive amounts of Mexican food.

Ahhh.

Overall, it was a good day. We talked about all sorts of topics, including music (which was fun) and strategies for improving Tanner's grades (which was not). We discussed the future of his band, and the tour they're going to take this summer. The band is probably going to be getting a new name, and if they do, you'll hear about it here, first. There will definitely be new music. Stay tuned.

Monday, I woke up thinking that I really had eaten too much to digest in one night, but then I figured out that the soreness in my midsection was just a little muscle tightness from twisting so much in the batter's box. As for Memorial Day, well, there were many memories evoked by my day's activities. I'll share some of those with you in my next posting. Until then, have a great day!

What's That Smell?

I am well aware that my running form stinks, thank you. But my attempt to exercise on Saturday morning was accompanied by an additional odor above and beyond my bad mechanics and lack of coordination. More about that in a moment.

(Warning, the next several paragraphs contain ego-centric introspection and elements of psychological self-discovery. If you are bored by that kind of "Oh look at me! I'm experiencing personal growth!" kind of crap, then feel free to skip down to the stinky stuff. Thanks.)

I got up before the crack o' dawn, as I usually do, and tried to be as efficient as possible with my morning rituals so that I could get out to the canyon shortly after sunrise. I planned to go my regular 12.5-mile loop, and knew that it could take up to 4 hours if the soreness in my knees forced me to walk the whole thing.

[Informational interlude: A person burns nearly the same number of calories walking a particular distance as they do running it. Of course, if you run, you get done a lot sooner -- more calories per minute. But if you are having arthritis issues, as I am, and can let go of the whole "but I used to be able to run like a gazelle" mindset, then you get almost the same health and weight-control benefits from walking that you do from running. And if you like to get up early and have nothing else pressing on your schedule for the day...well, why not take your time and enjoy the fabulous mountain scenery?]

It probably takes me longer to eat a cup of yogurt, take my vitamins, and shave, etc., than it does a normal person. And I tend to forget all of the little steps it takes to get me out the door -- strapping on my heart-rate monitor, applying BodyGlide, selecting just the right pair of socks, and so forth -- so I did not make it to Waterton by sunrise. But I was still one of the first people to arrive, and figured that I had a good chance to hobble most of the way up the canyon before the regular crowds arrived to laugh at me.

I knew it would warm up as the sun climbed, so I chose not to wear long pants, a jacket, or gloves. I might regret this decision later, but once I've locked the car and walked over to the Mule Deer picnic tables, I'm not going back for anything unless absolutely necessary. I had my hydration backpack, my GPS, and my emergency oatmeal energy bar, so I should be good.

I stopped to do a final bit of stretching before heading up the canyon, and was surprised to find that my legs and knees felt pretty good. The ibuprofen must've kicked in already. I decided to try a slow jog to start.

As it turned out, I was able to maintain my slow jog all the way to the turnaround. There were fluctuations -- I'd feel better for a bit, worse for a bit, and sometimes even a tad discombobulated, but was able to keep moving. I had to concentrate and focus on each and every step, but by doing so, I could work through the little aches, pains, and mechanical anomalies my body would throw at me.

The only things I even noticed during this 6-mile trot were a couple of geese, what looked like a discarded water bottle off to the side of the road, as well as the 3 cyclists who passed by me.

When I reached the trail sign (touching it as the ritual requires), I knew that I was going to walk all of the way down. My knees provided their usual protests as I hobbled down the steepest part from the top, but once it flattened out past the 6-mile outhouse, I was able to recover my normal walking stride and stride forward at a brisk pace.

I began to really enjoy myself. It was a gorgeous morning. The water spewing out from the dam was a sight to behold, as were the patterns in the water in the stream beneath. There were birds everywhere, flitting about in what were probably mating rituals. Clouds came and went with startling rapidity, and the shadows formed fascinating patterns across the rocks and vegetation.

I suddenly realized that my hands were cold and swollen. I hadn't noticed it while I was jogging, but my fingers were like little frozen bratwursts, all red and pudgy. They weren't in danger of frostbite or anything -- it wasn't that cold -- but I realized that I'd be glad when I reached the part of the trail that was exposed to sunlight.

Hmm, I don't remember seeing that rock formation before. And check that out -- a pelican swooping down across the creek. Is there always this much nature stuff going on up here?

As I walked and looked about, comparing this walk to the jog I had done on the way up, I realized something very significant about the way I participate in athletic endeavors:

I have no autopilot.

I just can't multitask like some people can. When I run, almost all of my mental faculties are tied up in making my legs go where I want them to go. When I swim, I have to control each and every stroke or I'll tangle myself up in the lane ropes. That's why I can't sing, mentally create a grocery list, or map out my daily activities during my workout the way other people claim they can. That's why I can't hold a dialog with my friends and accomplish a good workout at the same time.

Most people prefer running in groups, because the companionship and conversation helps the miles fly by in a more enjoyable fashion. They set their legs on autopilot, and have a great time catching up with their buddies while simultaneously ignoring the physical discomfort that accompanies the long-distance training effect.

I can't do that. The only way I can enjoy a workout is by performing well...and the only way I can perform well is by devoting my entire meager intellect to the task of moving my limbs through the proper motions. It doesn't just...happen.

This is clearly a detriment to my running. It's not such a big deal with swimming, since you can't chat while doing freestyle, anyway. In fact, it may be a bit of a help there—since I concentrate on my stroke throughout each set, rather than getting lost in my own thoughts about what's for dinner or what errands I have to run.

This might also explain why I have such a hard time coming up with "fun" sets for our Friday workouts. The lack of an athletic autopilot makes it impossible for me to approach a workout like a "normal" person.

I wonder if they make drugs to cure this? Are there support groups? Can I apply for government assistance? I'll have to look into this.

Anyway, my descent of Waterton turned out to be a good and enjoyable walk. As I strode downhill, I saw more and more people on their way up, including my friend Katie, an excellent runner who would probably finish about the same time I would, even though I had started quite a bit earlier. I also saw a cormorant apparently diving for fish; I thought he would just stab downward the way a duck does, but this fellow submerged completely and stayed underwater for about 30 seconds. When he didn't come right up, I stopped to watch, and was impressed by his diving capability. He didn't have a fish in his beak when he came up; perhaps he had swallowed his meal underwater, too. Fascinating!

But when I came upon the item I had thought was a discarded water bottle, I discovered that it was a pile of trash. It contained a beer can, a Hot Tamale box, and a Doritos snack-sized bag. The litterer had been considerate enough to scrunch the can and the box and stuff them into the chip bag, but it was still litter.

What are these idiots thinking? (OK, it's possible that the perpetrator was merely storing the trash beside the road for later pickup, but since I was one of the first people up and down the canyon, I doubted it. I'm sticking with "idiots".) C'mon people, there are plenty of trash cans on this road -- use 'em! (And I'm not really fond of people who smoke on the trail, either. Fresh air is one of the main appeals of being in the mountains beside a freshwater stream. Feel free to stink up your own home all you want, but please leave the death sticks at home when you're going for a hike, OK?)

I picked up the trash, figuring I could easily carry it down to the trashcan and dispose of it properly. No problem.

But that's about when I started to smell the skunk. Not a surprise, really -- the distinctive aroma of Pepé LePew is occasionally detected up here. But it usually doesn't last long.

