Olympic Trials

Sunday was an excellent day, full of inspiration and motivation from watching others participate in my favorite sport. I didn't get in the water at all, myself, but had a great swimming day nonetheless.

Through a series of circumstances I'm not sure I really understand, I was somehow chosen to be the official starter for the CARA swim meet at the Ridge pool. (No, CARA does not stand for "Colorado Association for Rugrat Aquatics".) Since rule enforcement is somewhat, uh, restrained, my duties consisted of nothing more than calling the heats to the blocks, saying "Take your mark", and pressing a button to activate the horn that tells the swimmers when to dive in. Or in some cases, tumble into the water with a proud and enthusiastic bellyflop.

You really need to attend one of these meets! For the most part, the kids are adorable...and the swimming itself is fraught with entertainment value. There are a few kids with obvious natural talent, and a few others with some potential to work hard and achieve success. But most of the kids who discover their aquatic gifts quickly move on to more competitive teams, so most of the swimmers in CARA are solidly in the "developmental" stages. Unique strokes and creative interpretations of regulations abound.

Since this is an introductory league, I was told not to worry about illegal touches, asymmetrical butterfly, one-hand touches, backstrokers who finish on their front, or even false starts. These are all things I gripe about constantly with the adults I coach, but sure, I could let them slide for the wee folk.

One young lady apparently figured out this loophole and decided to take advantage of it. As I was announcing the event -- "Ladies, this is 25 yards freestyle" -- she took off and started swimming. The other girls knew that I hadn't fired the starting horn, but they didn't want to get behind, so they took off, too. A few of them figured out that the race hadn't really begun, and shut it down to return to the wall, but a couple of them went all the way to the other end of the pool, despite all of the frantic urging for them to stop.

Twenty-five yards is a LONG way when you're less than one yard tall — I decided to let them rest a bit before we restarted the event. I called the next heat to the blocks, figuring we'd let the next group go and then come back to pick up the false start heat. Unfortunately, that idea confused the timers and heat arrangers so much that we ended up with a lengthy delay. I think the kids all understood what I was trying to do, but by the time the adults figured it out, the competitors had all rested for plenty of time. After some additional discussion among the volunteers and various tot wranglers, we finally got the original heat back on the blocks and resumed the competition.

I'm sure the time went by more quickly for me than it did for the competitors and their parents. When you're 8 or 9 years old, the waiting between events seems to drag on for eternity...and when you're a parent trying to keep track of multiple children while simultaneously planning what to feed them afterwards, make a grocery list for your subsequent trip to the store, and trying to figure out when you're going to be able to squeeze in the lawn mowing as well -- you just wish the stupid starter would make the meet run faster.

I can't blame 'em. Everybody wants the meet to move quicker. But the process of getting racers into the right lanes, getting the event cards transferred to and from the timers, and just shuffling all the little swimmer bodies along the narrow corridors on the pool deck...well, it takes a lot of time.

Nevertheless, it was a fun morning, and I think the kids enjoyed themselves. At that age, pretty much every race results in a PR (personal record) and is celebrated as a triumph -- regardless how much the spectators wince and cringe at the floptastic dives that look SO painful.

That evening at home, I watched the first few events of the US Olympic Swimming Trials. Michael Phelps and Katie Hoff set world records by stunningly large amounts. But in each of those events, the second place finishers also broke the previous records! These amazing performances set the stage for a very exciting Olympic Games to come, and of course, inspire me to work harder in my own practices. (They also make me intensely jealous of the gifts those athletes have been blessed with. I mean, to me, it looks and feels like I'm swimming exactly the same way they are...but I am SO much slower. Even though I study the sport intensely, train hard, and try to refine my technique at each practice, if I were to race the 400IM against Michael Phelps, he'd have time to exit the pool, take a shower, and order a pizza...all before I even finished. Sigh.

But you know what? One of those little kids I saw earlier in the morning may eventually be the one to break the records that Phelps and Hoff will set this summer. And that thought makes me smile.

Have a great day!

No Foxes, Just Deer

I had my camera this time, so I was really hoping to see my buddy, the Waterton fox. Alas, he didn't show up. But I was greeted by a rather nonchalant deer as I pulled into the parking lot before my run. He had those fuzzy-looking, chia-pet antlers. (I'm no expert on wildlife, but based on my experience, this condition arises when the animal leaves his antlers in the fridge next to the cheese that's been in there for too long.)

Seeing a beautiful deer like that is an excellent way to start the morning. He continued to graze as I went through my normal morning ritual of adjusting my hydration pack, tightening the laces on my shoes, and turning on my GPS watch. Once I had my gear all situated, I waved goodbye to Mr. Fuzzrack, and headed up the trail. I hadn't gone more than 100 yards when I had my next amazing wildlife encounter of the morning!
OK, I exaggerate. Seeing a bunny rabbit isn't exactly an unusual encounter. And it certainly isn't "amazing"...you practically step on these varmints without trying, they're so thick around here.

It is kinda weird, though, if you're up in the canyon early enough in the morning -- and you hear a rustling noise off the grass beside the road? Is it a puma? A cougar? Perhaps a mountain lion? Or is it a deer, bighorn sheep, or a ravenous pack of timber wolves? It can be a little freaky. But 9 times out of 10 it's either a rabbit or a squirrel, and the 10th time, it's a lark bunting.

OK, I may have my facts wrong on that one, too. I have no idea what a lark bunting looks like or sounds like. (I know what "Willie Tavaras bunting" is, but that's a different animal.) I suspect that despite its regal status as the Colorado State Bird, the lark bunting is every bit as mythical as the so-called "hummingbird" that people blame for those whirring noises overhead when there is nothing whatsoever to be seen. Oh sure, says I, there are "birds" that go so fast that they "hum" and can't be seen. Right. Pull the other one.

There are birds in the canyon, though, and some of them were kind enough to bask on a rock long enough to let me take a photo. One of them was stretching out his wings in some sort of dominance ritual, possibly meant to influence the female to mate with him. Either that or he was just airing out his armpits; it was a pretty warm morning.

But that was the extent of my wildlife sightings for the morning. It was rather nice to concentrate on nature and photo opportunities rather than worrying about my pace and stride. But I did want to get some mileage in, just to burn off the burritos I had eaten the night before. I wanted to get in at least a few miles, yet still leave myself enough time to get back to the pond in time to swim a lap with my friend Keith. I turned around at the 4-mile mark, for a total of 8. And then headed into Chatfield.

Keith was waiting for me when I arrived at the beach, already warmed up. By this time, the sun had gone behind the clouds and the wind had picked up, so I made the poor guy wait there for several minutes while I did my cold-water baptism ritual. It goes like this: I walk in to about ankle depth and sing one verse of "Taking Care of Business". Then I wade in until my knees are covered and pause while reciting a memorized paragraph from "On Walden Pond". Then I move forward until my chest is in the icy water and I stand there flapping my arms like Rip Taylor flinging confetti and shrieking like Dakota Fanning. After about two minutes of that, I'm fine.

Keith led the way at a good pace, and by the time we finished our one lap, I was feeling like I'd had a pretty good workout. But because there would be no swim practice on Sunday, I decided that I needed to go out again. The only other thing I will add to this narrative is simply this observation: Dude, if you're going to wear a black wetsuit, a black cap, and swim with an underwater recovery...you need to freakin' watch where you're going!

For those who wear bright caps and navigate well, though, I say -- Have a great day!

Bike to Work Day Update

It was a beautiful day for a bike ride. I thought about riding my bike to swim practice, too, but then opted for simplicity and speed; I drove to the pool, drove home, and then hopped on the bike. Yeah, I know, that probably wasn't exactly what Dr. Cog had in mind.

