Running Uphill

Why (you might be asking yourself) would I be going to the track for a sprint running workout when I have a major lake swim race coming up in less than two weeks. Ah, Grasshopper, does not the pebble, entering the water, begin fresh journeys? Does not the grass, waving in the wind, understand the ocelot? Does not Master Po have a strong case for suing Yoda about ripping off his character?

I wonder if Yoda ever used the Force to enhance his dates in high school? "But Yoda, I'm not that kind of girl!" -- "You will be."

Heck, he probably stole some of his best lines from his Algebra teachers, too. "But professor, I don't see any use for quadratic equations as a tool in fighting the Sith." -- "That is why you fail."

Anyway, my only race of the summer -- the Horsetooth 10K Lake Swim -- is coming up on August 10th. I'd really like to do well, especially since I wasn't happy with my performance last year. Therefore, I really had to think about it when my brother asked me if I was going to do a track workout on Tuesday night. After brief consideration, I concluded that I could always show up, support Pat's training, and then play catch with him afterward. (We often toss a ball around after running. Good sibling bonding stuff, that.) There was no requirement for me to run if I didn't want to.

Pat has been working hard and his speed is coming along. When we first started running together several months ago, I could actually keep up -- though we both knew that he possesses the greater running talent and would be whupping me before too long. And sure enough, I kept up for a while, but have long since re-assumed my historic position of 2nd place behind him. (I retain the advantage, though, in swimming, charm, and intellectual capacity, so it's OK.) His priorities for the workout were to post some aggressive times in both the 100 and 200-meter dashes. After trying to get my workday-stiffened legs warmed up without success, I decided that I would watch and cheer, rather than participate. And while he was imitating Jesse Owens, I'd get a nice, mellow workout by jogging slowly around the track.

But as I jogged, I noticed that there was a fellow on the side of the nearby hill, running up a near-vertical path leading to the big tank that sits at the summit. "Hmm," I thought, "that looks challenging." Not only that, but the steepness of the slope looked like it might be easy on my knees; it's the impact from a long stride that tends to generate tenderness. And going up a steep road, well, my strides aren't going to be very long, are they?

Pat finished his timed runs (and did quite well, thank you), and was open to the idea of going up the hill with me. It was steep, but short, so we set a goal of merely making it up without stopping. Take your marks; GO!

Those who've never done sports probably don't understand how we could label something like this as "fun". Your legs burn, your lungs are trying to exit your body right through the chest wall, and your breathing sounds like rusty sheet metal being crushed into a cube. But you keep going, one foot in front of the other -- each step lifting your entire body another 6 inches further from the center of the earth. And truthfully, you may not actually enjoy it as it's happening, but once it's over, you feel that life is good and the Universe is a happy place. It's fun!

And the best part of it was...well, the best part of it was that the dudes who were zipping around the hill on dirt bikes didn't T-bone us -- but the other best part was that the climb actually got my legs warmed up. Whoo hoo! After carefully descending the hill, I tried running on the track and found that my stride seemed long and strong. So I ran a few laps at a fairly challenging pace, and felt pretty darn good about myself and what I had accomplished. But I discovered that I still wanted to run the hill again. So I did.

It was fun, again! I'm hopeful that I've discovered the secret for my own personal speedwork training program. Run up a hill first, and then try to go fast on the track. Warming up is always the problem for me. And when I literally warm up by going up, well, it seems to be effective. I plan to incorporate this technique into my future track workouts, and I will let you know if it actually works, or was just a fluke.

But you'll have to wait a while to find out. Next week is "taper week", and I'm going to stay away from any activity that could get me injured, sore, or tired. I'll cut back on the weightlifting, decrease the intensity of swim workouts, and think about whether it makes sense to shave my legs for the race. I'll spend less time wearing myself out, and more time channeling my inner Yoda. A good week it shall be, mmm?

I guess we'll find out, won't we? Thanks for dropping by, and have a great day!

The Dark Knight

Tanner and I went to see the new Batman movie on Saturday. As a kid, of course, I would read a Batman comic book if there was one lying around at the barbershop while I waited for a haircut or something, but would never dream of purchasing one. DC comics were Abba to Marvel's Led Zep, or perhaps Roger Moore to Marvel's Sean Connery. Anyway, I was a HUGE fan of Spiderman, Fantastic 4, Daredevil, et al. But Batman? Meh.

Anyway, I doubt that anyone my age or younger could possibly grow up without at least a passing knowledge of the Caped Crusader and his Gotham milieu. And I do still consider the Adam West Batman TV show/ movie to be classic examples of hero entertainment at its finest. (Not to mention my close personal friendship with Burt Ward, the Boy Wonder.) But other than an admiration for the casting and performance of Michael Keaton in the first of the black-suited Batman movies, I've been pretty ambivalent toward the latest cinematic incarnations.

"The Dark Knight", though, was an exception to my ambivalence. I enjoyed the movie a lot. Oh, I don't think it will make me want to read more DC comic books, nor make me want to rent "Brokeback Mountain", but it was definitely worth spending a few bucks. It was quite a ride!

If you've read many of my movie reviews, you know that I rarely focus on the same criteria that most critics do. In fact, I rarely agree with anything the uppity mainstream film sniffers have to say, and hardly ever bother to see the dreck that makes most of their top ten lists. (Citizen Kane, you ask? Boring! Shakespeare in Love? Whaddaya think, I'm some kinda elbow-patched, monacle-wearin' college perfessor or something? I wouldn't waste my time!) But this one time...just this once, I'm afraid I'm going to agree with my colleages in the movie review business:

Heath Ledger's performance is amazing!

Oh, I'm not going to give away any secret plot elements here or anything, but this portrayal of the Joker is nothing short of iconic. This villain becomes the standard upon which to measure all cinema villains from now on. Ledger somehow manages to create a compelling portrayal of genius, madness, menace, and charisma combined...and does it without the benefit of shampoo, laundry facilities, or quality cosmetic products. He's like a mixture of Jaws, Alice Cooper, and Ted Bundy, with just a hint of Dr. Emmitt Brown thrown in as a spice. He's evil, yes, and disgusting and vile...but if the fate of civilization were not at stake, you might just root for him. There's a charm there, somehow dampening the sheer horror of his actions. It truly is a fine performance, and a fabulous character.

It's too bad Ledger is dead. I'd really like to see this particular Joker on the screen for a sequel. But...no.

So, other than Ledger lighting up the screen with an electric character destined to remembered, what else does this movie have going for it? Well, there's the action: there are fistfights, bat-wing glider flights following freefall leaps from buildings, stuff blowing up, and a car that busts itself apart to become a fat-tire motorcycle. There are chase scenes, mob meetings, kidnappings, and bank robberies. And if that weren't enough, you also have Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman, who are both excellent, as well.

As for the rest of the cast, Aaron Eckhart is as good as usual. Gary Oldman (surprisingly) does nothing to bother me. And as a special treat, Tommy "Tiny" Lister has a small but important part that he plays suberbly.

But it's not a perfect movie by any stretch of the imagination. Several things bothered me. First, Batman's labored husky voice -- it gets old. Sure, I understand that he's smarter than Superman...he realizes that if he doesn't disguise his voice, somebody might recognize him. But his throaty wheeze begins to grate when he's making overlong philosophical speeches and trying to make it sound like he's shouting in his "indoor" voice. It's not a movie-killer, merely an annoyance, but you will notice it.