But I smelled it all the way to the trailhead. Weird. I threw away the trash I was carrying and headed back to my car. About that time, Katie finished her run and came over to say "hi".

"Do you smell a skunk?", she asked. I told her that I had smelled it for three miles. "I just now smelled it," she said. She headed for her car and moved away from me. A moment later, I walked over toward her car. "There it is again," she said.

Uh oh.

Yes, that's right, my faithful friends...the skunk smell was on ME. I suspect that our little striped friend had sprayed the pile of trash -- probably because the beer can was "Lite Beer with Clamato", which I'm pretty sure is an abomination against nature. I picked it up, and now I was carrying the odor myself.

I couldn't verify whether the stink was attached to my hands, my feet, or some other part of my wardrobe. For some reason, Katie didn't respond positively to my request to sniff my appendages, so I drove home unsure what my cleansing strategy would be. One thing was for sure, though -- the smell stayed with me in the car, and into my home.

You'll be happy to hear that I think I've rid myself of the stench. I took a long, long bubble bath, and finally figured that it was safe to reappear in public.

Unfortunately, a bath can't fix what stinks about my stride, but we can't have everything, can we?

Oh well -- if you have any hints on how to develop an autopilot, let me know. And have a great day.

Hey, Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

My boss told our entire department on Thursday that we needed to be looking for new jobs. He didn't know for sure who was going to be laid off, but he was reasonably sure that the majority of our group would be given our walkin' papers within the next month.

Hmm.

So much for my carefully constructed retirement plans, eh?

Actually, it may not come to that. There are conceivable scenarios under which I could keep my job, or be moved to another within the company. Still, it's only prudent to have a backup plan.

Anybody out there want to hire a clever, good-looking fellow with impeccable work habits and an overabundance of energy and charisma? You do? Good. But you have to realize that you probably won't find a guy like that...so why not consider me?

Anyway, as I go through this period of, uh, career development, it might be fun to take a look back at some of the jobs I've held in the past. Stay tuned for highlights and amusing anecdotes from my eclectic employment history. From unloading boxcars to standing ankle deep in gasoline; from throwing newspapers with a guy who ended up being whacked by the mob to teaching math to adults who didn't know how many dimes were in a dollar—I've got some stories to tell.

For the moment, though, let me share some good news with you: First (and least significant), I finally got some good suggestions from the swim team on how to make our Fun Friday workouts enjoyable for them. I've always had fun on Fridays, myself, but I've always had the sneaking suspicion that while I'm smiling my way through some complex, timed distance set, the other folks were plotting ways to hide the plans in an R2 unit so they could ultimately blow up my death star. In other words, I sensed rebellion.

Some of the suggestions included not timing anything on a Fun Friday, doing a pool deck triathlon, playing water polo, and playing water polo's older brother, Marco Polo. I shall take these suggestions, tweak them so that these "fun n' games" items involve hard work and grueling effort...and then people will be begging me for more timed distance sets. Bwahh haaa haa ha!

And here's the best news of the day: Tanner got a job! My son has overcome his genetic couch-potato tendencies and has arranged for gainful employment. I am excited about this, and am hopeful that he'll use this opportunity as a springboard to a path of intelligent earning and investing that takes him to a point where he won't have to worry about getting a layoff notice at my age.

OK, that's probably a bit of stretch; this job is just a summer gig slinging fast food -- but at least it'll give him a few bucks so he won't starve to death while he continues his quest for rock stardom. I'm very proud of him. He'll do well.

My next blog entry will tell about my upcoming attempt to travel on foot up Waterton canyon. Will his knees explode again? Will he collapse and sob like a baby beside the road while other people jog by and wonder why he's such a wimp? Will he be eaten by one of those nasty Bighorn Sheep? These questions and more will be answered in our next installment, so be sure to drop by, OK?

In the meantime, have a great day!

Catching up with Old Friends

I had dinner with Jeff "the Ref" Dean last night. What a good time!

It had been years since I'd seen the guy; we estimated that it was somewhere between 5 and 7. We had shared some interesting times in our younger days, and that connection will always be there, even with such gaps between contact.

Jeff helped to start my swim coaching career. It was 1981, and I had just moved to Denver from Wichita, Kansas. I joined the local YMCA, and learned that they had a Masters Swim Team there. It was a small group -- we only got two lanes of the pool for our workouts -- but Jeff and I immediately became friends. We were about the same speed; I had an advantage in the longer events and he was better at the short stuff, but we could share a lane and push each other...so that's what we did.

Our coach, Dawn, was the Aquatics Director for the Y. She had been a pretty good competitive swimmer and designed decent workouts, though her interaction with us was minimal. She wasn't around long, though -- there were rumors that she and her husband had performed some "questionable" bookkeeping with YMCA funds and were let go. She said she just found a better job; I never knew which version was true, but the bottom line was that we suddenly had no swim coach.

They hired a college girl to replace Dawn. I think her name was Julie, and I think she might've turned out OK as a coach, except that she became infatuated with a swimmer named Bob, and started making out with him during practice. It was distracting.

Did I say "distracting"? I meant disgusting. And distracting, too I guess -- as well as highly inappropriate. Anyway, she didn't last long, and a new coach replaced her.

His name was Randy, and he was a marathon runner, and according to the YMCA staff, a darned good one. Couldn't swim a stroke, but the top thinkers at the YMCA figured that he knew about phisiology, training, and racing, so he could adapt his knowledge to aquatics without missing a beat.

Uh... they were wrong.

Before the season, Randy asked each of us what our goals were for the short-course yards season. I told him I wanted to break a minute in the 100 fly, which was a challenging but doable goal for me. He just stared at me with his mouth open. "That's impossible!", he snorted. "That's close to the World Record. You can't do that!"

His ignorance of swim times aside, I didn't want a coach who told me what I could NOT do. I wanted a coach who would try to figure out a way to go after a goal, impossible or not. Randy was not that guy.

And apparently, he didn't enjoy the team any more than we enjoyed his attempts to re-tool his track workouts for the pool. He didn't last long, either.

The next guy they brought in was a hockey player. A freakin' hockey player! And he was afraid of the water, too -- he'd stand back about 20 feet from the edge and shout. This dude had NO IDEA what he was doing. At that point, Jeff and I decided that we had to do something about it.

We went to the YMCA staff and said "Look, if you want a successful Masters Swim Team, you can't bring in these goomers who don't know the difference between Mary T. Meagher and a Puccini opera, regardless of their puck-handling skills."

"Hey, it's tough to find experienced swim coaches when you don't look very hard and don't want to pay them anything," they replied. Jeff and I, wanting to avoid getting a backgammon player or a deep-sea fisherman as our next coach, replied in unison, "We'll do it!" And then in a spasm of ill-considered generosity, we added, "...for FREE!"

And thus began our coaching careers. I don't know the details of the wealth of experience Jeff had, other than knowing that he swam for the Colorado swimming icon, Steve Hadley. As for me, I had learned from such authorities as Doug Sidles and the incomparable Bill Spahn, and had swum with National Record Holders and Olympians. In addition to spending a good chunk of our lives in the water, both Jeff and I also enjoyed analyzing the elements of our sport, and were willing to do some additional research to keep up with the latest trends, etc. Plus, we both liked to yell at people. It seemed to be a good fit.