Despite my preparations for the day, it still took me longer to get out the door and onto the bike path than I thought it would. I had to pump up my tires, and of course, put on my helmet & gloves, etc. And I didn't remember the water bottles until I was ready to mount up, so I had to walk back up the sidewalk in my cleats, fish out my keys, grab the bottles and then lock up the place all over again. If any of my neighbors were watching, they probably got a good chuckle out of my struggles to get ready.

About a mile into the ride, I realized that I had forgotten to apply sunscreen. Ever since my bout with skin cancer years ago (no doubt due to my years of fanatical intentional tanning as a kid), I have been at peace with the idea of spending summers as an albino, and I normally slather on the SPF-30 whenever I go out. But dadgummit, getting to this point in the ride had already taken too much time; I rationalized that the sun was still low above the horizon, and the killer UV rays would have to pass through the city smog to reach me...so I decided to risk cellular mutation in exchange for trip efficiency.

My plan was to take the C-470 bike path down to Kipling, then cross under 470 and ride down to where the frontage road meets Deer Creek Canyon. I expected to see billions and billions of other bikers, since I know that all Coloradoans share my deep commitment to environmental responsibility, and are also willing to opt for emissionless transport -- for one day a year.

I did pass a few folks biking in the opposite direction (toward downtown)...but no other riders seemed to be going in the same direction I was. The condition of the bike path made riding a bit tricky--there are gigantic cracks running down the middle of the concrete along the entire path, the 3-foot weeds were encroaching in from the sides like some sort of Wizard of Oz forest, and the mice (voles?) all seemed to be out for their morning exercise. Seriously: I saw more than half a dozen furry little scurriers zipping back and forth across the path in front of me as I rode. Perhaps on our "bike to work day", the rodents have their own event -- "play chicken with the humans day". (Have no fear, animal lovers...I didn't squish any of them.)

Their event seemed more successful. I think I saw more mice than bikers. I'll leave it to you to speculate on what that says about the relative cultural development of the two species.

Anyway, once I got off the bike path, I felt like I could pick up the pace a bit, and I cranked pretty hard the rest of the way down Deer Creek and along the road into the plant. Of course, about the time I turned onto the main road, I realized that my senility had struck again; I had forgotten my badge. At this point, if I turned around to go back home, I'd probably just bag the whole day and go back to bed, so I pressed onward. I'd just stop at the guard shack and humbly beg for a temporary ID.

I did finally see a couple of other riders as I puffed and panted up the steep hill that leads into the plant. Cyclists who pass each other normally offer a friendly greeting (or at least a smiling nod), but such rituals are abandoned when you're barely moving in your granny gear and huffing and puffing so hard that the roadside trees are swaying from your own sucking wind. It's a tough hill.

The guard was friendly and efficient. He told me that he had ridden his bike today, too -- "only it has four cylinders". He smiled as he handed me my badge. As I remounted my bike, I flashed the badge at the sentry...and promptly dropped it in the gutter. (Sigh.) I was moving too slowly on the steep uphill to stop without falling over in the time it took me to release my cleat, so I had to ride up the hill a bit, stop, and clomp back down on foot to retrieve the fallen badge. Eventually, I was able to remount and start moving again, and arrived at the office feeling pretty darn good, despite the fact that my trip had not been the smoothly efficient experience I had anticipated.

I changed in the restroom, using a wet washcloth to freshen up, and was ready for the workday. Because the forecast had mentioned the possibility of afternoon storms, I made several trips to the window throughout the day, secretly hoping that it would cloud up, so I could use the excuse to take off early. Alas, the weather stayed fine, so I ended up working a full day.

The ride home was mostly uneventful. The voles had apparently restricted their gaming to the morning commute; I saw no sidewalk wildlife the entire ride home. Very few bikers, either, though a guy came up from behind me pretty quickly on the bike path. I kept expecting him to go around me, but he just hung on my wheel. When we came to the biggest hill, I stood up and decided to use whatever energy I had left. Since I know I'm weak on climbing, I still expected this to be the time when he'd go around me...but when I reached the top, I realized that he hadn't come with me. Bummer; I was kinda looking forward to having somebody to chase for a while.

Oh well. It was a good ride, and I think I got a better workout on the way home than I had on the way to the office. I arrived home feeling good, and thanks to the sunscreen I had applied at the office, smelling more like chemistry than sweat. A quick shower, a nice meal, and I was ready to call it a day.

Will I ride to work again this summer? Probably. Stay tuned to find out. And have a great day!

Bike to Work Day

Are you riding your bike to work today? I'm planning to. In fact, I would probably ride my bike to work regularly...if it it weren't for a couple of factors:

1) I don't get out of the pool until well after 7:00, and I'm supposed to be at work before 8:00. There's just not enough time to get all the gear together and make the trip within those constraints.

2) This time of year, there are a lot of thunderstorms in the afternoon, and I'm too much of a wimp to ride my bike when there's rain, hail, and lightning.

3) It's not as easy to go out for lunch when you don't have a car.

I know what you're thinking: "Dude. Just bring your lunch." And that's a good thought. But when I put all my work clothes (including shoes) into the backpack along with a lunch, well, the food's gonna get a bit squished, isn't it?

I know what you're thinking: "Terry, you eat squished food all the time and never complain about it. Heck, you'd probably even eat stuff that's been dropped on the floor, rolled around in the dirt, and picked up by a leper." To which I respond: you have no witnesses; you can't prove anything.

But even if I concede the squishyness point, there remain the concerns about Nature's Wrath and job demerits due to lack of promptness. And I'm not even mentioning the environmental concerns of having to oil my chain more often, thus depleting the world's petroleum reserves. Any way you look at it, Mother Gaia does not want me riding every day. Who am I to argue?

For today, though, I have been ordered to ride by no less of an authority than the infamous Dr. COG. I can either work late to make up for my tardiness, or more likely, take some vacation in order to leave early enough to avoid the storms. There's not much going on at the office right now, so I should be fine.

Stay tuned for further coverage of this event. And whether you ride your bike or not, have a great day!

Close Encounters

Saturday morning, I thought about taking my camera with me for my run. After all, I had seen a cool-looking fox on my previous outing in Waterton canyon, and thought it would be great to have some wildlife pix to post on the blog. But due to the lack of adequate pocketry in my hydration backpack, I decided to leave the camera at home.

Shoulda brought it.

The morning itself was pleasant enough, and my run/walk efforts contained the usual mix of enjoyment and misery. But I did notice several photo opportunities. The water pouring over the dam up by the 5K mark, for example -- it was boisterous and loud, with plenty of sparkly mist droplets twinkling their way into the sunlight. With the proper Ansel Adams attitude, I could've gotten some snapshots that would evoke thoughts of Niagra, Victoria Falls, and the bucket scene from Flashdance. Alas, I jogged onward.

And sure enough, I soon saw my buddy, the fox. He (She? How do you tell without getting, ahem, close?) was trotting along the road, looking as carefree as a well-fed hobo, apparently enjoying the gorgeous morning. He was obviously unconcerned about me, barely giving me a sideways glance, even though we were only about ten feet apart. It made me wonder; was he ignoring me because he's used to runners, and could tell from the hydration pack and the Adidas that I was not a threat...or was he ignoring me because one look at my stride convinced him that he could outrun me without breaking a sweat? Or was it because he is in the habit of eating other critters, and figured that despite my height advantage, he'd have the upper hand in tooth-to-tooth combat? Or had he just bought into the idea that PETA would protect him against all humans, so he could run around in his fluffy, gorgeous pelt with no concern at all that somebody would want to make a coat out of him?

No idea. I just waved and said "hi", and we each continued on our merry way. When I was done exercising in the canyon, I headed over to the Chatfield gravel pond for a swim. The nearby parking lot was full, so I drove across the river to the lot on the next hill and walked back down to the beach.