Second, there are plot elements that go beyond the suspension of disbelief. I am quite willing to accept that the Joker is indeed a genius supervillain, and can anticipate and counteract his opponent's moves with mind-boggling speed. But the sheer size of his operation defies my ability to even imagine it. I don't care how crazy, smart, or well-staffed you are, you simply cannot plant and wire large kegs of explosives in every single room of a gigantic, occupied building without someone noticing.

And third, there's a plot element that centers around a couple of guys being madly in love with the same woman. I can understand that, if the woman is something special...but try as I might, I couldn't find a reason for anybody to even like her, much less go crazy-nuts wacko over her. She was bland at best, with tendencies toward annoying at worst. Even the actors involved with her seemed to have trouble convincing themselves that they cared about her that much.

The movie runs about 40 minutes longer than it needed to -- the "bonus villain" subplot they stapled onto the end was completely unnecessary. And some of the fight scenes were nothing but noise and camera movement, as opposed to clever choreography. And I had a bit of trouble following exactly how the semi-truck was able to stay right beside the armored car during the long chase through the city's tunnels.

But it's still worth seeing. It wouldn't be, I suppose, if you put an incompetent actor (say, Jack Nicholson) in the role of the Joker, but with Ledger's charming madness holding the thing together, you could probably remove all the action (and maybe even the Batman), and you'd still have an interesting film. It's pretty violent and scary, so I wouldn't recommend it for audiences who don't do well with that sort of thing. Nor would I recommend it for people who just flat don't like superhero movies. But for everyone else, head to the movies to see this film, and you'll have a great day!

Mother Nature

After Friday's gastric ordeal, it felt absolutely wonderful to be up and about bright and early on Saturday morning. I was hoping to get to Waterton canyon in time to start my run by sunrise, figuring that being on the road that early would give me time to cover the entire canyon in time to make it back to the pond for swimming by 8:20 or so.

Once again, I carried my camera, hoping to snag a photo of the fox I'd seen out here a few weeks ago. And as the first hint of sunlight began to reveal the canyon road, I noticed several deer, dining within the roadside brush. Out came the camera.

It was still too dark to take a photo without a flash, but I was probably too far away from them for the flash to light 'em up sufficiently. Still, dedicated documentarian that I am, I had to try.

Do you ever wonder what deer are thinking? These fellows were probably thinking "Is that a headlight? Perhaps I should stare stupidly into it to validate the cliché. Or perhaps it was lightning, though come to think of it, there was no thunder...and everyone knows that woodland creatures are tuned into all of Nature's subleties, and would surely know that booming noises should follow such a flash. Then perhaps it's a man-made technology of some sort, and therefore something to be feared and avoided -- come, let us amble into the thicket where our fur's nondescript color will render us invisible against the background of thicketage."

Or more likely they're thinking, "Stupid papparazzi. I am SO outtahere."

In any case, they left the road and deprived me of further photo opportunities. I wouldn't know for sure if I had captured their image until I downloaded the photos at home later. (I hadn't. Got a good reflection off the "No dogs" sign, but that was all that was visible. Darn.)

I began my run, feeling loose and pain-free. I could tell that I was running at an excellent pace. Of course, my GPS told me the truth, which is that my speed would have to improve to be described as "glacial". Sigh. But at least my knees and hamstrings didn't hurt.

For a while.

It didn't take long, though, until I was back in my normal mode. I won't bore you with the details. Bottom line: My hammie still needs work. If anyone can figure out how I can obtain weekly professional massages without having to pay for it or compromise my rigid moral standards, please let me know.

On the way back down the canyon, I saw my friends Joe and Kristen, and they both appeared to be running quite well. I also saw more wildlife; the bighorns are back.

I had been passed by another runner who was going quite a bit faster than me, but I noticed that he had started walking. As I approached, I could see why. A couple of sheep were crossing the road, and one of them appeared to be doing that macho staredown thing that the male sheep sometimes do. He wasn't that big, and his horns were pretty short...they didn't curl around at all, so I knew he probably wasn't the alpha male of the herd. But still, nobody wants to be head-butted by a critter with 60 pounds of bone on his head. I took a picture, and then the other runner and I eased past him.

For prey animals, the bighorns sure act like they own the road. And you know what? As hard as my head is, I do not want to ram it against one of those bad boys. Fortunately, as far as I know, their hairy eyeball act is partly just herd-protection posturing and partly just a human interpretation of the sad fact that their eyeballs are, like, way over on the sides of their heads. Of course they're going to look at you weird.

Anyway, no head butting was necessary, as the fellow had moved by the time I actually arrived at that spot in the road. And the rest of the run down to the parking lot was uneventful.

As was my subsequent swim in the gravel pond. The sky had remained overcast the entire morning, which not only made the run more pleasant, but also meant that I wouldn't go sun-blind when I breathed toward the east. There was no wind, either. A pleasant swim. I worked hard and was tired at the end of my laps, but had no complaints.

...Until I got out of the water. The bighorns may be prey animals, and will eventually cede the road to you, but the predators can sense when a man is tired and vulnerable. That's when they attack.

Yes, that's right—blood was spilled. My blood. From the moment I began my "I've run 12 miles and swam 2 and I'm jus' whupped" shuffle back toward my car, I was the focal point of a mass attack by hundreds of millions of Nature's fiercest creatures; the mosquito.

Slapping about myself with my towel, my swim cap, and my goggles, I struggled to defend myself as I rushed toward the sanctuary of my waiting automobile. The other park patrons cringed in horror at the sound of my heart-rending screams, as the foul flying devils carried off quart after quart of my precious bodily fluids. But somehow...somehow, I managed to make it to the car before becoming completely dessicated and mummified. Somehow, I managed to unlock the vehicle and throw myself into the driver's seat, locking the door behind me. A few mosquitos came inside with me, but in the enclosed space, the advantage turned. Call PETA on me if you wish, but I gleefully confess that anything with wings that remained inside the car with me was quickly crushed and send back to Satan from whence they came. And I would do it again.

OK, so upon re-reading the previous paragraphs, I realize that I may have exaggerated. A bit. I don't think I lost more than one quart of blood. And there probably weren't really hundreds of millions of skeeters. That would darken the sky like some sort of Biblical plague, and the truth is that there was plenty of light, despite the remaining cloud cover. Upon further review, I realized that I had received something like 10 bites, total -- still far more than any defenseless human should have to endure. But it was survivable. I survived. And that meant that overall, it had been a pretty good morning.

The rest of the weekend included a trip to the cinema to see "The Dark Knight" with my son, and a pleasant bike ride the next morning. I also performed my volunteer duties as the starter at the CARA kids' swim meet on Sunday, as well. But I'll have to save those tales for another time. For now, I need to find some calamine lotion.

Have a great day!

Poison

My buddy Russ's birthday was last week. Not only did we have cake at the office, but we also celebrated by going out for a hamburger. The cake was good. The burger nearly killed me.

(I almost wrote "kilt" me. Funny how the mind does that to you. I must've been thinking about the fact that Tanner and I saw a dude wearing a kilt last night, which started us on a discussion of our Scottish ancestry. Interesting stuff, that...but it'll have to wait for a future installment. Right now we're talking about attempted murder at Red Robin.)