We alternated coaching days, and began to build a team. We had some excellent years at the Y, and perhaps I'll share stories from those days in future posts. Jeff moved on to coach other teams, including the DU Masters for a while, and became a fixture on pool decks across the state as a certified swimming official...hence the nickname "Jeff the Ref". And in addition to those accomplishments, he also competed in Iron Man-distance triathlons, distance cycling races, and even completed the insanely grueling Leadville Trail 100 run.

I could go on and on about training with Jeff, racing against him, and cringing through stories of his various crashes, spills, and relationship disasters -- despite all his accomplishments, the man has not led an easy life. But I truly like and admire the guy, and greatly enjoyed catching up with him again.

My advice for you this day, then, is this: Think about good friends you haven't seen for a while, and give 'em a call. You'll have a great day!

Another Hulk Movie? WHY?

When I was growing up, my favorite old Hulk comic was the one where Spiderman tried to capture ol' Greenie for the Avengers. It was Spidey's initiation test...if he grabbed the Hulk, he'd be allowed to join in the elite crime-fighting group. It was a prestigious privilege, and Spidey wanted it badly.

But as with all good Stan Lee stories, there were emotional complications. During the fight, Spidey's opponent de-hulkalizes back into Bruce Banner, and reveals himself to be a swell guy. After that, the Webslinger no longer wants to turn him in to the Avengers, not realizing that they know all about Bruce and want to help him as well. Miscommunication and misunderstanding leave the Hulk still on the loose and Spiderman as a tormented loner, and the reader once again touched by the humanity in the story.

Folks who haven't read the classic Marvel stuff don't understand it, but for my money, some of Stan Lee's 20-pagers have more to teach about the human condition than anything by Dickens, Tolstoy, or any of them other hi-falutin' Greeks.

And don't get me started on how much better the Avengers are than their panzy DC counterparts, the Justice League. We'll save that topic for another day.

What we're talking about here is our failure to understand the wisdom of choosing Ed Norton to replace Eric Bana in the Hulk series. And why, after the Nick Nolte fiasco of the first movie, they even felt compelled to make a second attempt. And without Jennifer Connally, well, you're gonna have to work pretty hard to get me into the theatre for this one.

Seriously, Norton may be a fine, fine actor, but he's no Bill Bixby. My choice would be Hank Azaria—his character on Friends shows that he can play the milquetoast scientist easily, and he has the range to pull off the transformational bits convincingly, too. I'd go see Hank as Hulk, definitely.

I hope Lou Ferrigno has a cameo. I always liked Lou, from the first time I saw him in "Pumping Iron". He just seems like a good guy.

Bill Bixby seemed that way too, God rest his soul. I wonder how many other iconic characters he'd have created if he'd been around a few years.

Anyway, my own Hulk portrayal never made it to the cinema, but I did go to a Halloween party in the early 1980s disguised as the gamma-ray mutant. I painted all my exposed flesh green (not very consistently, alas) and even dyed my shoes green for the occasion. For the first hour of the party, none of my coworkers knew who I was, since I would only grunt and growl and gasp. (Part of that was my limited thespian abilities on display, and part of it was because it was hard to breathe in the rubber mask.) I stuffed my shirt full of wadded up paper towels to give the appearance of muscle, and do believe that some of my fellow partygoers were actually somewhat alarmed to have a bulging green maniac hulking around among the vampires, robots, and coneheads. (Yeah, coneheads. It was the early 80s, remember.)

Finally, though, the food came out, and since I couldn't eat in the mask, I was forced to reveal my true, Bruce Banner-like identity. And even though the costume was effective in disguising me, I never used it again. It took almost a week to get all the green off my skin.

Next time, I'll go as Spidey.

Have a great day!

Pepperoni Psychology

You may wonder why a fellow such as myself would be obsessed with his weight—After all, I exercise a fair amount, and am not under doctor's orders to watch my food intake. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, try to get to bed early every night, and generally avoid gamma rays and Alabamans. By most measures used to determine health, I am solidly in the green zone. (Well, physical health, that is. I suspect that getting me 100% mentally healthy would take the combined forces of Dr. Phil, Anthony Robbins, and the Robot from Lost in Space.)

And it's not like I'm in line for a leading role in the next Indiana Jones movie, and have no contractual obligations to remain svelt in my role as an aerospace company technical editor. So why do I worry about one crummy weekend of poor dining discipline?

Well, mostly it's just because I tend to be obsessive about stuff. Oh, nothing that will ultimately improve my earning power or stock portfolio -- just silly little stuff like Simpsons/Star Trek trivia, making sure that no bread surface is visible under the peanut butter, and eating all the nasty-flavored gumdrops before starting on the good ones. (Am I the only person on the planet who doesn't like Spearmint? C'mon, dudes -- more red ones, fewer green, OK? And you can skip the white ones altogether, as far as I'm concerned.)

I'm obsessive. So I check my weight. I have a target...a weight at which I think I will look more like a swimmer and not so much like a channel buoy, and I've been trying to get there for a couple of years now. When I was in college, I could eat everything and not gain a pound, but my metabolism has shifted in the decades since then. I can no longer consume everything in sight without consequences.

And I do have performance goals, too. I'd really like to improve my time at the Horsetooth 10K lake swim this year. This is a bit of a double-edged sword, though, because some folks believe that a little extra fat helps with retaining warmth in cold water, and adds to swimming speed because of the additional buoyancy. I'm not sure that such hypothetical advantages compensate for the very real fact that it takes more power to accelerate a larger mass. (Learned that from Star Trek, so it's gotta be true.) I really think that I'd swim better ripped than I would as an amorphous blob.

Anyway, since we had no swim practice on Sunday, I swam on Monday morning. The water was too warm for my tastes, but I worked hard. And then on Tuesday, I lifted weights and rode the stationery bike at the gym in the morning. Two days of good, calorie-burning exercise...I should be losing weight, right?

Well, not exactly. See, one of my other obsessions is not letting leftover pizza go to waste...so I've been eating pizza for several days in a row. And I love pizza! I even took off from work for part of the day on Tuesday so I could edit a video I'd made on how to cook a pizza. (Note: I'll be posting that within the next couple of days.)

Video editing does not burn many calories. So why am I spending all this time making a video that very few people will want to watch? Why put hours of energy into a project about food, fergawhsakes, especially when I'm trying to drop pounds so that I can race well?

I'm not completely sure. I like making movies -- after all, that's the topic of the degree I earned in college. And maybe I do have a bit of an Indiana Jones fantasy thing going on after all—I wouldn't mind being a movie star. Heck, I wouldn't even mind being that loud obnoxious informercial guy that sells those hooks you poke through the wall. I truly enjoy being in front of a camera, or behind it...it beats the heck out of sitting at a desk. And I guess I must feel the same way about editing, because I did just spend most of the day sitting at a desk doing exactly that. Geez.

Where is Dr. Phil when you need him?

Oh well. I may be weird, chubby, and more than a little bit crazy, but I sure am having fun. I hope you are, too.

Have a great day!

How to Gain Three Pounds in One Weekend

Chipotle burritos are pretty tasty, and contain some reasonably healthy ingredients. But low-cal, they are not. The gigantic burrito I had on Saturday afternoon probably should've been enough to get me through the entire weekend. Maybe I could knock back an orange or an apple or something as a supplement...but I certainly didn't need to eat any more restaurant food.