There were the usual number of swimmers there, most wearing wetsuits and talking about triathlons. I didn't see anyone I knew that I could swim with, so I splashed out on my own, doing one lap over and back without stopping. After that, I sprinted out to the sandbar and back again, and decided that I'd had enough. I put on my flip-flops and started walking back up the hill toward the parking lot.

Without sitting down to thoroughly towel off your feet, there's always going to be some sand stuck to your toes and sandals, forcing you to walk somewhat tentatively. It's OK, though, because it's only a couple hundred yards to the lot, and once I get to the car, my feet should be dry. I can brush the remaining sand off then. While I was crossing the bridge, though, I was still moving gingerly.

Just past the bridge, I heard a noise coming from my right. It sounded like air being released from a bike tire, which wouldn't be unusual with so many bikers around. But I hadn't seen any bikes in the grass beside the road. I looked back to check it out, and felt my heart leap -- there was a big ol' rattlesnake, coiled and staring at me. His tail was buzzing, making the noise I had heard. Yikes!

I had probably walked within two feet of this fellow, but by the time I looked at him, I was already past by another couple of strides. It struck me that his tail shaking sounded more like a hiss than a rattle, and that he was still looking at me with obvious animosity. I glanced around, ready to warn other walkers of the danger, but no one else was headed this way. Just then, a ranger's truck drove by with his window rolled down. I called to the driver, who stopped the pickup, threw it in reverse, and rolled back to where I stood.

"There's a rattlesnake in the grass, right there," I said, pointing. "Do you guys worry about stuff like that?"

He looked over at the reptile. "Well, we just usually let them go about their business. There's nothing I can really do." At this point, the snake uncoiled and began to glide through the grass, back down toward the trees lining the riverbank.

"Well, thanks for stopping," I said. The ranger put his truck in gear again and drove off. The snake moved with a seductive grace as he slid away from the road. I estimated that he was at least 4 feet long, and fairly thick. Pretty, I thought, especially the way the patterns mingled with the grass as he quickly wound his way into the deeper vegetation. I wish I'd have had my camera!

Of course, such an encounter does make you think a bit about your own preparedness. Other than the first shock of recognizing the noise for what it was, I hadn't been scared at all. Even if he'd have bitten me before I knew he was there, I probably would've been taken care of quickly; there were a lot of people and vehicles around. It's not at all the same worry you get when one of those testosterone-filled bighorn sheep gives you the hairy eyeball at some remote spot up in the canyon -- you always think about what a mess you'd be in if the hostile, horned goomer decided to whomp you a good one while no one else was around.

And I doubt that the snake was really wanting to have a go at me, anyway. He was just being the equivalent of the neighborhood grouch, shaking his fist and yelling "Get off my yard, ya hooligans!" No harm done.

Next week, though, I am going to carry my camera. There may not be any photo opportunities, or it may end up the way it did when I saw the deer in Valley Forge -- they were 10 feet away and gorgeous...but by the time I wrangled the camera out of my pack, all I could see were little flashes of white tails as they vanished into the woods. Still, I'm taking the thing -- after all, the waterfall can't run away, can it?

Anyway, I hope that all of your encounters today are with foxes, and that you avoid the snakes. Sounds like a metaphor for life, doesn't it? Have a great day!

Track workout

I have decided to post the history of my "newspaper career" over at The Shy Man's Life, since this blog is intended to be more of a "what happened today" page than the "chapters of my autobiography" page. Not only does the story include some things you may not know about the newspaper business as it was in the 1970s, but it also explains my connection to Jim Ryun (the phenomenal miler of the era), and includes a mysterious and bizarre murder. Seriously. I'll let you know when I get that story posted.

As for here and now, I shall continue the accounting of my daily experiences (boring, sad and pitiful as those may be). Friday's "track workout" shall provide today's entertainment.

Well, OK, that's a lie. The only entertainment you could possibly get out of my track workouts would be the amusement factor of seeing all the pitiful flaws in my running form...or perhaps the chuckles you'd get from seeing my younger brother run circles around me. (Hint to all younger brothers & sisters everywhere: let the older sibling win once in a while. It's just good politics for family harmony. Right?)

Anyway, I met Pat at the track after work on Friday evening. Thanks to some judicious self-medication, my knees appeared to be moderately functional. I was toying with the idea of timing a mile, to see if I could break the 8-minute barrier.

Yes, I know that an 8-minute mile is about the same speed that zombies move during a quest of brains. It's the speed of lava, of Garrison Keillor's storytelling, of Jabba the Hutt on a Sunday stroll. In my younger days, an 8-minute mile was the speed I'd go during warmup...if I was carrying Orson Welles on my back. But now it's a speed I aspire to, hope for, and can only achieve if the planets align, the wind blows favorable, and the drugs have kicked in.


Pat wanted to do some shorter stuff, so after we had each warmed up, I left him to measure his sprint distance while I made my attempt at the mile. The good news is that I did indeed run a mile, and that the total time for covering the distance was indeed under 8 minutes. The bad news is that I wasn't able to do it all at once. I started out OK, but my left hamstring suddenly went on strike, causing me to involuntarily shorten that leg's stride. From that point on, my running form probably looked like a cross between the Lindy Hop and being tasered. I did not finish a mile.

Meanwhile, Pat was over on the other side of the track tearing off some blazing sprints. After some stretching, I tried one of the shorter bursts with him, but when he finished as I was barely at the halfway point, I knew that sprint speed wasn't in my cards for the day, either. I jogged a couple more laps and decided that was enough. Pat agreed.

After we run, we've been playing catch for a bit. I seem to have misplaced my mitt during my last move, but Pat let me borrow his wife's glove, just so he can work on his pitches. And just like the differential in our sprint speed, his arm speed is approximately double what I'm capable of. He throws much harder than I do.

He catches better, too. And ever since Mark Dotzour hit me in the eye with a fastball when I was in third grade, I've been reluctant to stand there and let people hurl baseballs at me. So here we are -- a timid guy with slow reflexes and a borrowed glove, trying to catch sliders thrown by an enthusiastic bodybuilder with minimal experience regarding pitch control. Wanna guess what happened?

No, not that. And no, not that, either. Most of the time I was able to either catch it or get out of the way. Most of the time. But it only takes one.

I know that a pitcher probably appreciates the solid "whap!" sound of a high-velocity ball smacking into the recipient's glove. The person doing the catching, well...probably not so much. The good news is that I can still type. I won't be able to open jars for a while, though. The index finger on my left hand is quite tender, and will be for quite some time. I suspect there's a hairline fracture, but it's not bad enough to cough up a copay for, so I guess we'll never know for sure. But I think I'll look a little harder to find my own glove.

And if you have some catcher's gear you're not using, let me know. Thanks, and have a great day!

Father's Day – Addendum

Before you call the ACLU and sue me for breach of political correctness, I want to assure you that my Father's Day entry was in no way intended to ignore or minimize the role of mothers. It was Father's Day, so I was talking about the dad side of the parental equation. Trust me, I know how important mothers are, and will expound upon the subject until the cows come home; but you'll have to wait until next Mother's Day for that. I can guarantee you that the topic will merit even more ink than Father's Day did.

Hmm. Do people even say those things, anymore? Having spent time on my Granddad's farm as a kid, I know what they mean about the cows coming home -- they show up at the barn in the evening so that the farmer dude can milk them, and thus relieve the udder pressure that builds up from standing around and eating grass all day. Of course, the expression "till the cows come home" is a tad weak in that they typically show up before the sun sets; perhaps "till the teenagers come home" is a better metaphor for interminable duration.

And having worked at a newspaper, I certainly understand how expressions about expenditure of ink represent the volume of verbiage applied to a particular topic. Perhaps out here in the blogosphere, we should use the expression "a boatload of keystrokes", or perhaps since our words appear on computer screens, "a megabucket of photons". Regardless, you can bet your bippy that I'll devote appropriate amounts of attention to the topic of motherhood in the future. Stay tuned.