I had the "Blackened Bayou Burger". The menu photo looked delicious, and I assumed that the name meant that it was a spicy cajun assemblage, and would delight my mouth with wonderful flavors from the deep south. But apparently, the name means that it contained a dark curse from a bitter voodoo swamp conjurer, and would haunt me with nightmares of hissing reptiles, polluted waters, and bubbling cauldrons of fetid potions. Plus, it didn't look at all like the picture.

It was edible, I suppose, but it wasn't long after returning to the office that I noticed that digestion was not progressing normally. Being a moderately civilized man, I generally try to suppress workplace eructation and flatulence, but it was beginning to become a struggle the afternoon ticked away. My original plan for the day had included a run up the canyon after work, but with each passing minute, my gut was making a persuasive case against it.

And to make matters worse, I was assigned a task that needed to be completed before I left for the day. I did my part quickly enough, but I had to wait for the customer to approve it, and ended up not leaving the office until an hour after my usual quitting time. By then, the swamp gases from the bayou were attacking in full force.

I usually eat dinner pretty much as soon as I get home, but that night I wasn't at all interested. I pretty much walked in the door and went straight to bed. I didn't eat anything, turn on the TV, or pick up a book. I just got myself into bed and hoped that sleep would ease the rumblings within.

It did. But my dreams were not restful. Tiny Tim, the Captain & Tennille, Sylvester Stallone, and other vile denizens of the swamp came to visit my slumber. I woke up a few times bathed in sweat but freezing cold, and there were the expected unpleasant visits to the bathroom (complete with sound effects unsuited for a family publication such as this) -- but I could tell that my system had not been purged of its demons yet.

My alarm clock roused me for swim practice. It was "Fun Friday", which meant that my swim team was expecting me to come up with a workout that amused and delighted them, bringing a moment's joy into their otherwise drab and humdrum lives. And usually, I fulfill this expecation with style -- creating practices that sprinkle whimsy and humor onto a foundation of butterfly drills and no-breathers. But since I could barely haul myself out of bed at all, much less tap into my inner Robin Williams, it did not seem likely that I was going to be much "fun" at the pool.

In fact, I was as weak as a politician's punchline. I could barely move, and each motion was accompanied by Vesuvian rumbling from within. I couldn't focus my eyes, couldn't stand the thought of food, and realized that no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, I may still smell like week-old jambalaya. I could not subject the swimmers to that, even if I could manage to drive myself to the pool, which was not likely anyway. I called in sick.

I hate doing that. Not that I think the team suffers too badly when I'm not there -- I'm sure they don't. They probably had a celebration in my absence, and I'm sure I'll hear that it was the "best Fun Friday ever". But I hate missing my own workouts, and I hate missing the energy I get from being around my friends and the athletes who inspire me. But it was the right choice to make. I slept for an additional 6 hours.

I had one cup of yogurt between Thursday's lunch and the time late Friday evening when I realized that the worst of the plague had passed. I knew that I'd be OK on Saturday...it was just an evil hamburger after all, not like a virus or anything...but I had intended to use my "off" Friday to catch up on housework, exercise, writing, and banking. But spending the entire day in bed, hallucinating about Al Gore in a radiation suit threaten to Van Halenize my brain if I didn't reduce carbon emissions by swearing to never again eat anything with "blackened" in its title -- well, it wasn't exactly my definition of a productive day.

The good news is that all those hours of rest seemed to turn the tide, and by Saturday morning, I was feeling fine. I'll tell you about the rest of the weekend in my next posting. Until then, have a great day!

Where's Dinger?

Tanner and I went to the baseball game last night, courtesy of my friends Joe and Kristen. The previous night's game did not go well for the Rockies, but we were hopeful and excited about the opportunity to attend the game. And if the home team didn't play well...well, there's always hot dogs, ice cream, and the chance to make a spectacular catch on a sizzling foul ball, right?

The evening began with a brief tour of the home my friends are building. Ambitious folks, they are -- not long ago there had been a perfectly good house sitting there on a choice lot in a beautiful community...and they decided to knock it down. Not only smash their existing home to rubble, but replace it with a custom-built masterpiece they designed themselves, and upon which they have performed much of the labor. A LOT of work. But it's almost done, and it is very impressive indeed.

I'm not sure I could do that. Oh sure, I could tell you what kind of room I wanted for my exercise equipment...and I would design it so that the TV was within reaching distance of the fridge. But beyond that? I'd be completely lost. But these folks have thought of every detail, and it's first class all the way. Solar powered and energy efficient, aesthetically drool-worthy, and emminently functional. No swimming pool, Velvet Elvis Shrine Room, or sword-fighting monkey enclosure, but I guess you can't have everything.

Anyway, after the tour, we headed to the ballpark, where I enjoyed spending my last several paychecks on hotdogs for myself and my son. We had great seats, and the Rockies were feeling frisky. The game was fun, the company was excellent, and the weather was fabulous. The only thing I'd change would be the position of the ballpark loudspeakers; it was a little tough to hold a conversation while your filling were rattling from the constant aural stimulation. If there's nothing going on in the game, they seem to have no problem filling the air with lame music contests, races among motorcycling pigs, and inane contests where they ask random spectators to recite that batting averages, favorite meals, and hat sizes of reserve players in order to win a toxic cheesy crunchy melty thingy from the fast food sponsor of the week.

But the finer points of baseball aside, here's my question of the day: How does a "Wave" get started? When we saw the amber waves of arms undulating our way, Tanner asked me that same question. I told him that I thought it was Dinger's fault. But a careful search of the arena revealed no sign of our prehistoric foam-filled herbivore cheerleader. Ergo -- was it spontaneous human wave-bustion? A carefully orchestrated audience ripoff, like when David Copperfield makes the Statue of Liberty disappear? Or just a bunch of rowdy drunks in the Rockpile.

I do not know. I think we'll have to call in Skully and Mulder on this one. While they're deliberating, though, you might want to consider grabbing a few pals and heading off to the ballpark. It's a surefire way to have a great day!

My Apologies

If there are any loyal readers left, please accept my apologies for the blogging drought. I feel really bad about the absence of posts for the last week. (I won't apologize for the poor quality of the writing that I do post, nor for the egregious lack of entertainment value; you knew the job was dangerous when you took it.)

You have probably speculated that I was called away to help the Rockies get back on track...or perhaps you thought I was unexpectedly invited to go on an African safari with Regis Philbin and Jesse Ventura. Maybe you guessed that I had been struck by lightning, or turned into a zombie by Yaphet Koto, or joined a Kool-Aid cult and was preparing to catch a passing comet to Nirvana. Well, those are all things that may well happen in the future, but the truth is that I've just been busy...and tired.

After a few months of extremely light workload at my office, things have picked up. And when I actually have to think while at work, it makes it more difficult to get anything done in the remaining hours of the day. I like to think of my brain as a high-performance race car -- somethat that operates at an impressive level...but burns fuel at an enormous rate and occasionally bursts into flame and piles into a wall. (Of course, others have compared it to a Slinky...able to roll down stairs fairly well, but likely to miss a step and need another push every now and then.) Whatever the analogy, though, the truth is that if I'm fully engaged in working hard at the office, I sometimes struggle with accomplishing much at home.

Then when you factor in a late-night "From the Mouth of Cthulhu" concert, and a 500-drive across Kansas the next morning after only 3 hours of sleep, well, you can imagine that my intellectual fuel reserves might be low. And that's not even taking into account the draining effect that being in Kansas has on one's energy (and soul). By the time I returned to Denver, I was in dire need of some recovery time, extra sleep, and a few days off. But no, it turned out that things were still quite busy at work, and with an upcoming lake swim race to train for, fairly demanding in the exercise department as well.