Does a concession stand at a ballpark really count as a "restaurant", though? And is a ballpark hot dog really considered "food"? These questions could be pondered throughout the decades by those more philosophical than I, so for the moment I'll just go with the short answer: "Sure. Why not?"

Ya goes to the game, ya gots to eat a ballpark dog. It's an Unwritten Law that must be obeyed, just like respecting the sanctity of the "Pull my finger" gag, or telling your kids about walking to school in the snow, barefoot. So, even though I had just made a mouth-watering thick-crust pizza at home, Tanner and I opted for Coors Field weiners as our evening meal.

Here's another philosophical point to ponder: I believe that the exorbitant price of the food is part of the incentive to buy it. I think every father bonds with his son a little bit during the discussion of how criminal it is to charge $4.50 for a 24-cent hot dog. (There's also something strangely fascinating about watching the dogs roll around on those little silver cylinders as they cook. And I suspect that someone has done research proving that you sell more if you keep a few overcooked, wrinkled, Yoda-lookin' dogs rolling, just to make the others look better. Otherwise, why would they do it? It's gross.)

Tanner took his plain, but I figured that if I'm paying nearly a whole Abe for one of these babies, then I'm gonna take all the free condiments I can get. Smother that bad boy in mustard to start, and then coat that with enough ketchup to keep the yellow from showing. Then sprinkle on the onions until the whole thing looks like Devil's Tower, and walk carefully back to your seat to consume this uniquely American delicacy.

Of course, eating a tower of onions leaves you craving something to cleanse the pallate, so we went for a couple of cinnamon Tornadough treats as dessert. Soft dough baked around a stick, then slathered in butter and dipped in enough cinnamon and sugar to put the Brady Bunch into a coma -- these things are delicious! I probably gained at least a pound just looking at it.

You're probably wondering if I licked the last dregs of cinnamon off the inside of the packaging. Um, I'm not going to answer that.

Anyway, the game was fun, and my son and I left the ballpark feeling full of satisfaction, warm happy feelings of family bonding, and the artery-clogging goodness of traditional American decadence. Mmm.

Of course, there was fresh, homemade pizza waiting at home. I had to try it, didn't I? As expected, it was delicious! I had started the day with the mindset of an athlete, but I ended it as Dom DeLuise. Sigh.

On Sunday morning, I got up and went for a bike ride. I rode a little over 20 miles around Chatfield lake, and enjoyed it. I'm still getting used to being on the road after a long winter, but I was able to keep the cadence up at a reasonable level, and felt that I got a training benefit from the effort.

More homemade pizza when I finished the ride, though, so I was still on the plus side of the caloric equations as the afternoon approached. And I wasn't finished yet. My sister-in-law is involved with supporting Camp Paha, and they were having a fundraising event on Sunday evening. Not only was it for a good cause, but it was at Pasta's, where the garlic knots are sublime! Tanner and I once again got together over a meal, and had a good time. Pizza, chicken parmagiana, and garlic knots galore -- another high-calorie overindulgence, but possibly even tastier than the previous evening's hot dog treats. Yum!

Tanner and I discussed vocalists, agreeing that Bobby McFerrin and James Brown were both blessed with scary talent, but that Robert Plant is no slouch, either. I even got Tanner to agree that Frank Sinatra and his ilk were not necessarily bad, though he made it clear that such music would not be his first choice for mealtime listening. Pasta's, though, seemed to prefer Sinatra-vintage crooners as background music, eschewing Led Zep, soul dance music, and anything else that might appeal to a teenager these days. Oh well.

The bottom line is that I thoroughly enjoyed the weekend, but actually weighed 3 pounds more on Monday morning than I did on Friday. And if that isn't bad enough, there's still pizza left over. I'll try to eat less the rest of this week, but I'm going to have to exercise a lot to get back to where I was. Fortunately, we have no decadent dining plans for the Memorial Day weekend, so I might be able to maintain a more nutritionally-correct diet, and actually be able to fit into my wetsuit for next week's debut swim in the Chatfield gravel pond. I'll keep you posted.

Have a great day!

A Whirlwind Saturday

My plan was to get to Waterton early to warm up a few miles before I met with Joe and Kristen for a 9-mile run. My overall goal was to put in at least 12 miles total, and not to worry about how fast I went.

The warmup wasn't all that much fun, but I managed to get through 4 miles before it was time to meet the others. But I made the mistake of walking back to the parking lot from the Mule Deer picnic area, and my knees took that opportunity as an invitation to go on strike. It wasn't bad enough that they shut down and refused to move, but the chanting and slogans are what really drove me crazy: "Eeny meenie miney moe, your aching joints refuse to go!" and "Until you learn to respect our fragility, we're going to limit your mobility!" -- that sort of thing.

It was quite depressing.

The others took off at a relaxed pace, chatting genially, while I struggled, huffing and puffing behind. I tried to keep up, but it just wasn't working. Kristen eventually came back and paced with me for a while. But once it was obvious that I wasn't going to suddenly become cured, she left me behind as well. As she disappeared into the distance, I finally turned around and walked back to the parking lot, cursing my rebellious appendages and questioning my lifelong assumption that I'd someday have a Forrest Gump moment where the metaphorical braces would break off and I'd be able to run like the wind.

Perhaps I'll just have to accept that both my running and table tennis might just remain mediocre forever. As Dr. Smith would say, "ooh, the Pain!"

Sigh.

Oh well, onward with the rest of the day. After taking a long hot shower, I did a few chores around home, then went over to pick up Tanner for our afternoon of fun & family adventure. (Teenager translation: searing agony of being forced to hang out with boring old Dad.)

We ran some errands -- picked up library books, ate Chipotle burritos, and drove across town to pick up an underwater housing for my digital camera. (Note to MicroCenter: If you're going to prominently advertise a product in a sales flyer, it's probably a good idea to have at least one employee who knows where to find the darn things on the shelves, especially if the package they come in looks nothing whatsoever like the photo displayed in the ad.) Then we went back to my place to make a pizza.

Because I want this blog to be more than just another Kirk vs. Picard debate forum, I am planning to add educational segments from time to time. And I thought the first great public service I could perform in this direction would be to reveal the mystical secrets of the ancient art of preparing homemade pizza. After all, doesn't an artiste have a civic obligation to share his work with the masses? Didn't Leonardo have an obligation to share the Mona Lisa with the rest of us? Where would we be if Einstein hadn't shared his theory of Relativity with us?

[Seriously, where would we be without that theory? So what if nobody knew that E=MC Hammer? I may have to explore this topic in further detail in a future entry. It's deep, and you know, like significant, man.)]

So, I enlisted Tanner's help in shooting a video of the pizza-making process. I'll let you know when I post it. Then you, too, can turn your kitchen into a place where excellent food is produced.

We had to hurry, though. We had tickets for the Rockies vs. Twins game at Coors Field at 6:05. It's tough to be Spielberg when you don't want to miss the first pitch. We tried to shoot enough cutaways that I'll be able to edit it into something watchable, but I'm not sure whether we really accomplished that. It was done in real-time, so some stuff only got one chance: once you cook the sausage, you can't go back to reshoot putting the meat into the pan, you know?

But we finished the shooting and baked the pizza, pulling it out at just about the exact time we needed to leave to go catch the light rail. There wasn't time to eat the darn thing, but that was OK because you're supposed to eat hot dogs at a ballgame, anyway. It just means that I'll have some scrumptious leftover pizza to get me through the next few days.