(No, I'm not going to explain what a "bippy" is. Ask your parents.)

And as for details of my work with the newspaper, I shall also leave that for a future entry. If you're thinking "Clark Kent", or even "Lou Grant", think again. Let's put it this way: in the hierarchy of journalism, Jimmy Olsen is Laurence Olivier compared to my Ben Affleck.

Anyway, my point is that fathers have a difficult and important role to play, and that they sometimes do not get enough credit for it. We all dread that moment when the mom says "Ward, don't you think you'd better go have a talk with the Beaver", and there's nothing a mother will ever face that's as difficult as explaining why you told Junior that it was OK to get ketchup on his shirt when eating a hot dog at the ballgame. And though I haven't actually experienced them myself, I'm pretty sure that labor and childbirth are not anywhere near as challenging as dealing with midnight runs to the Kwik-E-Mart for pickles and ice cream for all those months.

But we'll explore those topics in depth later. For now, let's get out there and enjoy the weekend, shall we? Have a great day!

Dreams

I know. From the title of this entry, you'd expect a serious, goal-oriented chap like myself to write about lofty aspirations, heartfelt desires for achievement, and visions of world peace, etc etc. But no. I just woke up, and was actually able to remember quite a few details from the bizarre dream I was having; so I'm going to share it with you.

The first thing I remember was that I was at my dad's house, skiing in the stairwell while waiting for the swim meet to start. (It's OK, they were special "indoor" skis, and the bannisters had been coated with talcum powder.) Apparently, this was a popular destination for stairwell skiers, and there were many obstacles upon which to perform stunts; you know -- wicker chairs, bird feeders, and the like. I don't know what you call the stunts I was doing; I'm only vaguely familiar with hot-dogging terminology. But I think I was doing mostly goofy backside 550 hydroplanes, or something like that.

I was trying to be careful, because I didn't want to hit any of the paintings on the walls. This is odd, because my dad's "real" house doesn't have the 5 stories of steps that his dream house did, and instead of pictures, the only thing he has adorning his stairway are some elk horns and brass band instruments. (Yeah, I know -- paintings would seem to be the logical thing to find in the "real" world, and a collage of hunting tropies and french horns more likely the result of spicy foods eaten before bedtime, but...nope. It's the other way around.)

I have no memory of taking off the skis, but the next thing I knew we were tapping out the secret codes on the wall to open the hidden attic room, where he stored his collection of board games and discarded swamp coolers. He seemed to get great amusement out of my astonishment over his newest game -- a mechanical "20 Questions" game. It appeared to be the kind of crumpled McDonald's sack you'd find in the backseat of a teenager's car, but if you asked it a question (only one, not 20), it would mysteriously post a sticky note with the correct answer on the side you weren't watching. We asked some easy test questions to verify it's accuracy, such as "Who is the President of Liberia", and "What is the average airspeed velocity of a laden swallow?" Some of the answers were accompanied by sarcastic remarks, such as "You should know that, you pinhead", and "Get a job, hippie!" But they were unerringly accurate.

If I were conscious, I'd have been skeptical, or at least curious. But in the dreamworld, I thought, "Cool, a psychic fast-food bag...let's ask it something important". (OK, since I had just come in from doing some crunchy aerial stairwell stunts, I probably said "heavy" instead of "important", but you know what I mean.) I asked it "What should I be doing for a living?"

Freud would probably interpret that to mean that I'm not 100% fulfilled in my current employement situation. I'll leave it to you to debate whether he might or might not be onto something there.

The bag answered with two sticky notes: "50% discount" and "Library books due". Not much help there. So, as any rational person would do, we marched into the next room to join the remainder of the congregation in singing the Star Spangled Banner.

In reality, I have an excellent and powerful singing voice -- something akin to what Robert Goulet would sound like if he had James Earl Jones's vocal cords grafted onto his. But in the dream, my voice was easily drowned out by some unseen soprano several rows in front of me. And it got really bad when the organ suddenly stopped working, and the soprano and I were the only ones still singing. I let her take it solo until the organ came back in...but instead of finishing with "Home of the Brave", he went into Inna Gadda da Vida, and I woke up.

And now, I'm going to have that song stuck in my head the rest of the day. Oh well, I might as well enjoy it. I hope your day is full of rock n' roll, too. And if you find a magic burger sack, don't waste time with questions about politics and science, OK? Get right to the good stuff.

Have a great day!

Father's Day

I've never wanted to receive gifts for Father's Day. After all, the mere fact that a person has passed along genetic material to a new generation does not necessarily make him special or worthy of praise. What counts is how he performs his duties as a Dad, how much he loves his kids, and how successful he is in passing along his values as he helps his child grow to become an adult. If he does those things well, then I think the child might indeed want to consider showing his or her appreciation in some small way.

But not by giving the old man a tie. I mean, c'mon!

Anyway, in my case the jury's still out on whether I deserve any accolades at all for my parenting efforts. Granted, the kid hasn't yet gotten a swastika tattoo or thrown tomatoes at the Lincoln Memorial or set fire to the library...but he hasn't really demonstrated any civic responsibility yet, either. In other words, I'm still waiting for him to get a job!

But, if it turns out that my kid did want to show appreciation for all the strenuous effort I've put into role modeling and example setting -- all the diaper changing, playing catch, and "don't play with that or it'll put your eye out" shouting -- well, I'd still rather not receive some crummy little paperweight doodad, half-gallon jug of Hai Karate, or argyle socks. I'd prefer to have him suggest something fun for the two of us to do together.

He's eighteen, though. Offering suggestions that involve parents would be pure poison to the mind of a teenage boy. His sole contribution regarding the entire issue of Father's Day was to say, "I don't have to buy you anything, do I?"

No, son, I guess you don't.

But...it turned out that my brother was planning to pick up some heavy items from Lowes on Friday, and asked if I could help. Now, if you're a regular reader of this column, you know that manual labor and I don't get along very well. It's not that I'm afraid of exertion -- in fact, I seek it out on a daily basis -- but I tend to be somewhat Clouseau-esque when it comes to using tools and manipulating heavy objects. Somebody would probably get hurt.

Ah, but perhaps therein lies an opportunity...

I called Tanner and told him that he would be relieved of all additional Father's Day obligations if he accompanied Pat and I on the Lowes adventure. I can't say that he was enthusiastic about my offer, but at least he agreed to it. So early Friday morning, I loaded him into the car and drove over to the home improvement store.

Pat had already purchased his stuff -- a nice big double door set, some huge slabs of pressboard, and a couple dozen 2 x 4s. A helpful store employee used a forklift to hoist the entire load up to the level of the pickup bed, and the three of us manhandled the merchandise into the truck. Pat wrapped ropes around everything and used his Boy Scout knowledge to apply secure knottage, and declared it safe. We all piled in and took the short ride over to the destination house.

I am pleased to say that even without a forklift, unloading the truck resulting in only one minor injury -- and it wasn't to me. Tanner got a splinter in his finger, but thanks to Pat's Swiss Army knife, it was quickly tweezed and discarded. And I'm proud to say that Tanner did a good portion of the heavy lifting, and did it well.

Pat even paid him for his efforts, which was quite thoughtful, and probably contributed to the "get a job" motivation more effectively than all of my whining about how tough it is to get by in the world when you're a bum. We'll see. As I said, the jury is still out.

As for my own father, well I would argue that the results of his parenting are firmly on the plus side of the ledger. In my opinion, he definitely deserves recognition for his efforts as a dad. In fact, he'd probably appreciate it if I donated some manual labor to one of his projects, in the same way Tanner had just done. There are two problems with this solution, though: 1) manual labor and I don't get along, yadda yadda yadda, and 2) my dad lives in Wichita, Kansas. And while driving through western Kansas is an uninterrupted aesthetic delight (cough), the duration and expense of the commute makes it somewhat prohibitive. A trip to visit my dad requires some planetary alignment among budget factors, work, swim team obligations, and everybody's schedules.