I hope it doesn't sound like I'm complaining, because I hate it when people point out that I'm getting all whiny and wimpy and just need to suck it up. The reaction I'd prefer is "Oh my goodness—the poor fellow does indeed have the most excellent reasons for being a slacker -- we should support him by continuing to read his blog, no matter how lame it gets or how often he disrepects us by shirking his writing tasks." Yeah, that's the spirit!

Besides, there are still interesting stories to be told. Not just about Kansas (yes, the Giant Prairie Dog is still there) and about alternative energy, rock n' roll, and lake swim training...but also about the challenges of keeping kids in college, working on aerospace proposals, and dealing with skin problems resulting from too much sunbathing as a teenager. It's all right here, folks, so please stay tuned.

Thanks, and have a great day!

Kansas in July

There's no better way to prepare for a pre-dawn trip to Kansas than staying up late listening to rock n' roll bands in a bowling alley. Yes, that's right -- I planned to be on the road across the vast wastes of I-70 at 4am, and I didn't even get home until almost 11:30pm. If you know me, and know how much I value my sleep, you'll understand how...unusual this was.

Not the leaving town at 4am part; that's no big deal. But I don't usually stay out so late. And I will confess that in all my years upon this planet, I have never before attended a rock concert at a bowling alley. "Cosmic" bowling, sure -- you know, where they fill the place with acrid smoke, far-out black lights to make the balls glow, and bass-driven disco music that's supposed to entice you to drink more beer...I've done that (though it's tough to roll a very good game in the dark). But until Thursday night, I had never traveled to the Lanes for the express purpose of hearing a local band.

But this was "From the Mouth of Cthulhu", the group who has been hailed as "the next Led Zeppelin", and has been reviewed as having "better harmonies than John Travolta and Olivia Elton John". It's the band my son is in. And this was their second concert with their new material and their first show as the headlining group...so I wanted to see them perform, even if it meant staying up past my bedtime.


These gigs are always interesting, more so for the entertainment value of watching the teenagers mill about and practice the behaviors that make them think they're grown up. The Falcon Bowl was a much more fan-friendly venue than the Marquis Theater, where Cthulhu had last performed, and offered food & drink in addition to the opportunity to shoot pool, play Frogger, and bowl a few frames. The acoustics were better as well, and I could actually distinguish some of the music.

But I stayed outside for a good portion of the show. The first band was a "randomly pound on your instrument and scream loudly" type of group -- not really my thing. The second band was a little more tolerable, but by then I was getting tired and just wanted my kid to play. I had an interesting conversation with Steve Smith (my old buddy from Wichita Swim Club), who told me all about his latest business venture -- something to do with automated security systems to prevent commie terrorists from disrupting the independent package deliver industry -- but I'll confess that some of the details have been lost in the mental fog that inevitably accompanies late-night rock concerts.

Anyway, Cthulhu performed well, and we all enjoyed the show. (By the way, they've posted one of their new songs at http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=20208536.) But I was pretty well out of it by the time I got home.

You know how it is when you know you only have a couple of hours to sleep, so you put extra pressure on yourself to fall asleep right away, but of course, that added pressure keeps you awake. Ugh. I probably slept less than three hours. And then it was time to travel to Wichita.

As usual, I don't seem to be able to tell my tale with Jack Webb-ish taciturnity, but instead ramble about aimlessly, like Ben Affleck's career. Sorry. I'll try to speed things up.

Kansas = Boring. (How's that for succinctness?)

Actually, there are some highlights to the I-70 drive, which I may share with you at some point in the future: the "Boy, I wish I owned this franchise" crowds at the Limon McDonalds; the Giant Prairie Dog eternally guarding the outskirts of Oakley; and the puzzling mystery of the roadsigns that proclaim Wichita to be a shopping and cultural mecca (??!), to name a few. And within the last year or so, the scenic Flint Hills have blossomed with miles and miles of colossal wind turbines, hypnotically seducing the driver's eyes to focus on their leisurely motion instead of the road. (I suspect that they're really sentient carniverous beings who feast upon the carcasses of the unfortunates who drive themselves into the ditches. They must wait until it's dark before they uproot their giant underground paws and stroll over to the roadside to devour their victims. I bet you can hear the crunching noises for miles and miles across the prairie.)

These OSHA-snubbing devices appear to be the size of very large trees, but in fact are much bigger. A truck with a pair of the turbine blades happened to be parked at a gas station where we stopped, so I took a photo for perspective.

Whoa!

I wonder what it would sound like to stand next to one of them suckers as the blades spun around? (I also wonder if Nebraska is less windy now. It has to take some of the energy out of the breeze to turn those big blades; perhaps the good people of Omaha will no longer be able to fly their kites on weekends. Hmm.)

Anyway, upon arrival at my dad's house in Wichita, I found that they weren't at home. I sat down on the porch to read a bit, play my guitar, read a book, and eventually even fall asleep for a bit. Thanks to the shade and a nice breeze, I didn't entirely melt from the heat, but I was mighty glad when Dad and Judy showed up and let me into their house.

Judy had been painting all day, and was happy to get off her feet. My dad had been helping her, and was still recovering from a power tool accident that had required a couple dozen stitches in his middle finger. My sister wasn't due to arrive for several hours, so we were all happy to grab a take-out pizza and sit down for a nice family chat.

Cindy arrived a bit later, and we discussed the plans for the morrow. She and I were going to do some bookkeeping work for my dad, and also provide transportation or run errands for our hosts. Plans were settled, and shuteye obtained.

On Saturday morning, my plan was to run for somewhere around 10 miles. I had no specific route in mind; I was just going to leave the house with my GPS and see where my wanderlust took me. Fortunately, it was overcast with a slight drizzle, so I wasn't going to suffer too badly from the notorious Kansas heat.

Unfortunately, it was overcast with a slight drizzle, which gave me the confidence to head directly away from the house with no plans to turn back until I'd reached my halfway mileage. And because I was enjoying myself and enjoying the sights of the local neighborhood, I didn't really think much about it when the rain started coming down a little harder. And then a little harder, still.

Before I knew it, I was in the midst of a full-blown downpour, complete with adrenaline-jolting rips of lightning. I didn't mind getting my shirt and shorts wet, but as the street puddles got deeper and wider, it occured to me that I had only brought one pair of shoes on the trip. If they got too soaked, I'd never get them dry, even in the normal Kansas humidity.

The streets of Wichita are designed to create mini-lakes at every intersection during any kind of a rainstorm. I remember one time when I had to ride my motorcycle through water up to my knees...and it was just a regular street corner! It wasn't that deep yet, but if I wanted to get back with dry shoes, I'd have to do a lot of hopping up onto the curb and leaping over rivulets as I headed back to the house. What had begun as a distance run had somehow morphed into a steeplechase.

Despite my best efforts, my shoes were indeed soaked by the time I got back to the house. Oh well. I didn't really need to wear them for the rest of the weekend -- no big deal.

The rest of the trip was spent in my dad's office, doing computer input (which kept me up until 11:30 at night -- another journey into brain-damaging sleep-deprivation). Cindy and I did take a short side trip to transport Judy to her hair appointment and to go visit my sister's mother-in-law, Blanche. Otherwise, we all shared stories about our recent adventures (Cindy had hurt her ankle during a raft trip down the Grand Canyon, for example), and discussed our plans for the rest of the summer. It wasn't exactly an exciting visit, but it was time well spent, and I think everyone was glad we had the chance to get together.