On the way to the rail station, Tanner tried to talk me into letting him skip the ballgame and go play Ultimate Frisbee with his buddies. Now, come on! What sort of person would give up the chance to go to a major league baseball game on a beautiful spring evening at one of the greatest venues in the sport? What sort of person would prefer hurling a plastic disc around with a bunch of low-trousered hippie slackers to spending an evening in animated intellectual conversation with his very own father? What sort of person would sacrifice the opportunity to discuss baseball statistics and possibly even a few historic tales of his diverse and fascinating family heritage with his favorite male role model and the person who provided half of his entire DNA configuration?

Answer: a Teenager.

To his credit, though, the kid accepted his fate with grace and actually did provide me with good company during the outing. I enjoyed myself immensely.


We saw some spectacular defensive plays by Willy Taveras and Clint Barmes, a solid pitching performance, and some impressive trajectories on well-hit balls. Other than the tactical mistake of putting too many onions on my hot dog, it was an evening well spent. The Rockies won, we were home at a decent hour, and my knees ended the day feeling better than they had at the start.

I'll share more details about the ballpark cuisine in a later post. In the meantime, have a great day!

Mellow Friday

Our Masters Swim Team has a tradition known as "Fun Friday". This means that the Friday coach (usually me) is supposed to come up with sets that are whimsical, creative, and enjoyable for all participants. To me, that means something like 4 timed 1000s with 15 seconds rest between them, but I've come to learn that the other folks don't necessarily equate hard distance sets with "fun". I've also learned that my powers of persuasion are inadequate to change their minds about this...so I've been forced to fill Fun Fridays with all sorts of silly nonsense.

This Friday, it was a mixture of one-armed butterfly, vertical kicking, and triathlon drills. The funny thing is that nobody actually likes vertical kicking, but because it's something we don't do very often (and perhaps because their faces are out of the water and they can continue talking), they seem to consider it a component of making Friday fun.

Hmm, I may have just figured out the secret -- give them more opportunities to talk. I'll have to think about ways to do that.

Anyway, despite the fact that that we didn't achieve my normal criterion for a "good workout" (ie, arms to tired to lift up to apply shampoo in the shower), most people seemed to leave the pool in pretty good spirits to go about the rest of their Friday.

My workplace is on a 9/80 schedule, which means we put in two weeks of work (80 hours) in nine days, which theoretically gives us every other Friday off. When we're working a proposal, "off" Fridays, weekends, and holidays do not apply -- but right now we're under no such obligations, so I had the day to myself.

I did my grocery shopping on the way home from the pool. Probably should've eaten something first -- because any nutritionist can tell you that when you shop while hungry, you're likely to end up with 18 extra packages of Oreos, horridly carcinogenic frozen pizzas, and enough Jell-O pudding cups to feed the entire Huxtable family. Of course, being a coach and on my own disciplined training program, I can resist such urges better than most people. The only decadent food I ended up with was a giant bag of gumdrops and a Vasily Alexeev-sized carton of Junior Mints.

But don't worry, I also got lots of fruits, fresh salad ingredients, yogurt, and a loaf of grain & nut bread so chock-full of healthy goodness that even Jack LaLanne could only handle one slice at a time.

I also picked up the ingredients to make my world-famous pizza-- additional details to follow.

After shopping, I spent the remainder of the day at home, doing unpleasant tasks such as cleaning toilets, scrubbing countertops, and checking online bank statements to remind myself that I need to strengthen my retirement planning by buying more Lotto tickets.

Overall, though, it was an excellent day. It was just exactly the type of day I needed to prepare for the exertion scheduled for Saturday. With a long run, a video project, and a baseball game on the agenda, it looked to be a lot of fun. Stay tuned to find out.

And have a great day!

A Good Way to Finish the Day—Another Canyon 10K

Thursday was a pretty good day. It started out kinda cold and rainy, which made me wonder if our Sheepherders race would be cancelled -- but ended up rather sunny and pleasant. And having the weather cooperate, by itself, would put the day solidly into the "good" category, but when you add that I felt good about what I accomplished at the office and that our company won a major proposal that I had worked on...well, it was a pretty darn good day.

My knees were the big question mark. I started the morning with a light weightlifting workout in the gym, and heard from my knees frequently during each set. "Don't make us run tonight!" they cried. "We'd prefer that you find a nice hot tub somewhere and soak us for a few hours!"

"Shut up, knees!" says I. After all, nobody else in the gym wants to hear conversations between some weirdo and his appendages, right?

Throughout the day, I tried to do a lot of stretching and leg movement to keep my kneebones loose and lubricated, and by the end of the workday, was feeling far better than I had in the morning. But I'm afraid that the real secret is performance-enhancing drugs. That's right, my friends -- I'm not proud of the fact, but I ended up succumbing to the siren call of non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medication.

As soon as I left the office, I downed some Ibuprofen. And by golly, it worked. I was still feeling some discomfort during warmup, but by the time I started my run, I was able to handle it. More or less. My hamstring still wanted to make me loop my foot around as if my leg were a Will Rogers rope trick, but the knees weren't screaming too badly.

I started about a minute and a half behind my brother, and was hoping to catch up with him by the end of the race. I could see him the entire way, but I didn't seem to be able to close the gap more than a fraction. Oh well, considering how little confidence I had in my ability to even run the race, I was happy with the result. I was about a minute and a half slower than last season's 10K, but not so slow that I was disappointed.

After the run, I came home and had a toasted peanut butter sandwich for dinner. (Yes, I know, I live the high life -- this is true.) And after that, I slipped myself into a decadent hot mineral salt bath. Ahhh. My life could easily be mistaken for that of a powerful sultan if I only had a couple of eunuchs with palm frond fans standing off to the sides, right? Except that a sultan wouldn't have to go straight to sleep in order to be ready to coach the next morning's swim practice...

Friday will be all about household chores, grocery shopping, and might just feature some adventures in the kitchen. If I whip up some sort of culinary masterpiece, I shall be sure to let you know. In the meantime, keep smiling, and have a great day!

A Few Minutes With an Andy Rooney Knockoff

Didja ever notice how the weather seems to get ugly every time there's a Sheepherder's race? Is this Nature's way of telling me not to try to be a runner? Or is that what the pain in my knees is for? And why were knees designed that way in the first place; wouldn't it be more efficient if our bodies just had wheels?

And didja ever notice how annoying it is when somebody starts each whiny paragraph with "didja ever notice"? And isn't the whole whining thing pretty darned annoying all by itself? I sure think so. Still, there are occasionally things that make a person scratch his head. For example, do you see anything wrong with the return address on this piece of junk mail?


Even if you're not from around here, you may have heard of Red Rocks, a fabulous and unique natural stone amphitheatre nestled in the foothills near Morrison, Colorado. And neither the amphitheatre nor its namesake credit union are anywhere near Wilmington, Delaware.

Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against the good people from Delaware, and I'm sure the state itself has many beautiful natural wonders. But if you're going to promote a Colorado institution, you should definitely use a Colorado mailing address from which to spew your mailbox-clogging recyclables.

And no, this does not mean that I'm a protectionist, flat-earth, anti-globalism fanatic, either. I'm all for letting free markets work internationally, and I fully support the idea of planet-wide spread of capitalism. In fact, I've been losing money for years off my European investment mutual fund, and probably am losing money in Asian and Antarctic investments I don't even know I have. As I said, I'm all for it.