In other words, my Father's Day visit with my pop is going to have to be in July or August this year. But I did have a nice long conversation with him on Sunday. He seems to be doing well, though he's as busy as ever. It was great to talk with him, and he seemed pleased to hear from me, too.

Even though I didn't buy him a tie.

To all the fathers out there, I know that parenting is a tough job, but it's important too -- and pretty darn rewarding. So keep it up, my friends! And have a great day!

Working the Weekend

Most days, my workload at the office is dependent upon other people. We provide document services, such as editing, formatting, updating graphics, printing, etc., which means that we cannot perform the work unless the document owner actually gives us the stinking document!

Typically, it happens like this:

Document owner: We're going to give you 30 documents to edit and format by close of business on Monday.

Us: "Cool. We'll be ready."

Later...

Document owner: "Sorry, but it looks like there will only be 7 documents, and we'll have them on Wednesday."

Us: "OK. We'll do the best we can."

Quitting time on Friday...

Owner: "Um, there are 30 documents after all, and we'll get them to you at midnight tonight. We need them at 7am on Monday."

Us: "How would you like to be worked over with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch?"

No wait, that's not right -- we always smile through gritted teeth and say "Thank you sir, may I have another?" And then we work all stinkin' weekend because we're expected to meet deadlines, even when our customers habitually fail to meet theirs.

[Note: The only people who have it worse than us in that respect are the folks in Reproduction. They are the very last step in the document production process, so everyone else's lateness throws extra weight upon their shoulders. I have no idea at all how they manage to be so polite when you know that they're just aching to have at you with the aforementioned handtools and welding accessories.]

Anyway, that's what happened, again, as this weekend approached. It was an "off" Friday, so I had already made plans for Friday morning, helping my brother pick up some construction materials he needed for the house he's remodeling. But being a team player, I reluctantly told my coworkers that I'd come in for the afternoon. Ugh.

I know what some of you are thinking: "There's nothing wrong with working a few extra hours during a week. Nothing wrong with cranking out some work over the weekend. It's a good way to further your career, help out your company, and build character."

To that, my friends, I say "Phooey!"

Don't get me wrong; I like my job. I like my coworkers. I like the products that this company builds. And I definitely like getting a paycheck. But there's a lot of other stuff I like, as well, and...well, that's what days off are for.

I've known people who would rather be at their jobs than anywhere else, and I think they are lucky folks indeed...as long as they don't miss out on the joys of family, sports, music, and the great outdoors.

Perhaps I'll be one of those folks some day, but I'm not quite there yet. I just took a deep breath and started preparing myself to work through my long weekend, calculating which activities I could give up, and which ones I'd have to squeeze in during the late evenings. Sigh.

But some days, you do get a break! Christie called and said that they had the project under control with the staff who were already in the office. I could take the afternoon off. AND, I wouldn't be needed of the weekend, either! Joy of joys! This meant that I could be productive on my own work, get more exercise done, and have some fun. Yea!

The first thing I did was to take a nap. Then I began cranking out the copies of the DVDs that I'm going to send to my swim team buddies. Perhaps over the weekend, I can post some more of the videos online. I'll let you know. One thing is for sure, though, I'll be enjoying myself.

I hope you do, too. Have a great day!

Commentary

As I've mentioned before, I recently completed the restoration of the movies that Doug Smith and I made when we were teenagers. With the basic editing & synching finished, it's now time to add the commentary tracks. Some of the behind-the-scenes stories are far more interesting than the movies themselves. I suspect that the tales told on the commentary track will generate a few additional chuckles here and there.

Once I finish the commentary recording, I'll be ready to distribute the movies on DVD to anybody who wants a copy. I'm pretty sure that most of the actors will want one -- it's probably the only existing evidence that they ever acted on film. (Except for Lee McCroskey, who played Nocto the Boy Vampire in a series of short films made before he auditioned for our project.)

I always thought it would be cool to do a sequel to "Nocto" -- have him return as an older guy; "Nocto the Middle-Aged Vampire with Lumbago" or something. And I've thought about a sequel to "The Tiger and the Dragon". I'd probably call it "Vengeance of the Tiger", even though we never really established which character was the tiger and which was the dragon. I won't spoil it for those of you who haven't seen the original film yet, but I can say that advances in medical technology (a la "Six Million Dollar Man") make it possible for the story to continue.

The behind-the-scenes stories on the commentary track include the secrets behind my leap from the 4th story Holiday Inn balcony, the real story behind Breathwait's plunge from the top of the parking garage, and reason I suddenly have a scar on my ribcage for no apparent reason. We'll also talk about continuity -- how we stitched together scenes where shirts had changed, characters who weren't supposed to fall down did, and why we couldn't get Glenn Nyberg to stop grinning after his character was dead. It should be fun.

Enjoy these short clips, and have a great day!

Pineapple

I'm trying to eat more healthy stuff, and am cutting back on foods containing ingredients such as trans fat, high-fructose corn syrup, monosodium glutamate, and M&Ms. I'm doing OK with increasing the dosages of healthy stuff, but struggling with the reduction of the stuff that tastes good. In other words, I think I'm eating too much.

It's a process. I'll get better at it. It's just that I swear sometimes those cinnamon bears and gummi worms are calling out to me. "Terry!", they say, "you haven't really finished your dinner until you've ingested some sweet, squishy, pseudo lifeforms! You purchased us -- it's your duty to consume us!"

Hmm. Perhaps my problem is not my lack of discipline at all, but is actually the result of some sort of telepathic conspiracy by aliens using inanimate animal-shaped sugar minions to fatten us up before their invasion. Perhaps the answer isn't will power at all, but is instead about finding a way to resist their insidious mental impulses. First, I'll learn to shield myself from their mind control, and then when I'm thin and fit, will make a fortune by publishing a book on "The Tinfoil Hat Diet". Oh yeah!

Anyway, I'm eating more produce these days. When you shop for fruits and veggies, you learn to look for what's in season, and what's on sale. Of course, the store tries to confuse you by offering one pile of apples for $1.59/pound, and another pile of the same variety at 3 for $2. Which is a better deal? You have to weigh them and do some calculations to find out. (And yes, I do owe apologies to all the teachers to whom I swore that I would never do math as a grownup. But not, you, Mr. Ruth -- I still haven't used "Algebra II" for anything. So there!)

But when pineapples go on sale for a buck each, you figure that it has to be a good deal; after all, those suckers must weigh about 5 pounds apiece. And fresh pineapple is delicious! What you don't think about until you get home is the fact that they're covered with dangerous-looking woody spikes, and you have no idea how you're supposed to cut the darn thing.

There are four thoughts that always pop into my head whenever the subject of pineapple comes up:

1. I once had a coworker who was allergic to pineapple. I guess this isn't uncommon, but it strikes me that there are so many other things for which an allergy would make more sense. Like cottage cheese, for example, or anchovies. Or brussels sprouts or liver or Carrot Top.
   
   
2. Magnum, PI. I don't know exactly why I associate Magnum so strongly with pineapples -- after all, he spent a lot more time with Higgie Baby than he did out among the crops. But I guess it's natural to think of tropical foods and Hawaii and TV detectives at the same time, although if all you mention is the name of the state...I'd probably go with McGarrett. And that makes me think of Wo Fat, which rhymes with "low fat", which brings me back to the topic of a healthy diet, which is why we're talking about pineapples in the first place.
   