But it's always good to come home, too. My shoes are finally dry, and I can now try to catch up on my sleep. If you want more details about the swell things you can experience in Wichita (ie, Dog n' Shake, the Brownstone Grill, armpit-staining humidity, etc.), let me know and I'll be happy to fill you in. In the meantime, have a great day!

Wheels, Workouts, and Wimbledon

I normally don't do all three triathlon sports in one day, but since I still didn't have my car back on Saturday morning, I decided to ride my bike out to Waterton for my running and swimming workouts. I coated myself in sunscreen and headed out to the canyon.

It was an excellent morning. But the problem is that my morning's exercise was pretty uneventful, so I have no blogging fodder. I mean, usually I have injuries, wildlife, or encounters with others to talk about...but this time, I just did my walk/run jogging (9 miles total), and then jumped back on my bike for a dull and boring ride over to the Chatfield gravel pond.

My buddy Keith met me there, and we cranked pretty hard for a couple of laps of the pond. The highlight of the swim was my navigation on the way back during the first lap -- I steered us right through the gap in the sandbar, leading us to a much faster time than we'd had on the way out when we had to hobble across the rocky bottom.

Whoo hoo. How exciting is that? (Yawn.) Well, it may not make for good storytelling, but it was a good workout, and my arms were pretty rubbery by the time we were done. I hopped back on the bike and headed homeward.

Then came the drama, the tension, and the hair-raising adventure! As I rode up the hill from the park entrance kiosk to Wadsworth, I thought I detected some sponginess in my front tire. Oh no! Not a flat! Whatever shall I do?

A sudden deflation can be disastrous on a bicycle...but doesn't really present much of a threat when you're going up a steep hill at about 4 mph. I made it to the traffic light, dismounted and examined the tire. Yup, it's flat all right.

Here's the reason you come to this web page, right? For access into the thought process of a competitive person as he faces the daunting challenges of his workouts -- that's it, isn't it? Well, here's your reward, loyal reader: my innermost thoughts as I dealt with this tragic setback. My first thought was, "Crud. I just got a new tube. That totally stinks."

My second thought was "OK, I can deal with this. I have a spare tube with me, and all the necessary repair tools in the little kit that hangs below my seat. I can get this thing changed out in 10 minutes or so."

My third thought was "The last three times I've changed a tube, I've managed to poke holes in the replacement. If I were stranded out in the desert, I'd certainly attempt it...but I'm on Wadsworth Blvd, and about half the cars that drive by here have bikes in 'em. Surely I could hitch a ride with a sympathetic fellow cyclist!"

"On the other hand, this tire isn't totally flat. And I only have to ride another 3 or 4 miles to get to where my car is being repaired. I could pump it up with one of my CO2 cartridges; perhaps if the leak is slow enough, and my riding is fast enough, I can get to Goodyear before I'm back on the rim. Hmm."

Upside: It takes about 2 seconds for me to get re-inflated and back on the road. Downside: if it goes flat again before I arrive, I'll have to walk the rest of the way. Hey, no problem; I've got my running shoes, and it'll be a couple of miles at the very most. I decided to go with the "Pump it and pray" option.

The CO2 cannister is a compact and effective device. Not only does it inflate the tire in about a second, but it leaves a groovy little ring of frost around the valve stem. Seeing that reminded me of Marty McFly's chilled DeLorean, and it made me smile. Of course, it's only a matter of time before the eco-nuts get these cartridges banned for making Captain Planet cry, but in the meantime, they are handy little gizmos, that's for sure.

I made it to Goodyear with plenty of air to spare. My car wasn't quite finished so I carried my bike into the store lobby and sat down with a 6-month-old Reader's Digest while the other patrons wondered why a tire store smelled like sweat and pond water.

But I got my car back! It only took about the equivalent of 2 months' wages, but I could now stop using leg power to get around and once again consume petroleum, as God intended.

I spent the rest of the day watching TV. I saw some excellent tennis, which inspired me to coerce Tanner into getting up early on Sunday so he could be victimized by my crashing serves and intimidating quickness at charging the net. (Actually, I did whip him pretty badly this time. He blamed it on the fact that teenagers aren't functional at 7:30 in the morning, but I think it was more likely due to my powerful muscles and catlike reflexes. Though come to think of it, he did seem to have his eyes closed a good portion of the time...)

Despite the thrashing, Tanner did vow to put me in my place next time. And it's always good to know that he's willing to agree to a "next time", so I was pleased. It may be a while, though, since I'm planning to go visit my dad over the weekend. One of these days, I'll tell you some stories of the epic tennis matches I used to play against my father. But until then, stay active, and have a great day!

The Kindom of the Crystal Skull

Despite having the worst name ever for a movie star, Shia LeBeouf does a pretty good job as a Fonzie wannabe who helps Indiana Jones wreck a large portion of South America to keep the world from being controlled by the Commies.

NOTE: Spoilers contained herein. If you want to remain in suspense about the mysterious secret of the crystal skulls, then skip this entry. I'm going to give it away. You've been warned.

You should also consider this a warning to skip the movie. "Raiders of the Lost Ark" is one of my all-time favorite movies, and will always be remembered fondly for the first time I saw it. I had no idea what it was about -- just that people had said I should see it. It was the first time I had waited in an around-the-block line to see a movie...and it was absolutely worth it. I was buzzing for days afterward.

(The only other time I stood in a line that long was for "Star Trek - The Motion Picture", aka "Star Trek - the Unforgivable Piece of Crap". As with most other Trek geeks, I was SO looking forward to that movie, and was SO bored by it. Oh sure, it was interesting in that we'd never seen a bald chick on the big screen before, and Veeger was OK as a Nomad retread, I suppose...and the new captain was fresh off the stunning success of "The Promise". But lord, it was boring!)

Anyway, this movie suffers from the same problem as that first Trek film -- no, not that Scotty had gotten fat...I'm talking about special effects for the sake of special effects. It seems that most of the movie is about running away from tumbling rocks, computer-generated ants, and elaborate pre-Columbian booby traps that still function efficiently after thousands of years. Even though they're made out of granite, have never ever been lubricated, and are covered with as much lichen as Rodman has tattoos.

You know, though, I totally bought that rather iffy concept in "Raiders". Why won't I accept it now? I don't know...perhaps it's because in the original, it was a tad more subtle. I suppose I can handle a few pneumatically-launched poison darts here and there, and one big-ass bowling ball rock running down the escape tunnel. But in "Skull", they go too far. The climactic scene might as well have been from a James Bond movie -- it's as if the writer said, "Dudes, I'm out of clever gags; let's just blow the whole thing up and then watch falling debris for 20 minutes."

In fact, the entire plot was kinda that way. "OK, like, I can't come up with any of that National Treasure connect-the-clues kind of archeological cleverness, so what the hell...we'll just blame it all on aliens. Yeah, that's right, and not only that, we'll use the Roswell aliens. Hey, we've already got Fonzie; why not add in Mork from Ork, too?"