And I do have some small experience with the international marketplace. The last computer troubleshooting call I made was answered by a very polite gentleman in Bangalore, India, who did indeed solve my technical problem. But while we waited for various reboots and setting changes to take place, he engaged me in some rather surprising small talk. He asked me about the Broncos, the ski conditions, and whether I had ever visited Pikes Peak. He asked me to name my favorite movie star: I said Shahrukh Khan, but he replied that he preferred the movies of John Wayne. (Seriously. John "The Duke" Wayne. These guys had a good international telemarketing training program.)

I've also had experience from the other side of the business equation: I've sold copies of "The Shy Man's Guide" to buyers in places as diverse as Hong Kong, the Czech Republic, and Canada. (The dating scene must be rough in Canada...I sold a LOT of books up there.)

Anyway, the point is that I don't need an American Express card, and I can't imagine ever wanting to join AARP, either. I don't need coupons to Ulta (whatever the heck that is), nor invitations to see a timeshare presentation for a golf course that was built on the former site of a toxic waste dump. I don't need a new Chase credit card every two weeks, and the reason I haven't purchased phone service from Comcast is that I don't want it...not that I simply haven't received enough flyers about it yet.

In other words, don't send me junk mail, OK?

Or if you do, at least make the return address match the location of the company. Geez.

And if you're not in the business of filling my mailbox with garbage, well, then, have a great day!

Another May Snowstorm

Well, Monday was a pretty standard day. I learned about a new project I get to work on at the office -- if it turns out to be any fun, I'll be sure to let you know all about it. (Well, everything except the proprietary stuff, company secrets, and competitive-sensitive information. Which, come to think of it, is probably a good chunk of the whole thing. So on second thought, you probably won't hear much about it. Oh well.)

The only exercise I did on Monday was a brief workout at the gym. Nothing noteworthy to report about that, except that there was a bit more Bachman Turner Overdrive than we usually get to work out to, so that was good. (Several studies have suggested that BTO enhances lactate processing and provides a temporary boost in power output in athletes...and I have no reason to question those findings. I suspect that the same is true for REO Speedwagon, but haven't seen any clinical reports on the topic.)

[Speaking of REO Speedwagon, I saw Kevin Cronin, Speedwagon's lead singer, on "Don't Forget to Remember Not to Forget the Lyrics", or whatever that show is called. I wouldn't normally watch the show, because I feel SO embarassed for Wayne Brady, who I used to think was immensely talented, but now suspect will end up as the black version of Rip Taylor, making cameo appearances in a bad toupeé, throwing confetti, and commenting on the draperies. Anyway, as I was flipping channels, I saw Cronin, and since I own a couple of REO Speedwagon albums, decided to check it out. It was painful. I changed the channel within seconds, swearing an oath to myself that if I ever say Robert Plant appear on a game show, I would throw myself off a building.]

My son Tanner, being all musically sophisticated and stuff, thinks that BTO is terrible. He thinks they belong in the same category with such bottom-dwellers as The Captain & Tennille, Tony Orlando (with or without Dawn, or even Don Ho), and U2. Boring music, he says, limited chord structures, poor singing, uninspired solos, etc etc. Well, he may be right about the musical complexity, but that doesn't mean they don't ROCK! What's wrong with a few power chords every now and then?

But what most people don't realize is that Randy Bachman has a very jazzy side to some of his work. You can see it in some of the Guess Who tunes, but there was one BTO cut (2nd album) that ended with a swingin' little jazz ditty that was more like Les Paul than Iron Maiden. I liked it so much that I used it as bumper music on my jazz show at the college radio station.

Yes, that's right, I played BTO on a jazz program. (I also played Blue Öyster Cult on my Country & Western program a few years later, but that's another story.) Bumper music is what a radio host plays to bring the program in and out of the news segments. Since news feeds usually do not originate in the same studio where the DJ sits, they are often scheduled to start at a designated time...and the DJ needs to end his show at precisely that moment. It's tough to craft extemporaneous sentences that will end at the exact second that the news feed starts (see KOA's morning news team trying not to step on Paul Harvey at 7:30am for an example), so a lot of programs use instrumental music that can be faded out underneath the opening of the news segment. The trick is to find something in the 10 to 20 second range that won't upset the listener if it's truncated. For me, that was BTO.

I never did learn where the news people were physically located. Their voices mysteriously appeared at the top of the hour, they talked about whatever events were likely to be of interest to the community (basketball scores, mostly), gave a vague weather forecast (50% chance of pretty much anything), and then vanished once again into the ether, returning control of the airwaves to yours truly. I'd throw on a "real" jazz record (Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Maynard Ferguson, etc.), and go back to sleep until the song ended.

If I wasn't sleepy, I'd search through the shelves and shelves of LP vinyl. Since I didn't know much about jazz, a lot of my show featured songs that were chosen for the oddness of their title or eclectic appeal of the album jacket. During these searches, I found one album that had a 33-minute song on one side...and boy did that come in handy. My roommate, Mickey, had loaned me his car to get to work that morning, but needed a ride to a math test at 7:30. So, I put on the long song, locked up the radio station, drove to our apartment to pick him up, boogied over to campus & dropped him off, then made it back into the studio with about 5 seconds to spare.

Of course, nobody actually listened to my show, so I probably could've let the record do the "ta-click, ta-click" thing that vinyl records did on a manual turntable for the rest of my shift...but no DJ ever wants "dead air".

Yeah, I'm serious: nobody listened to my show. At that time, KJHK broadcast with a whopping NINE WATTS of radiated power, which is somewhere around the energy level of a C-cell flashlight. And seriously, how many college students do YOU know who want to get up at 6am and turn on the radio to listen to jazz? Especially when it's hosted by a zit-faced Journalism undergrad who thinks BTO is the epitome of the genre? Ain't gonna happen.

The sad fact of my audiencelessness became crystal clear to me one day during our "Jukebox Album Giveaway" contest. It was a grand contest for listeners, because nearly every single contestant won something, and it was usually an entire album...or better. All you had to do was call the station when the contest was announced and guess the order that the station's call letters would appear in today's "automatic jukebox". Easy as pie.

So, when it was time for me to announce the contest, I said "I'll take the second caller to play and possibly WIN an album!" And yes, I did put a boatload of enthusiasm and vocal inflection into the announcement -- I think I made it sound quite appealing, thank you. But after ten minutes of playing oddly-titled improvisational saxophones and freeform bass solos, I opened the mike again and said, "OK, I'll take the first caller! Anybody who calls gets to play."

Ten minutes of uncomfortable telephone silence later, and I called my brother and told him that he had to play. (I think he was the only contestant all day who didn't win something, and he was pissed at me for waking him up to boot -- but at least I could tell the station manager that I had done my part in promoting and managing the contest.)

Anyway...the point is that I really enjoy the music they play at the gym. And I had a pretty decent workout on Monday morning.

Tuesday was track workout day. Unfortunately, the morning started off with snow, and wet gloppy stuff continued to drop from the sky throughout the entire workday. Pat and I decided that the weather was ugly and the track would be muddy, so it was best to give it a pass. My next running will be Thursday's 10K race in Waterton Canyon; I'll tell you about that on Friday.

