Urban Crop Circles

How come only this one season has two names? I know that the official name is Autumn, and we call it "Fall" because the leaves fall off the trees. But why don't we call Spring "Bud" because the leaves reappear? Or summer "Clog" because the leaves and grass clippings get caught in the outdoor swimming pool filters?

And why is there an "Old Man Winter", but no other seasonal personifications? It's not fair that only the coldest time of year gets a mascot. But I guess if Obama gets elected, he'll make sure that Old Man Winter gets divided up into 4 fair and equal pieces -- which would mean that each season will be represented by a sullen seasonal teenager. "Young Man Fall" would be all, like, "Dude, why are you always on my case about cleaning up these leaves? A few piles of biodegradable plant matter never hurt nobody. You are SO totally uptight, man."

Iconic mascotry issues aside, you have to admit that this has been a particularly beautiful autumn. The weather has been mild, the trees have retained their color, and it's not going to snow on Halloween for once. And perhaps it is merely a side effect of the upcoming spooky holiday, but as the saying goes, "strange things are afoot at the Circle-K".

[Insert spooky music here.]

When I came home from work the other day, the sidewalks outside my condo were covered ankle deep in crunchy leaves. Nothing particularly odd about that -- after all, we do have a bunch of trees next to the building. But the next morning when I left for my workout, the sidewalks were completely bare...except for one perfectly conical pile of leaves right in front of my neighbor's car. Obviously, an alien spacecraft had landed in our parking lot and used advanced magnetic and/or antigravity technology to gather the fallen foliage into a beautifully symmetrical pile, most likely in an attempt to communicate to those of us whom they have yet to abduct and probe. I was already running late for workout, so I didn't have time to do a thorough investigation, but I do intend to ask the neighbors if anyone noticed any cattle mutilations in the area. (That would prove the alien visitation theory beyond any doubt, especially since we don't have any cows within miles of the place.)

Come to think of it, I do remember seeing mysterious lights flashing through my window blinds during the night. I guess I assumed that they were from cars driving into the parking lot...but then I remembered that Richard Dreyfuss made the same erroneous assumption right before he got sunburned and started sculpting mashed potatoes. Now I'm convinced that they were from a flying saucer.

One skeptic suggested that the pile might have been created by someone with a leaf blower. But I'd have heard that, wouldn't I? Likewise, I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed somebody raking the sidewalk during the night. The sole noise I heard during the night was the wind, and only a complete moron would believe that a wind vortex caused by the configuration of the carport and apartment entryways could create such a large leaf cone all by itself. No -- it had to be aliens.

I'm not trying to alarm you, but I will ask you to be vigilant. It goes without saying that you should always watch the skies, but this Halloween, I think you should also be especially careful on the sidewalks, too. If any trick-or-treaters start making piles of leaves...or even if they just look like an extra-terrestrial with a sheet over his head, call the FBI. Ask for Mulder.

Sticking to a Schedule...or not

My plan for Saturday was to go for a run at sunrise. But I woke up well before sunrise, feeling (appropriately or not) that I had received adequate rest and was fully recharged. As is my usual practice upon such an awakening, I set about doing household chores. These include doing any dishes left over from the night before, putting away the clean laundry, and reconciling bank accounts. These are not tasks that I'm capable of performing at night; after a full day at the office I am incapable of accomplishing anything more than watching TV and eating peanuts. Well, maybe strumming the guitar for a while or reading a book, too...but nothing that involves detergents, heavy lifting, or mathematics. I am a morning person, I admit it. And while this condition robs me of the ability to accomplish all that the evening people can do at the end of the day, I think the advantages outweigh the negatives. I never struggle with waking up in the morning (have never once used the Snooze button), I don't need coffee to get the day going, and as with all morning people, am much better looking and more intelligent than the nightowls of the world.

Unfortunately, when I wake up too early -- with time to spare before I need to be anywhere -- I lose track of time. I can get so involved in my chores that I end up getting a late start on preparations for leaving the house. That's what happened on Saturday; I ended up spending too much time at the computer, and completely missed the sunrise. And once that happened, I figured "What the heck -- I'll just keep cranking on my domestic activities and go for a run after lunch."

Sounded like a good theory at the time. The problem is that I spent too much time sitting at my desk (thus stiffening up like a month-old breadstick) and ate enough to make me feel heavy and slow once I actually did try to run. Ugh.

Waterton Canyon is a lot more crowded at noon than it is at sunrise. The weather was gorgeous, and it appeared that everyone who owned a mountain bike had decided to take it out for a spin. Even the stupid bighorn sheep were enjoying the road. (I apologize for the poor quality of the photo -- it's actually a screen capture from a video. I thought I was taking a snapshot as I jogged by them, but actually took a short movie, complete with my tortured panting on the soundtrack and Cloverfield-style camera jerking.) The good news is that the alpha male, who usually gives you the threatening hairy eyeball as you run by, seemed content to graze today. He didn't look up, and I didn't have to do my Robert DeNiro "you lookin' at me?" macho posturing.