You know, when a friend of mine first told me there were aliens in this film, I thought, "Cool. I dig aliens." The "X-Files" movie aside, it's tough to go wrong when you have bug-eyed space monsters. But these crystal skull guys were pretty lame. I mean "made for SciFi channel" lame. A transparent cranium that has the power to drive John Hurt crazy? C'mon -- John Hurt is pretty much crazy in ever movie he's ever made. I mean, the dude swallowed an entire alien baby once, for goodness sake. (And that was a much more interesting alien, at that.) And boy, when they demonstrated that the crystal skull also had the power to repel insects...I mean, whoa!

Did I say "whoa"? I meant "yawn". For one thing, I can accept a small amount of environmental overkill -- an underground temple full of snakes, for example...sure. A sewer full of rats and tarantulas? Well, tarantulas are solitary critters, so it seems a bit odd, but yeah, I suppose I can accept that there'd be enough food there to nourish a population that size. But when you show me enough ants to devour the entire Russian army blanketing square miles of jungle floor with mandible-clicking red horror, then I must say, "I am unwilling to suspend my disbelief any further, Mr. Spielberg. I defy you to show me an ecology in which that number of ants would be sustainable, given the indigenous food supply. After all, the colony was apparently there before the Commies started bringing in a steady supply of meaty comrades to lunch upon...so what were these ants supposed to be feeding themselves in order thrive in such numbers? Huh?"

And why do movie ants always make clicking noises? For that matter, why do movie Rooskies always talk with such hideous Rocky IV accents? Why does Cate Blanchette spell her name with a "C"? And why do the crystal skulls light up like lava lamps, and then mysteriously empower the alien skeletons to move as if they still had the muscles and tendons that were turned to dust a couple thousand years ago?

Don't get me wrong...I love animated skeletons. The old Ray Harryhausen stuff is delicious, and the Pirates of the Carribean are welcome to parade their bones across my TV screen any time they wish. But the difference is that those fellas were doing the "dem bones" thing due to magical spells; but we're led to believe that the Indiana Jones skeletors are just a bunch of interdimensional guys with advanced technology. Well, I hate to say this, but I have trouble with technology that restores life and animism to a long-fossilized corpse, just because its missing skull is lobbed into the general vicinity of its spinal column! And besides, the bones aren't even really bones -- they're made of glass!

Geez.

Anyway, the best parts of the movie (the banter between Indy and Caveman, er, I mean Mutt -- the motorcycling through the library -- the fact that Jones still has the hots for his old girlfriend even though he has aged far better than she has, and she's not really a good actress, anyway) were limited and scarce. The worst parts of the movie (the 400 Commies with machine guns who can't hit one old guy climbing boxes in a warehouse -- the sheer dumbness of having a swordfight on two speeding jeeps with conveniently-placed crotch-smacking vegetation -- and the muddled subplots about half-naked blowgun tomb defenders, lost explorers, and college professors who somehow manage to etch architecture diagrams into concrete cell floors), well, these are overdone, overlong, and unengaging. And when the alien skeleton dude does finally get his headbone reconnected to his neckbone, I really expected him to do something other than just...leave. Couldn't we at least have some sort of communication from him? Perhaps a "Live long and prosper" pronouncement...or even a "Be excellent to each other; and party on, Dudes!" Or even more satisfying -- have him whip out a ray guy, briefly explain the inherent flaws in the Socialist economic model, and then blast the bad guys to smithereens. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, despite some charming stuff (such as gags paying homage to "Raiders", "Star Wars", and "Elephant Man"), the movie remains a bit of a disappointment. I suppose that we should all see it, just to keep up with our cultural literacy duties (and to provide context for the upcoming "Indiana Jones vs. the Old Dudes from 'Cocoon'" flick)...but I wouldn't recommend paying full price.

As for me, well, I shall promise to try to avoid using the word "Dudes" so many times in my future posts. As for you, my friends, have a great day!

4th of July, 2008

As a wise man once said, you should annually celebrate your country's independence by blowing up a small part of it.

I used to enjoy that aspect of July 4th, immensely. There's nothing quite like attending a professionally-designed and tax-funded pyrotechnics display, oohing and aahing along with thousands of other patriotic citizens. I also think it's important for us to momentarily set aside our political differences, joining together in praising the greatness of our country with explosions, bright lights, and Ray Charles music. But despite the great level of fundamental pleasure I've always felt from watching the sky scintillate, I always enjoyed setting off my own explosives even more.

My favorite Fourth ever was probably the time our family spent the weekend on the Burtis's farm in Olathe, Kansas. I'm not sure who funded their purchase, but fireworks of all kinds were abundant, and adult supervision was minimal. Each kid had a lit punk, pocketsful of Black Cats, and plenty of real estate to demolish. There's nothing quite like a bunch of pre-teen pyromaniacs riding around on a tractor flinging fireworks at every random fencepost, bush, and chicken we saw. It's a wonder we didn't set anything on fire, and I'm sure the horses and cows all had nightmares for the next several weeks.

And yes, we did hold the 'crackers in our hands to light them. We did throw them at each other. We did have roman candle fights at 30 paces. We did ALL the stuff that the labels warn you not to do. We also launched tin cans, destroyed plastic army men, blew up anthills, and had an incredible amount of fun doing it. Then...lemonade and watermelon. Ahhh -- Nirvana in the heartland, it was.

But over the years, things changed. While I still am proud to celebrate this country (despite its mistakes like slavery, prohibition, and Jimmy Carter), I rarely blow up anything anymore. Because of my morning workout schedule, I fall asleep far too early to see any public fireworks displays. And because of random expenses such as @#$! car repairs and gasoline, I am reluctant to budget for a trip to Wyoming to buy fun fireworks. So, while my heart still swells at the thought of the magnificent thing our founding fathers acccomplished on that July 4th in 1776, I celebrated in a very mellow fashion this year.

I watched the Twilight Zone marathon on the scifi channel, cleaned house, and finished reading a book about a guy who has run 226 miles without stopping. I also managed to squeeze in a short bike ride and a swim. But the highlight of the day was getting my son to agree to go see a movie with me.

I've been trying to talk Tanner into joining me for a movie for over a month now. Yes, I know that no teenager wants to spend time with his old man; the lameness of being seen in public with a parental unit pretty much pegs the uncool-o-meter. And when your dad is a bespectacled, bermuda-shorts wearin' nerd such as myself, it's gotta be pure torture. But dang it, I love this kid, and I truly enjoy hanging out with him and talking to him -- he's just gonna have to deal with it. At least as long as I'm paying part of his expenses. (And judging from the, uh, enthusiasm (cough) with which he seems to be seeking gainful employment, this era could continue for a long time to come.)

Most of the time, "band practice" has been his excuse. I'd tell him what time I wanted to go to the movie, and then after a consultation with his fellow musicians, he would be shocked to learn that a practice had been scheduled for that exact same time! This rare cosmic coincidence happened again and again...but finally, on the 4th, the boy reluctantly agreed to attend the cinema with me.

We discussed the options, and decided that Indiana Jones was safe; that we'd both probably enjoy it, despite lukewarm reviews. At least there'd be insects, snakes, stunts performed on speeding military vehicles, and some sort of quasi-religious mumbo-jumbo. Spielberg couldn't mess that up too badly, could he?

I'll let you know in my next post. In the meantime, have a great day!

Momentum

Working from home has multiple advantages:

• You don't have to drive, therefore saving money and conserving the Earth's natural resources. (But mostly saving money.)


• You can wear shorts, go barefoot, and use "Leave it to Beaver" as your background accompanyment...thus assuring that you stay properly motivated.
  