   
3. Aquatics Camp. When I was training for my Scout Lifeguard test, the instructors taught us how to make a "pineapple" from rope. The idea was to systematically wrap the rope up into a ball that would unravel when thrown. Having the rope in a sphere allowed you to throw it a long ways, and having it unravel meant that you could hang onto one end of it as the other end flew to its target. It was a great rescure technique—you'd grab the free end of the rope, throw your pineapple at the victim, and it would unravel into one long strand that would drop into the water where the victim could grab it. Then you'd just reel 'em in. It was a cool thing to learn, and I bet I could still do it.
   
   
4. Bob Dole. As I'm sure you know, the former Presidential candidate was from Russell, Kansas. I met his kid Tom in the Boy Scouts, which caused me to follow Bob's political career with some interest. Senator Dole is a very funny guy, with a razor-sharp wit and the ability to use humor to devastating advantage in arguments. But during the Presidential race, his advisors told him to keep his jabs and jests to himself, and to be more serious. I never understood that, and I'm guessing that he still wishes to this day that he'd fired those particular advisors; he probably would've won if he hadn't listened to them. Anyway, the Dole company (no relation) sells a lot of canned pineapple, and that makes me think of Bob. See?

Anyway, it turned out that cutting up this fruit was not too tough after all. (Wait a minute! Is it a fruit? Or a vegetable? It's taste and texture certainly seems closer to grapefruit than to lima beans, but it grows underground, which makes it more like a potato. Er...potatoe—sorry Dan! I'm not sure it matters, since the tomato (tomatoe?) is the subject of a similar debate and no one cares.) I'm not sure if I followed the Julia Child Approved method, but I basically just carved off anything that looked like bark, and left anything that appeared to be, well...pineapple. (I understand that Michelangelo did the same thing with the Pietà.) It seemed to work out just fine.

(No, I'm not comparing myself to Michelangelo. It's no contest. I'll admit that he was probably somewhat more artistic than I am, but I guarantee you I could totally clean his clock in a 1650 freestyle. In your face, Mike!)

The bottom line is that I now have a refrigerator full of cut-up pineapple, regular apples, and carrots. It'll be very easy to eat healthy from now on...

...as long as the cinnamon bears keep quiet.

May you also enjoy good health and fine dining! Have a great day!

Pine Beetles and Trifocals

I got my first glasses in 5th Grade. I probably needed them before then, but didn't realize it. I just moved closer and closer to the front of the classroom so I could see what the teacher was writing on the chalkboard. (Yes, they used real chalk back then.)

But despite the glasses (or perhaps because of them), my vision continued to deteriorate, and by the time I graduated college, I had myopia of truly Magooian proportions. (I even latched onto Fearless Fly's tag line, "My glasses...without them, I'm helpless!)

Early in my Martin Marietta career, though, I learned that our insurance plan would pay for a new opto-medical procedure called "radial keratotomy (RK)". No copay or anything. The doctors charged about $2000 an eye, but the insurance company hadn't yet reclassified it as a "cosmetic" (and therefore, elective) surgery yet, so they were willing to foot the bill. Rumor had it, though, that such reclassification was coming, and if you wanted to get it done for free, you had to act fast.

You don't mess with your eyes lightly, though, so I did my research. Sure, there were a few stories of unsuccessful surgeries, but the research into vision enhancement was proceeding at a phenomenal pace, so I figured that even if they weren't 100% successful, they'd be able to fix it with some new procedure in fairly short order. I went for it.

This is not lasik, folks. No high technology here. They just give you some drugs, strap you down in a chair and tell you to hold still while they carve on your cornea with an X-Acto knife.

OK, that's a slight exaggeration. They didn't just tell you to hold still -- they actually had a little device that they clamped onto your eyeball to hold it still, whether you wanted it to or not. And it wasn't a drugstore X-Acto knife, it was a super-special, $2000/eye Precision X-Acto knife. And the doctor looked through some big ol' magnifier goggles so he could precisely control his slicing.

I just hoped he didn't sneeze, like my dad did that one time when giving me a haircut. [I was going for a very stylish Beatle/Spock cut, but ended up with a shaver-wide chunk hacked out, right above my left eyebrow, ruining the effect. I wouldn't have minded the haircut glitch all that much, since you're always willing to sacrifice a little style in exchange for the convenience and bonding time of having your old man do the honors...but there was only about one week until Senior Yearbook Picture Day. I did not want to have an obvious forehead divot for the one photo that all my classmates would remember me by. Fortunately, there was enough hair left that we were able to close most of the gap with Brylcreem and Elmer's glue, so by photo time, I had moved from Super-Dork status to Garden Variety Dork, which was good enough for me. But I digress...]

I assumed that they trained you in eyeball-carving school to recognize the early signs of a sneeze and to put down the knife if you had to let one fly. My doctor had a good reputation, and seemed to know what he was doing, so I took the pills they offered and climbed into the chair.

I was wide awake for the entire experience, and remember every bit of it. And while I wouldn't recommend trying to function in daily life under the influence of a Valium/Demerol cocktail, it is just the thing to mellow you out when that X-Acto blade begins to descend toward your visual receptors. In fact, I was a very docile and happy fellow for the rest of that entire day. I wandered around in my nifty new eye patch, singing pirate songs and talking to non-existent parakeet. Yo ho!

The procedure was mostly successful, taking me from the 20/200 prescription I came in with to a very acceptable 20/25. I no longer needed glasses!

The most amazing thing about my sudden vision improvement was that I suddenly started to hear better as well. It made me realize how important visual cues are when dechipering speech. It was most noticable in the swimming pool, where I never wore glasses. Before the surgery, I would have a hard time understanding people who spoke to me...or even being sure they were speaking to me -- but when I could see them as something more than an amorphous blob, I could understand what they were trying to say. Cool! Plus -- I could finally see the pace clock! Double cool!

Unfortunately, the surgery did not stop the flow of time...and my vision continued to decline a bit as I aged. And while the eye surgery sciences did indeed continue to improve (eg, lasik), the scar tissue on my cornea from the RK cuts disqualify me for additional procedures to get me back to where I was. No big deal, really, since my eyesight is still a zillion times better than it was before the RK, but it's tough to find the right prescription nowadays. You see, because of the RK scar tissue, my eyes tend to flex and change shape during the day, making my lens prescription a moving target. My eye doctor has done the best he can, giving me a wide range of prescriptions in a "Varilux" lens, which is essential a set of trifocal glasses without the dividing lines between the zones on the glass. What this means is that I can focus on different distances by moving my head up and down.

So what does this have to do with pine beetles, you ask? Well, I went for a long bike ride on Saturday morning, and because of the way I had to tilt my head to see the road at that hour in the morning, I twanged something within the nerves running down my neck. And to make it worse, I spent Saturday afternoon driving my car up to my property in Park County, and, you guessed it...driving with a twanged nerve in your neck is never a good thing. I was really sore and stiff by the time I got home.

Oh, yeah...the beetles. That's why I went up into the mountains. I wanted to check on my property to see how much danger my trees were in. The beetle infestation is supposedly moving into that part of the state, and I couldn't remember how many of my trees are the susceptible lodgepole pines. So I decided to drive up to take a look. The good news is that I have very few (if any) lodgepoles, and both the evergreens and the aspens on the property all appear to be in pretty good shape. It was a beautiful day, an enjoyable drive, and an excellent opportunity to have dinner at the Giant Hot Dog in Bailey. Yum!

The other good news is that with a few days rest, I'm sure my neck will be just fine. And despite the fact that I wear trifocals like some broken-down ancient geezer, no amount of sneezing during a haircut can mess up the style I am currently wearing (sorry, Mr. Spock). I can still see the pace clock and understand swimming pool conversations without my glasses, too. So, as long as the beetles, wildfires, and Chuds stay off my property, life is very good indeed.

Have a great day!

Posting to YouTube

Well, I finally managed to get something posted on YouTube (www.youtube.com/terryheggy). So far, all I have uploaded are the three segments of my "How to Make Pizza" video. Not very entertaining, I'm afraid, but the process has been instructive. Perhaps there will be better productions coming up soon. Stay tuned. In the meantime, if you want to cook a darn good meal, feel free to watch these:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3


Have a great day!