But I was pretty worn out by the end of the run. Tanner's band had a gig that started at 3:00, so I had just enough time to boogie home for a shower before it would be time to head downtown. I drove pretty fast, though, wondering (as I usually do) what makes slow drivers think that they belong in the fast lane. I got there with plenty of time to spare.

And by "plenty of time to spare", I mean that I got there over TWO HOURS before Tanner's band played. Ugh. The heavy metal screamer band before them hadn't even started their set when I arrived, so I got to listen to their entire set. Only I didn't listen to all of it because I kinda have this thing about thinking that I might need my eardrums in the future. I mostly stood outside and waited.

Tanner's mom was there, too, talking with a friend of hers who has a crush on Barack Obama. I didn't really want to hear the details of that particular obsession, either, so I spent the time just watching the traffic drive by, or talking with the slacker teenagers who were hanging around the record store.

Anyway, the big news of the day is that they had kicked the singer out of the band. Everybody likes Austin -- he's a good kid, and a talented singer/guitar player...but apparently his commitment to the music had faltered. So even though he came to watch the gig, he did not take the stage. Therefore, it was strictly an instrumental show. It wasn't even on a stage, either -- just a small space in the back of the store, about the size of my bathroom. The musicians didn't have a lot of elbow room, so it was a fairly static performance. And as their first appearance without Austin, well, the show received mixed reviews.

I liked it, of course, but I'm extremely prejudiced. I can't help but see the potential they have, and I recognize the complexity of the music. But it's not really going to make you dance or anything. Yet. Anyway, you can decide for yourself:


Anyway, it was a good Saturday, but I came home tired. On Monday, we're back in full proposal mode at the office, so I expect the blogging to be sporadic again for the next couple of weeks. I'll apologize in advance. But after the proposal is over, we'll have the opportunity to talk about snow, trips to Kansas, more music (including the ongoing saga of whether they let Austin back into the band), and of course, the celebration and/or lamentation of our new President and the new additions to the "More Government is the Solution to Everything" Congress. Sigh.

In the meantime, thanks for being patient with my intermittent blogging. Have a great day!

Frisbee

My hands are sore today. Throwing a frisbee is harder than it looks.

After Tanner and I had lunch, we went over to Blue Heron park to play catch for a bit. One of the local real estate agents had distributed logo frisbees around my neighborhood, so I was looking forward to putting the thing to good use. Tanner (pictured above) has been an Ultimate Frisbee enthusiast for several years now, and has developed a somewhat snobbish attitude toward the hardware. "I can't play with that frisbee," he said. "It's too light."

"But it has a real estate agent's logo on it," I replied. "It's very pretty."

"It's a piece of crap. It's flimsy. It won't fly very far." OK, whatever.

We ended up going to Kallas's house and asking "the guys" if they wanted to come to the park with us. Kallas has a professional model disc, and supposedly could educate me on why my imprinted promotional item was not as good as the "real" thing. Clint (the drummer) and Andrew (the bass player) joined us for an unstructured session of "tossin' the plate".

Of course, the very first throw left the Official Model Ultimate Frisbee® deeply embedded high up in a pine tree. No problem: Tanner could dislodge it by throwing his shoe at it.

I walked over to my car to get my extra-long ice scraper to use as a poking device to hopefully retrieve the frisbee and both of Tanner's shoes (which were even higher up than the frisbee). It was a bit tricky, since the tree had a zillion little branches shooting out in every direction, effectively preventing a climbing solution to our problem. But after several minutes of stabbing, shaking, and cursing various branches, we were able to dislodge the disc and the misguided footwear, and resume our game.

Tanner was right. We did an apples-to-apples comparison of the store-bought disc vs. the freebie, and there was a HUGE difference. The good one flew straighter, further, and with less wobble. And not only that, but his claims of our comparative throwing skills were borne out as well. In short: I stink, Andrew is slightly better, Clint and Tanner are lots better, and Kallas...well, Kallas is just lights out. He could snuff a candle from 50 yards, and can catch anything he can get to. These kids put on a clinic for me.

I tried every type of technique, having the best luck with a sort of underarm/sidearm toss, and by the time the sun went down was achieving moderate distance and accuracy. But my hands hurt.

They say it gets easier with more practice, though, so I think I'll continue to play catch with the boys on a semi-regular basis. Should be fun—I'll let you know how it goes.

Ctulhu on the Radio

Tanner's band, From the Mouth of Cthulhu, had a two-hour radio interview last night on Castle Rock Radio. As far as I can tell, it's a web-only "radio" station, but they had a studio, a DJ, and real microphones hanging from those rubber band contraptions that make you think of Orson Welles and stuff.

The entire band was there, as well as Aaron (the band's manager) and a few of their most loyal supporters. The host was a fellow named "Rockin' Roller" or something like that, and he seemed to have a genuine interest in and affection for the guys and their music. He interviewed each of the band members, played each of their songs (at least twice), and tried to engage them in interesting conversation.