Until then, why don't you pull out a few old albums and enjoy some good ol' 70s gear-metal rock n' roll? And have a great day!

Weekend Training Review, Part 2

After Saturday morning's bipolar run workout, I was hoping to sneak in a game of tennis with Tanner. Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate. Instead of exercising, then, the two of us ended up talking about the usual stuff—music, school, hunting for a job, and the insidious societal rot that inevitably follows the adoption of Socialism. And in order to make the conversation flow more smoothly, we also ate 500 tons of delicious Mexican food at 3 Margaritas.

(I shall leave it to the philosophers and psychologists to determine whether I run in order to eat baskets and baskets of chips, or whether I eat so much because I did the run. Or perhaps my overindulgence in spicy food represents some deeper anxiety about the World Situation, and is a manifestation of my concern over my son's susceptibility to commie pinko liberal hippie ideas. Who knows? Maybe it just tastes good.)

As always, my conversations with my son are a mixture of pride in his special musical talent & intellectual gifts, and his maddening reluctance to excel in school, graduate with honors, find a fulfilling career, make lots of money, and support me in my old age. But despite the fact that I struggle internally over the question of why using Ward Cleaver as my parenting role model hasn't worked more effectively, I continue to enjoy the time I spend with my kid more than just about anything else I could possibly do. I hope he will always be willing to share some of his time with me, Harry Chapin notwithstanding.

As far as training goes, though, that was it for Saturday. Oh sure, I suppose I burned a few calories doing laundry and vacuuming, but certainly nothing approaching the calories contained in the refried beans alone, much less the tamale and enchilada. I knew that I'd have to put in a pretty good Sunday if I wanted to finish the weekend at the same tonnage I started it with.

I thought about getting up early on Sunday and doing a bike ride before heading to the pool. But it wasn't going to be warm enough, so I just spent a few minutes stretching and lifting dumbbells before swim practice. Then it was time to go.

We started with a few drills, followed by some pace work. I'm trying to get the distance swimmers to understand how to pace a race evenly—to start out at a level of effort that seems too easy, but saves enough energy and prevents lactate buildup so that you can hold your form and cadence through the middle and the end of a long race and end up with a faster overall time with less fatigue. Everybody understands the concept, but there's still a tendency to take it out too fast and die off quickly. We did several groups of 2 x 100, trying to keep them the same.

After that, we did some timed swims, which I really enjoy. We did 4 swims on a 6-minute sendoff, with the goal being to go as far as you could while still being at a wall when the next interval started. Usually, I would expect to go 450 yards freestyle or 300 back pretty easily, but the best I could do this time were 425 free and 275 back. I got a little rest, but just didn't have the speed. I began to suspect that I was still suffering a bit of fatigue from Saturday's run.

Since the attendees were all distance/triathlete swimmers, we next moved over to the deep end and attempted to do some drafting practice. (It's a rare treat when the scuba class is not there. They tend to be either oblivious or creepy, or both...more about that on another day.) The idea was to get in a single-file line and have each swimmer follow close behind the person in front; sort of like an aquatic peloton, only without cell phone company logos on everybody's backs.

We didn't quite have enough people, though. The group fell apart fairly quickly, and while everyone was working pretty hard and getting an aerobic training benefit, the main point of the set -- the drafting practice -- was not really accomplished. Usually after we swim a set I can tell whether the swimmers loved it, hated it, or what...but this time, they just sorta looked confused. Oh well, we'll do it again when we get a few more people to show up.

It was a good practice, though, and by the end, I felt that I had been pretty well used up. I went home to do more chores, watch the Mother's Day marathon of "Eureka" on SciFi, and relax. (By the way, if you're a geek, I'd recommend Eureka -- it's entertaining, pays homage to other great scifi with inside references, and has a couple of pretty good laughs in each show. If you're not a geek, though, you'd probably think it was stupid, so this is definitely a qualified recommendation.)

By evening, though, I was ready to finish trying to atone for Saturday's burrito overload. I cleaned and oiled my bike chain and went out for a ride. I had no particular goal in mind, other than burning a few calories, so anything that didn't involve a crash or a flat tire would be good. I headed down to the C-470 bike path, and headed north.

Most of that bike path is not conducive to cycling training. There are a zillion cracks in the concrete, and the downhills are too steep and trecherous to ride down at full speed. Plus, there are typically quite a few folks out jogging, walking dogs, or two-wheel sightseeing, so you can't just crank with abandon out there. But that was fine with me for this ride.

Riding carefully, I still felt that I had gotten some exercise by the time I got to the Bear Creek Lake Park. Since I haven't done much riding yet this year, I had to decide whether I was up for going up the dam or not. I did a quick check of the sky -- doesn't look like rain, the sun will probably stay up long enough to let me do the dam loop and get back home, and there is enough cloud cover that my failure to apply sunscreen probably won't kill me -- yep, looks good. I turned right at the bike path intersection and headed up the hill.

I came up on another rider almost immediately. Falling easily into my old habits, I put the hammer down and went past him hard -- saying "hi" with the forced ease that's supposed to hide my effort and make it appear that I was just out for a Sunday stroll. Then, of course, I needed to keep the energy level high until I was far enough in front of him to ensure that he wasn't going to chase me.

[OK, at this point, I know that some of you are asking why the heck it matters if I pass a recreational rider on a park bike path on a gorgeous Sunday evening? Why can't I just enjoy the ride, and allow the other riders to do as they please, and pass me if they feel like it? Why am I such an anal-retentive, competitive, buttwad, even in a sport that is not my forté? Legitimate questions, all. Why did I wear my GPS for a ride where all I wanted to do was burn some calories? What the hell is wrong with me?

The answer is: I think I'm just an anal-retentive, competitive buttwad. I like passing people. Whether this is due to being dropped on my head as an infant, toxins in my baby formula, or gamma ray exposure from watching too many Bill Bixby TV shows, I don't know. But the fact is that on those rare occasions when I have a shot at anything that feels even remotely like victory, I want to take it. And it is those occasional little rushes that have made sports so darned enjoyable for me over all these years. It might be possible to treat this aberrant psychological condition with therapy, medicine, or electrical shock...but please don't. I like it.]

About 100 yards after I passed the other rider, I realized that I had overextended myself. Just like a breakaway rider who gets easily hauled in by the pack, I suddenly found myself wondering not only if the guy would pass me right back, but if I even had enough gas left to climb the rest of the hill. I dropped into a lower gear and tried to keep my pedal cadence going. Then I dropped into a lower gear. Ugh.

It took forever, and I'm sure I was wheezing like Wilford Brimley, but I finally made it to the top. I had not been passed, but at that point I got much more comfort from just knowing that I got to go downhill for the next several minutes. Riding my brakes the entire way, I snaked my way through the golf course and on down to the maintenance hut. Then there was the ride down the road on the back side of the dam, and then upwards again.

This time, I took a more relaxed approach to the climb. I wasn't going to worry about anyone else, just keep in a reasonable gear...and at a reasonable cadence. I didn't want to end up standing by my bike on the road shoulder, gasping for breath and waving my thumb in hopes of finding a ride home. So I commited myself to a low-stress climb.

Until I saw the guy in front of me. Part of my brain said "Dude, let it go," but another part said "You can catch this guy before the top!" Without any agreement from conscious and rational part of my cerebrum, my legs began to spin faster, and my fingers flicked the gearshift. I sped up.