Upcoming Blog Drought

Blogging is probably going to be a tad light for the next week or so. I expect to be working a lot of overtime (including the weekend), which means I don't have as much time at home to do the stuff I need to do, like bathing, housekeeping, and writing blogs.

I'll try to remember any interesting things that happen during this time period, and will do my best to share them with you when I return to a normal schedule. But don't count on it -- I'm pretty sure that senility has taken full root within the empty spaces of my brainpan. I totally spaced out that I was supposed to go to a dentist appointment on Thursday, and had to reschedule for Friday. I don't know if I just was enjoying my morning gym workout too much, or what, but I totally spaced it.

What's next? Forgetting where I live? Forgetting that my middle name is...well, whatever the heck it is? Forgetting that haiku is supposed to be 5-7-5, and not 7-5-7? Forgetting why "drought" isn't spelled "drowt"?

Forgotten details
Endanger my attainment
Of oral hygiene

Such an alignment of work pressures and cognitive problems bodes ill for those who may expect mild entertainment within these pages on a near-daily basis. But I promise that I will strive to get back into full syllable-spewing mode as quickly as I can. Please keep checking back, OK? Thanks!

Have a great day!

Book Review—The Ultimate Cheapskate

I enjoy listening to books on tape while I drive. I figure it's a good way to achieve some productivity out of my commuting hours, and lets me tackle books that would probably put me to sleep if I were to read them at bedtime.

[Oh, I do also read at bedtime...but I reserve that time for books that have a plot. Most of the books I listen to are non-fiction, and it helps if they are at least somewhat motivational. It's good to arrive at work all psyched up after hearing the inspiring words of some self-help guru, or with your brainpan abuzz with some new learning. (A word of caution, though—some coworkers prefer a simple "good morning" when you arrive at the office, and can become suspicious and hostile if you greet them with your newly-learned Japanese phrases. I once said "Ohayo gozaimasu", which means "good morning", and received a rather curt response of "Hey, I got relatives what lives in Ohio, so lighten up, Jack!" Sigh.) ]

I just finished listening to a book called The Ultimate Cheapskate's Roadmap to True Riches, by Jeff Yeager. His basic premise is a good one -- that you have the freedom to earn less money if you spend less money. It makes perfect sense; he even claims that you can be happier as a cheapskate, because of richness of all the experiences you'll have in your single-minded pursuit of thriftyness. And I'll admit, some of the best times I've ever had were low-expenditure events. So far, so good.

I also admire his commitment to riding his bike everywhere, rather than spending money on a car. I could totally get into that if it weren't for two factors:

1. Some of the places I go are not accessible via bike paths, and the regular streets I'd have to travel are full of inattentive drivers who wouldn't even notice the bumping and screaming noises as they drove over me. (Some people rant against SUV and Hummer drivers, but I think the myopic molemen in the 1974 Dodge Darts are far more dangerous. And anyone who still has Dee Snider hair, or happens to be a teenage girl with a cellphone and chewing gum—they scare me.)
   


2. I am expected to be at work before 8:00, but I don't get away from the pool until around 7:30. Even Lance Armstrong couldn't make it under those constraints. (Of course, the Ultimate Cheapskate would suggest that I get a job that didn't require me to report by a specific time. Which would be possible if I didn't have a car & mortgage that required me to earn money. See how his thinking works?)

Transportation aside, I'm also on board with the Ultimate Cheapskate's philosophy on apparel. I have never felt that my value as a human being was determined by the amount I spend on clothing. Jewelry bugs me, and my perfume allergy ensures that I don't need to budget any money on Hai Karate or Brut (or whatever the "cool" guys are wearing these days). In fact, I'd probably be comfortable as a pygmy in a loincloth...if it weren't for having to hunt wild boars with a blowgun (which, come to think of it, those little fellers still have to do, despite not having a car nor a mortgage. Hmm.)

Yeager also raves throughout the book about the benefits of doing all of your own chores and maintenance. Not only do you save money by changing your own oil or repairing your basement foundation, he says, but you learn and acquire valuable skills...and have a good time doing it. OK. There was a time when I might've agreed with him. After all, I have performed my own automobile oil changes, and did all sorts of bicycle repair and even motorcycle maintenance (with and without Zen) for quite a long time period when I was younger.

But my experience didn't exactly support his cheapskate philosophy. There were a couple of problems:

1. Even simple maintenance chores require the proper tools, and those tools can cost far more than paying to have the chore done by someone who has already made the tool investment.



2. I am not, and never will be, a "handy" man. I've tried, but my genetic material and aptitudes have demonstrated time and time again that I was not meant to work with my hands. Software, sure, but hardware...no. It's odd, because my father has always been building things, and my brother is currently doing construction work -- so there are some productive tendencies float around my gene pool somewhere. But I suspect that the gene that made my dad the only man I know to break his arm two different times from playing tennis -- that gene was passed on to become my tool ineptitude.
   
   Here are some examples. I once tried to change a flat tire on my motorcycle. It would've cost about $10 to have the guy at the shop do it, and would've taken about 15 minutes. By doing it myself, I saved $10, but it took me an entire weekend and a medium-sized box of BandAids to get it done. And then there was the grime under my fingernails that didn't come out for about a month, and the extra laundry detergent required to remove the blood from my clothing. Conclusion: shoulda spent the ten-spot.
   
   I once broke my hand attempting to change a car's oil filter. Admittedly, it was not a normal filter-change situation—the car was a 305 V-8 Chevy Monza. The Monza was a dinky car, and they used an industrial shoe horn to wedge an engine of that size into the bonnet. Because of the large powerplant and lightweight body, it was a very fast car...but that was its only redeeming quality. With an automatic transmission and the idle speed factory-set to "hummingbird", the car wanted to jump to about 20 mph the instant you released the brake. Imagine for a moment what such a setup would do for you during a typical Kansas winter storm. Yes, that's right—you could not load enough concrete in the back of that car to keep the rear wheels from spinning out if the road had so much as a raindrop on it, much less a sheet of ice. I hated that car. But I digress...
   
   Anyway, to make a long story short, the motor components were all wedged in there so tightly that they had to remove the entire engine just to change the spark plugs. I am telling the truth -- you needed an industrial crane to do a tuneup -- a small tidbit the salesman forgot to share at the time of purchase. The oil filter was accessible, but barely. After much struggle and contortionism, I was finally able to get my filter wrench wrapped around the darn thing. It took all my strength, but I was finally able to release the filter. Of course, the car ended up sitting there, dripping oil from the filter housing while I tended to my broken hand...so again, the time lost was worth far more than the money saved. And that's not even counting the pain, time lost from swimming, and the emotional distress of not being able to play the guitar for several weeks.
   
   You get the idea. I tried to replace a window in the house -- broken foot. My attempt at replacing a bathroom sink drain stopper -- flooded cabinets. You get the idea.

I'm not arguing against the concept of doing your own repair work. I'm just saying that regardless how you build the equations, for me, the answer is "Let the professionals do it."

Overall, though, I'd have to say I enjoyed the book. I will definitely take his advice when it comes to a waiting period on major purchases, and I am planning to ride my bike to work on June 25th, but most of his other ideas (dumpster diving, diluting your milk with water, converting to the Amish faith, etc.) I shall leave to other, more disciplined cheapskates.

But if you want to try those things, I will be happy to support your efforts. Go for it, my friends. And have a great day!

The Life of a Professional Editor

I spent part of the workday on Monday changing lower case letters into capital letters; you know, changing "sentence case" phrases into "Title Case". This is a good portion of what I do at this office. Not necessarily the best use of my skill set, but they pay me well for it, so I'm not complaining. Still, it would be nice if one of these days they'd ask me to write some haiku, or possibly a limerick.