• You have continual access to food and drink without being restricted by cafeteria offerings and limited vending machine selections.
  
• If you run into a decision-making challenge, a complex prioritization issue, or an ethical dilemma, you can always get help from Ward Cleaver.

But there are some disadvantages, too. For example, there are the computer gyrations you have to perform to be able to log onto the office network and get to the data you need. And the fact that your computer gets hosed up by the tech support weenies. And then there's that temptation to take advantage of the continual access to food and drink...

When my car went belly-up, I decided to try to work from home rather than deal with the hassles of arranging alternate transportation to the office. I was overly optimistic, interpreting the mechanic's "we gotta pull the engine" as "it might take an entire day", rather than the more accurate "you're looking at repairs involving quantum particle physics, chaos theory, and post-Einsteinian time dilation—heck, the paperwork alone will take 3 freakin' days!" So I stayed home, expecting that any moment the phone would ring with the "we're all finished and it's running great" message.

I didn't get a lot done.

If any of my bosses are reading this, please note that my inefficiency was totally due to anxiety over my car, and in no way indicates problems with the general idea of telecommuting. Just because I spent more time eating nachos and Junior Mints than formatting report documents doesn't mean that I couldn't work effectively from home on a daily basis. After all, being locked away in the Engineering building basement effectively isolates me from my coworkers anyway -- there's no need for me to be physically present at the office to do my work.

Well, except for the fact that my computer works better from there. I did have trouble getting into the company network from home, so I called the tech support folks. Quite friendly, they are, but somewhat hampered by the fact that people's home computers may be set up quite differently from the office machines. By talking to the support technician, I learned that my virus checker and firewall were probably to blame for my inability to connect, and that I needed to shut them down. (Aren't they important? Well, yeah, I think they are...but what're ya gonna do?)

My javascript was running correctly, either, according to the disembodied voice I listened to during our two-hour call. Using NetMeeting, he took control of my computer and went to a web page to download...something. He didn't really explain what he was doing, but I got to watch several progress bars slowly creep across the screen as my cursor went into semi-permanent hourglass mode.

I will say this, the fellow was quite apologetic when we discovered that his attempt to update my javascript seems to have permanently hosed up many of the computer functions that I take for granted. Want to order something from Amazon? Sorry. Want to see movies listings for your local theaters, or catch a current weather report? Uh, sorry about that, too.

I rode my bike into work the next day. I stopped by to check on my car during the ride home and was told that the engine was in tiny little pieces all over the shop floor, and since they were closed on the 4th of July, it wouldn't be ready until Saturday. Sigh. And because they would have to bring in Stephen Hawking, Lee Iococca, and the ghost of Yoda to consult on how to reassemble it, it was going to cost me several months' salary before they were done.

Oh well, at least the extra bike riding would do me some good. Right? Might as well just kick back and enjoy the 4th of July. I hope you do, too.

Have a great day!

Car Trouble

Several weeks ago, I noticed that my car's air conditioner was being all Hannibal Lecterish -- one moment acting polite and crisply cool, and then next moment, eating my face. Being a person with a rather low tolerance for temperature extremes (ie, a mollycoddled pantywaist), I need my A/C to be functional. I have no desire to ever arrive at my destination with Ernest Borgnine armpit stains. I took the car to the shop.

They replaced the A/C sensor switch, but warned me that the compressor was somewhat anemic, and might not last through the summer. Therefore, when the car seemed warmer than usual on my way to the From the Mouth of Cthulhu concert on Monday night, I just assumed it was the technician's pessimistic prediction coming true. I wasn't too worried.

But it just got hotter and hotter. I finally looked at the engine temperature gage and was stunned to see that it had already gone to Red Alert! I probably should've pulled over immediately, but I was on Santa Fe during rush hour, and darn it, it just wasn't convenient. Besides, as long as the car was moving, the temp gage needle stayed below the redline. If I stopped moving, though, it went right back up. Not good.

I immediately turned off the A/C, and at each light, turned off the enginer altogether. As soon as I could get off Santa Fe, I did, pulling over on a side street and turning the vehicle off. I called Tanner's mom; she has an office downtown, and was also attending the concert. Maybe she'd drive me to the theater while my poor hot car took a break.

I ended up nursing my wounded automobile into the parking lot at her office building and left it there to cool. We attended the concert, and I hoped that the evening weather would cool off enough that I could get my car back home to Littleton.

Fortunately, I was carrying water in my car, and was able to get some more from a janitorial spigot at Val's office building. The poor radiator guzzled over a gallon of liquid, and seemed to be holding it -- I saw no obvious leaks. I decided to try to limp home, and would put the car in the shop the next morning.

Val followed me until I was reasonably certain that I was going to make it without overheating again. I ran the heater, and rolled down the windows to let as much of the engine heat escape as possible. The gage stayed steady, just a tad warm, but nowhere near the boilover point. I gave Val the A-OK sign and traveled the rest of the way without incident. I was beginning to hope that a few gallons of antifreeze might solve the entire problem.

Of course, we can also hope that being nice to terrorists will convince them to leave us alone, but it just ain't gonna happen. The diagnostics at the repair shop indicated that I need a new head gasket. (At first I thought that was the technician's way of telling me I was crazy, but then realized that a "head gasket" really is an engine component. Apparently it serves the same purpose as the skin of a hot dog -- it keeps all the hot juices inside where their energy can be harnessed, rather than leaking out and getting gnarly crud all over your pristeen buns. Something like that, anyway.)

As I understand it, a head gasket is about 50 cents worth of cardboard or rubber or something, but in order to install it, you have to take the engine out of the car, scrape the old one off the metal using a large box of special space-age titanium Q-tips, and then travel to the Amazon rain forest to harvest the milk of the rare pygmy tarantula that lives only in the very tops of the unicorn tree (which is only visible under a full moon), so you'll be able to apply the correct mystical salve to the new gasket to seal it together. I may be getting a few of the details wrong here, but the point is that the labor is very, very expensive.

Perhaps it's time to give up internal combustion, move to a hippie commune and live on wheat grass that we raise ourselves. Ride bicycles everywhere, learn to enjoy the pungent aroma of our own perspiration, and eschew unnecessary luxuries such as shoes, Michael Jordan-autographed underwear, and York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps it's time to live as our forefathers did, living in huts made of bamboo and aspen bark, drinking fermented dandelion juice, and doing away with television altogether. (Except during the Olympic swimming events, of course.)

Or not. I think when all is said and done, I'd actually prefer to have my car back. As much as it hurts to do it, I think I'll put the repairs on a credit card and be in debt for the next several years, simply for the convenience of being able to travel where I want to, listen to CDs at window-rattling volumes, and feel a refreshing blast of cool air in my face...even on the hottest days.

So, my friends, let's crank it up, shall we? We'll figure out how to pay for it later. Have a great day!

[NOTE: This essay is intended to be viewed as humorous commentary only. It is in no way meant to override stern parental admonitions to save your money and conserve your assets by avoiding needless luxuries. It does NOT imply that the author endorses accumulation of debt in order to achieve fleeting personal comfort. If your name is Tanner, you are hereby instructed to ignore any implications that conflict with what your father has told you. Always obey your father and ignore the Internet. Thank you.]

From the Mouth of Cthulhu

OK, it didn't exactly go down as I had hoped, but I guess any rock concert you survive just makes you stronger, eh?