Apparently, the downhill coasting had allowed me to recover a bit, because I felt pretty decent as I closed the gap on the guy in front of me. He was a hippie, with a big, long ponytail down the middle of his back. I focused on the ponytail and kept my legs spinning.

OK, it wasn't a hippie. It was a woman. No problem. I'll just have to change my greeting to "Good evening," from the "Eat my dust, you crummy hippie" I had been planning. No problem. I passed her quickly, took a drink before I started the descent down the other side, and then moved the chain onto the big ring.

I won't bore you with the details of the rest of the ride. I enjoyed the weather, the beauty of the park, the wind in my face on the high-speed descent, and the inappropriate-but-still-enjoyable sense of small victories when I passed another half dozen folks on my way home. I could tell that I've got a LONG way to go to get my riding back to where it was last summer, but I realized that I'm still in love with my bicycle, and am still capable of getting a good leg workout from rolling down the road. I managed to make it home before dark, and felt that while I may not have completely undone the caloric damage from the combo plate, I had at least made some progress. I took a really hot shower, jumped in bed, and felt absolutely whipped, wasted, and wonderful.

I hope you enjoyed your weekend as much as I did. Have a great day!

Weekend Training Review, Part 1

I was feeling optimistic about my run on Saturday morning. I keep thinking that with the stretching I've been doing, the track workouts, the improvement in my nutrition and aerobic conditioning...I should be able to run the 12.5-mile Waterton Canyon loop in under 2 hours. I felt good enough when I woke up that I considered that goal to be a real possibility.

Well, it's not the first time I've been wrong, is it?

If there has ever been a more inconsistent runner, I don't believe I've heard of him. My speed curve was all over the place. That's understandable, of course, if you're running hills (or have some other environmental anomalies)...but the slope of this particular road is pretty gentle and consistent. I just have some problems.


Seriously, what's up with that? I mean, I can understand having a run where one mile is slower than another, but what could possibly cause so many radical fluctuations when the elevation is consistent? I am apparently possessed by some sort of lower-body Jekyll & Hyde syndrome. I'm a human yo yo, only without the sense of joy and fun that a real yo yo provides.

Oh sure, the bigger spikes can be explained by walking, stopping to stretch, or the spot where I stopped to take off my jacket. But there's no good reason for all the other sine wave fluctuations, other than some sort of physical or mental condition. Perhaps I'll become a famous clinical case study, and they'll name my condition "Waterton-wobble syndrome".

It's frustrating. I don't do that in the pool -- I'm pretty smooth there. At least I think I am...

But I didn't make my 2-hour goal. It was closer to 2:15. Ugh. As a runner, I felt like hanging up the spikes, burning my jockstrap, and donating my stick of BodyGlide to some up-and-coming young punk while giving him sage advice like "Keep pushin' the envelope, kid". As a coach, though, I'd have told myself to take away the good points of the day's run -- I did burn quite a few calories, covered a pretty good distance, and ended up cranking out a pretty decent tempo for the last mile or so. As a coach, I'd tell myself to go home, take a hot bath, drink some electrolyte-rich fluids, and spend the afternoon stretching, so I'd be able to come back and run even better the next day.

OK, coach, I can do the bath thing. I can also drink. And I'm pretty sure that sitting on the coach watching the SciFi channel is almost as good as stretching, right?

But the weekend's exercise wasn't over. I'll tell you more about the rest of my training in the next posting.

Have a great day!

(By the way, I've never actually worn running spikes -- that "hang up the spikes" thing is just something that real runners say when they retire. Or so I've heard. But with all the ways I can find to injure myself with regular shoes, I always figured that adding sharp, pointy things into the mix was just asking for trouble. Wouldn't you agree?)

Secret Family Recipe

Does your family have any secret recipes, passed down by hand from ancient times; generation to generation -- a handoff of the cherished ingredients list accompanied by sworn oaths to protect the information with the same fealty shown to any other family heirloom? Was the handoff ceremony determined by some particular rite of passage, and augmented by solemn rituals invoking the names and spirits of ancestors past?

Really? Man, your family must be weird.

I really doubt that there were any family cooking secrets passed down in my family. If there were, they'd have gone to my sister, who did most of the cooking for us after my mom died. Her culinary output was certainly adequate, but nothing that would have the neighbors going through the garbage to find a way to replicate.

In fact, I'm not sure that my mother had any "specialities", either. I'm pretty sure that I've never had baked pink salmon cakes from any other cook, but for some reason, that has never bothered me. And while my mom made some darn good hambugers, pies, and fried chicken, she was also guilty of leftover chicken-part cassaroles that are best left unremembered. Something about the peas...

And while the annual cooking and distribution of fruitcakes was a much-loved tradition, the fruitcakes themselves received, shall we say, mixed reviews.

I'm not sure how many fruitcakes my mom made each year, but there was one for each set of grandparents, cousins, and adjacent neighbors...plus one each for the preacher, choir director, mailman, paper boy, and meter reader. And a few for good friends from the social circle, and probably even some that went to congressmen, favored grocery clerks, and possibly even her TV idol, Jack Lalanne. I'm not really sure.

I'd have to ask my sister to be certain, but I suspect that my mom's fruitcake recipe is now as lost as D.B. Cooper, the truth about Roswell, and Ben Affleck's career.

The one family recipe I wish that I did have was my Grandma's method for making cinnamon rolls. Those things made Cinnabon taste look like a toxic waste by-product...to this day, my Grandma's cinnamon rolls are my favorite food, ever!

She actually did give me the recipe once. I don't think she thought it was a secret; she figured that anybody who knew how to cook could make 'em like this. But it simply wasn't true. I watched her do it, even helped out with the process...but could never replicate the results. One time, I did come really close, and made rolls that made people swoon and profess their undying love -- but only once.

The good news is that while I cannot make cinnamon rolls the way my Granny could, the ones I do make are still pretty darned good. Which brings us to the point of this blog:

Friday night, I made a pizza.

Ah, my friends, you have never tasted such a delectable creation! Such a symphony for the senses...such a tantalizing treat for the taste buds! Appealing, perhaps even mesmerizing...this pizza was irresistable and addictive. Once I had a bite, I could not stop eating it. (Science fiction fans, see Tree of Life Root.)

And what's really amazing about this pinnacle of the baking arts is this: I have been creating pizzas with this same level of irresistability now for years. If there were ever a recipe that deserves to become a family secret (or perhaps a patented restaurant formula that leads to millions in franchise income and opportunities for Super Bowl ads), this is it. If I were to mass produce this product, every human who even becomes exposed to the scent of it would become my customer for life.

But I have no desire to become a pizza mogul. (And to be honest, I rather suspect that if I were to calculate the expense to income ratio, factoring in marketing expenses, etc, I might find that it's not all that profitable, anyway.) As much as I enjoy cooking for myself, or for special friends or family, I can't say that I can really see the pizza-making thing as my calling in life. So -- as a special favor to my loyal readers, I plan to share the instructions for how to make Terry's Irresistable and Addictive Pizza, right here in this blog space.

But not today. I'll have to put some effort into figuring out how to document the process, and that will take time. Maybe in about a week. Trust me, it will be worth coming back for.

In the meantime, I believe I shall tell you about the rest of my weekend. Stay tuned for that.

And have a great day!