Keen eyes scan the document
Capitalize words
Be sure to run the spell check

or

At my office, I don't get much credit
For possessing the talent to edit.
But my wages will rise
If I capitalize...
But for being creative? Forget it.

OK, I'll admit that those aren't any good. I'm afraid I just don't get much literary inspiration from work-related topics. Perhaps from politics?

We've selected McCain and Obama
To vote for; there's sure to be drama.
But while one of these guys
Wins the ultimate prize,
The other runs home to his mama.

See? See what hours of correcting capitalization does to one's creativity? It's all gone! I used to be able to write poetry of such depth and beauty that it would inspire the meanest people to hug strangers and feed stray kitty cats... but now I've become incapable of anything but the lamest writing this side of Bob Saget. Ugh!

Workplace tedium
Crushes creativity
I must win Lotto

Aw, quit yer whinin', Terry! Everybody has dull and tedious workdays now and then. (Well, except for Alex Trebek, that is.) I'm sure I'm not alone in feeling that my talent, intellect, and charm (cough) are not being used to the fullest by my employer. I'm sure that practically everyone has days where they feel like their unique abilities are squandered while they're performing tasks that practically any trained monkey could do.

So, what talents do you have that rarely get put to good use? Are you really good at something that no one has a need for?

Hmm. That makes me think that Mr. Trebek probably does have his bad days...when they have the "Celebrity Jeopardy" specials. The contestants may be gorgeous supermodels and/or chamelonesque thespians...but when the answer is "Obama and McCain", they're likely to respond with "What is Tabasco sauce?" or "Who invented Silly Putty?"

Anyway, here is a partial list of things I do well, that I would love to get paid for:

1. The Tazmanian Hula (aka "reverse sculling"). This is a swimming stroke where you lie on your back and propel yourself in the direction of your feet, using figure-8 motions with your hands. I have no idea why I am good at this, but it seems to come naturally to me. Too bad it's not useful for anything...


2. Squirting water from cupped hands. We used to practice this skill all the time between workout sets at WSC. At one time, I could hit six consecutive pennants on the backstroke flags within 2.5 seconds. Getting hit with this spray would sting you from 10 yards away, and put your eye out at 5. The skill is moderately more useful than the Taz, but I'm not really sure how to market it.


3. "Popping" my elbow. This is where you snap your arm in a downward motion to create a rather sickening popping noise. To someone who's not familiar with the technique, it appears that you are self-chiropracting your elbow bones. (In reality, the noise is made by the bicep slapping against the latisimus dorsi, and it doesn't hurt at all. But it looks and sounds pretty gnarly.)


4. A knack for useless trivia. I know, for instance, that Clint Eastwood was a lifeguard before he became a movie star. (I think they even named a gulch after him because of this. Right outside Hill Valley.) I know that Harry Connick, Jr. is named after his father, and that Steve Ihnat played Lord Garth on Star Trek. I also know that David Gerrold wrote "The Trouble with Tribbles", and that "self-chiropracting" isn't really a word.

If you know anyone who is hiring these particular skills, please let me know. In the meantime, I guess I'll exercise my pinkie fingers so I can press the [Shift] key with authority.

Have a great day!

PS. In case you were wondering, Tabasco Sauce is a product of McIlhenny & Co. And Silly Putty was invented by a fellow named Al Gore.

You're welcome.

Where Did the Weekend Go?

I make plans.

Not the kind that some people do -- where they plot out every single minute of the weekend, set out each anticipated clothing change in the order that you put the garments on, and count the exact number of chocolate chips to put on the waffles -- more like, "Hmm, this might be a good weekend to replace the furnace filter, and if there's time, balance my checkbook." And of course, there's my running, riding, and swimming to squeeze in there, too...as well as some mild parental obligations. But according to my plan, there'd be plenty of time to relax and recharge, too.

It didn't quite work out that way. The first setback occured as I tried to turn off the bathroom light when I finished shaving. It's one of those push on/push off dimmer switches, where you slap it to make it work, and then turn the knob to attain the desired brightness. The bathroom was apparently designed by a Hollywood makeup artist, because there's an entire row of bare light bulbs above the mirror -- and if you crank it up all the way, there's enough candlepower to melt your face. To keep from being blinded, I use a dual strategy of not replacing burnt-out bulbs (currently 4) and setting the dimmer to about half-power. The result is plenty of light to brush your teeth by, but not enough to set your eyebrows on fire.

Anyway, as I left the room I slapped the switch to turn it off. Not only did the lights not extinguish, but the switch began to make noises that you expect to hear from Orville Reddenbacher, but not from inside the bathroom wall. A light that won't turn off is bad -- a light that hisses and spits like Gollum is just plain frightening.

Fortunately, turning the knob all the way down seemed to soothe the riled-up electrons. But the day had barely begun, and I already needed to add a Home Depot run to my to-do list. Sigh.

Since Home Depot wouldn't open for a couple of hours, and I was moderately confident that my home wouldn't burn down while I was gone, I went out to Waterton for my Saturday morning walk/jog. I won't bore you with details, since it was pretty much the same as last week's (only without the skunk odor). I survived. Afterwards, I treated myself to a nice hot bath, and then called Tanner to see if he was ready for his weekly whuppin' at tennis.

Well, no...he wasn't. Band practice. Can't blame him for that -- they've got one month to get ready for their big Midwest Tour, and they need to write several new songs, and possibly even rename the band. It's a lot of work to do. I told him to call me when practice was over.

I decided to spend my time working on my video project. As previously reported, I planned to finish editing the movies that Doug Smith and I had made with our Wichita Swim Club buddies a few decades ago. On Friday, I had completed the task of synching up both movie soundtracks with the video, but I hadn't yet finished adding the bells and whistles that I hoped to include. I wanted to add closing credits that actually named the actors, and maybe even a commentary track where I could talk about the challenges of trying to coax actual acting out of school-aged competitive swimmers. (See also Steve Lundquist in "Return of the Killer Tomatoes"...5:15 into the clip.)

Well, I'm still not finished with that project. But I did finally get together with Tanner. It turned out not to be for a tennis game, though—his mom and I took the opportunity to sit down and discuss his academic and/or employment future with him. Please allow me to diagram exactly how that equation works out:

Parents + Teenager + Serious Life Topic = No Fun For Anyone

But parental responsibility carries with it the duty to occasionally dredge up your inner Mr. Strickland, and attempt a vaccination against rampant slackerism. We tried to do it without too much frothing and spitting, and he managed to keep the "You're old—therefore you're lame" rebuttals to a minimum. I'm not sure if we accomplished anything other than agreeing to support him through one more semester of school, but we all remain hopeful that his future holds more prosperity than soup kitchens. We'll see.

Tanner did accompany me to Home Depot, where I successfully remembered to get a furnace filter, but failed utterly at remembering the correct size to buy. The good news at the end of the day is that I was able to replace the light switch without being electrocuted (and even bought some spare bulbs to replace the burnouts), but the bad news is that I'll have to return to the store to trade the filter I bought for one that'll actually fit into my furnace. Sigh.

My other accomplishments for the weekend include a nice bike ride on Sunday morning, followed by a good swim practice. After hearing reports that non-wetsuited swimmers have been seen in the water at Chatfield, I may try to swim in the pond next weekend. Maybe.

In the evening, I went back over to grab the boy for that game of tennis we had missed on Saturday. We had fun, despite the fact that the score did not wind up being in my favor. I was still moving a bit gingerly on tender knees, but I'm beginning to think that even if I were at the top of my game, he might still be able to win. I may need some sort of psychological counselling to deal with this disturbing thought. Either that, or some tennis lessons...

And just like that, the weekend was over. I'm already looking forward to the next one. Maybe I'll get around to balancing my checkbook then. (Maybe.)

Have a great day!