Background: My son, Tanner, is in a rock band: "From the Mouth of Cthulhu". This band was formed with other former members of the group "L.I.E.", and they've been furiously preparing for Monday night's debut concert with their new material. I hadn't heard any of their new stuff, and I was really excited to go to the concert. I'm not exactly a night owl -- I'm usually in bed by around 7 or 8pm -- but I'll stay up late once in a while if it means I get to see my kid rockin' the house.

Getting to the gig was more complicated than I had expected, but I'll share that story in another entry. The venue was about 2 blocks from Coors Field, so there was a lot of competition for parking places, and a lot of foot traffic as fans headed to the game. Fortunately, there was an open metered parking space just down the street, leaving just a short walk to the theater. Two bucks filled the meter to maximum, leaving two hours to attend the show and get back to the car. Cthulhu was the first act, so there was plenty of time to see the show, chat with the band a bit, and then make it back to the car before the meter maids showed up.

That's probably not a politically correct term, is it? When I was a kid, the parking enforcement was indeed done exclusively by females who had these spiffy Maytag-repairman-type uniforms and drove little boxy scooter vehicles. With their stern hats and official-looking ticket pads, they roamed the downtown streets scanning for space-squatter scumbags. If I remember correctly, you could get 15 minutes of meter time for a penny, and a couple of weeks for a quarter. But if you didn't cough up the correct change, you'd get a $5 ticket shoved under your wiper blade.

OK, maybe I don't have the specifics exactly right, but I'm pretty sure the rates have gone up since then, and using the term "Meter Maid" is every bit as much of a hangin' offense as calling someone a "stewardess".

What I meant to say was that with the meter full, the non-gender-specific parking enforcement officers would not be a concern. (Winos and change-grubbing vagrants were another story, though. I must've been asked for spare change a dozen times while waiting for the show to start. One fellow was quite specific; he needed exactly seventeen cents. At the time, I was somewhat puzzled by this, but after further consideration have realized that bumming change from suburbanites in a concert queue constitutes a particular genre of entrepreneurship—anything you can do to create differentiated brand awareness is probably an asset. Perhaps the seventeen-cent guy turns a much higher volume than the standard quarter mongers. If I were in grad school, I think I'd apply for a grant to study this topic. But I digress...)

There were already a couple dozen people waiting outside the theater. There were three distinct groups in this crowd; the parental/family group, the grungy/smelly rock/reggae punks, and the normal teenagers who were doing their best to pretend to be grungy/smelly rock/reggae punks. I was never a rebellious teenager myself, being more like Richie Cunningham than Fonzie, but I do understand the appeal of rejecting "the establishment" and "sticking it to the man" -- but I will never, ever understand the appeal of smoking cigarettes. The desire to inhale noxious gases and smell like an exhaust pipe just doesn't seem consistent with my idea of finding oneself and establishing a unique personal identity...it just seems, well, stupid. Go ahead and wear tattered t-shirts with cryptic messages about your devotion to Beezebub if you wish, and I guess I'll even support the idea of blue-eyed blonds with dreadlocks, or even getting a tattoo that I guarantee you'll hate in 12 years...but I'd really prefer that you 86 the cancer sticks. OK?

(Wait...that's the whole idea isn't it? If you can irritate a stuffy old corporate white guy like me, then you've succeeded in establishing credibility among the alternative culture, haven't you? It's one thing to not trust anyone over 30, but if you can make them gag, cringe, and keep their distance from you through your pungent aroma alone, then you've really got it going on. Well done, James Dean. A horrible and expensive addiction is a small price to pay for being cool. Good luck with that, dudes.)

Most of the time I stood over by the bus stop, away from the theater patrons' smoke. Of course, then the bus riders lit up. Oh well, I finally accepted that I was inevitably gonna smell like smoke before the night is over; might as well embrace it. Rock n' roll, man!

The sidewalks also contained a constant stream of Coors Field attendees, and that provided some excellent people-watching fun. In fact, my brother and his wife came trotting up at one point. They had already been at the game, but had taken a quick break to come over and see the band. But when I told them that the show still wouldn't start for nearly an hour, they went back to the stadium. I would've done the same.

Finally, they opened the ticket window, and I handed over my cash. Then, with ticket in hand, went to the end of the other line, which contained ticket-holders waiting in single file to be let into the building. The bottleneck was a scowling TSA wanna-be, inspecting purses and camera bags for contraband. I had already taken the precaution of having one of the band guys sneak my movie camera inside...so I got past the 1st Gestapo checkpoint without incident. Next came the ID check -- if you were old enough to drink, you were tagged with a colored wristband and sent on toward the bar. By this time, I was very, very thirsty, so I did indeed purchase a beverage. And it was tasty.

But heaven help you if you carry said beverage into the wrong zone of the theater. I sauntered over to talk with Tanner as he stood around chatting with the music fans; and almost immediately felt the cold hand of Dr. Doom close upon my shoulder. "You can't be here," said the ID Nazi. "Drinks have to stay on the other side of the fence!" OK, fine, I went back over to the other side of the fence. But the drink was consumed before the show, and without it, I could go anywhere I wanted.

But the ID/Drink Nazi morphed into the Camera Nazi and spent the rest of the show wandering through the dark, hoping for somebody to brandish a Nikon so she'd have an excuse to use her Taser. And yes, if you're wondering, I did actually start up my camcorder, but didn't dare hold it up to point at the band; I didn't want to spend the set twitching on the floor while being whomped with a nightstick. I got audio, but unfortunately, no visuals.

Because I'm the father of one of the band members, you'd think I might be tempted to exaggerate their excellence. But you must remember that I have a degree in Journalism, and am therefore 100% committed to objectivity and must give a completely honest and unbiased report. And the truth is that this band is 1000 times better than the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, and the Osmonds...combined! They make Elvis look like William Hung, and the London Philharmonic look like the Hooterville Volunteer Fire Department band. They are the best musical act of ALL TIME!

As a member of the crowd, though, it was a little tough to really grasp the total excellence of the music, since I was wearing earplugs that had been hastily purchased from the Geezer Supplies rack at the local Safeway. (The earplugs I had planned to use were still in the glovebox of my car, which was nowhere near the theater. But that's another story.) I sometimes don't hear all that well anyway, and due to a combination of venue acoustics, cheap earplugs, and the fact that it was a couple of hours past my normal bedtime...well, I couldn't really distinguish any of the lyrics. (Something about cows in New Mexico...??) Nor could I really tell which instruments were playing at any particular moment, nor what notes they were hitting. I'm pretty sure there were no bagpipes on stage, so I'm not sure where that impression came from, either.

But it was awesome! The crowd cheered loudly after each song. And during the music, the dreadlocked Swedes swayed back and forth in time with the music as if they were mesmerized. Though Tanner had warned me that the rhythms were challenging and the the vocal lines syncopated, I thought that all the musical parts fit together well, and that it all flowed effortlessly and sounded good. My conclusion is that guys like Lennon & McCartney, Mozart, John Williams, and Randy Newman all just got knocked down a peg on the songwriters hierarchy. And if they ever remake "Back to the Future", I suspect that Darth Vader will choose Austin Belle's brain-melting guitar instead of Van Halen's.

I'll try to post some of the music here in the next few days. Obviously, my clandestine VHS camcorder didn't capture the same sound quality as a professional setup would, but it's all I've got at this point. Anyway, stay tuned for updates on these fast-rising young superstars, and be sure to get your tickets for their next concert.

Have a great day!