Well, good luck with that effort, dude.

As a serious fan of the group, and someone who has great affection for each of these kids, I enjoyed the program and all of the interactions. But as a former DJ and interview moderator, I recognized that the average listener would probably tune out after just a few minutes. These kids are each bright, articulate, and full of fascinating ideas...but (with the exception of Phillip, who handled himself pretty well) they came off as just another batch of slacker teenagers who just wanna, like, you know, play music, man.

Phil's mom called in to the show, and so did his grandfather. Those were interesting and touching moments. I thought about calling in myself, but realized that I'd just seem to be copying Phil's folks, and that seemed pretty lame. I did type in a few questions for the band via the online chat feature, but their answers were short and bland.

So, I guess I'm going to have to use my professional radio experience to coach the band on how to give a dynamite interview. This means that we'll have to write down some biographical information, dredge up the most interesting stories of their individual musical histories, and fine tune their storytelling about how the band was formed and which other musicians have influenced them. They also need to work up a few "unplugged" tunes they can either play or sing at a moment's notice. And it wouldn't hurt to promote their web site, their concerts, and their other upcoming appearances with a bit more enthusiasm.

Oh, don't worry -- I won't turn them into a bunch of obnoxious self-promoters, like some kind of musical congressional candidates. I just want to help them be...uh, less dull.

Of course, I also need to keep in mind that the fans who did tune in to the show didn't seem to mind it's lack of pacing and dynamism. They seemed to genuinely admire the band and their music. One fan from Ft. Collins even said she'd pay a lot of money for a lock of Phil's hair...which is probably a great compliment (disturbing as the image may be).

Anyway, if I find out about any other events in advance, I'll try to let you know about them. The next things on the calendar are:

From the Mouth of Cthulhu
10-25-2008 15:00 at Wax Trax Records - All Ages - FREE!
638 E. 13th Ave., Denver, Colorado 80203
Cost: FREE! Saturday afternoon show with friends iluminado, and CassoVita from Santa Fe, NM.

11-06-2008 20:00 at Larimer Lounge (21+)
2721 Larimer St., Denver, Colorado 80205
Cost: $3 with a ticket from us, $6 without
with Eugene’s Axe, Lions the Brave, and Some Friends Of Mine. Show starts at 8, we play at 11. It’s a 21+ show.

In the meantime, I'll keep you posted on the progress (if any) of our "Enhancing Interview Skills" project. And if you know any big-time radio producers or anything, let me know. Thanks, and enjoy the music!

State Meet Article

Here's an article I wrote for the Colorado Masters Swimming Association (COMSA) newsletter:

2009 Colorado Masters SCY State Championships

The Masters State Championship swim meet is April 3–5. If you haven't marked it on your calendar yet, go do that right now. I'll wait.

[Humming the theme from Jeopardy]

Ah good, you're back. I forgot to tell you to also send emails to your boss, your family, and your drinking buddies, etc., to tell them you'll be busy that weekend. For those three days, your focus will be on swimming.

What's so special and important about that particular swim meet? Why is it SO much fun to attend?

For one thing, it's at the University of Denver. The fun begins when you get to print out your own parking pass—how cool is that? And then while you're walking to the pool from the parking lot, you can have a great time guessing which pedestrians are swimmers and which are heading to the Robotics Competition. (Hint, the ones with towels and gym bags are usually the swimmers; the ones with equations and/or software company logos on their t-shirts are usually the robo-nerds.)

Yes, that's right—there's no end to the weekend's entertainment. Watching the swim meet is amazingly entertaining, but if anyone in your group gets bored, there's plenty more to watch; not only robots, but probably gymnastics, lacrosse, and fledgling attempts at springtime college romance out on the Ritchie Center lawn.

The great thing about the swim meet is the variety and depth of the competition. There's everything from people competing for the very first time in their lives all the way up to the occasional National or World Record. Because it's Colorado Masters Swimming, the meet is friendly and welcoming to all swimmers of every ability...and everybody cheers for everyone else. I doubt that you could ever find a more supportive and friendly group.

But what I enjoy is the opportunity for the head-to-head rivalries. Since the races are seeded by time (not age), you swim against people your same speed. In the distance races they combine men and women, which means I get to race the ladies, too. It doesn't always work out well for me, I'm afraid (Curse you, Nicole Vanderpoel!), but it is always fun.

Last year, I experienced some real grudge matches. Jeff Magouirk and I were within a few tenths of each other in nearly every race we swam. Jeff is an extremely nice guy, and seems to know everyone. He's a member of the dreaded "Bee Gees" team, which (in addition to their name's unfortunate association with disco, John Travolta, and that horrid "Sgt. Peppers" movie) apparently requires its members to forego any pride in their fashion sense by wearing those garish, polka-dotted clown swimsuits. Anyway, Jeff and I have an excellent rivalry going. He'll beat me in one event, and then I might be able to squeak past him in the next. It's fun!

That's the beauty of swimming in a great meet like this: you're certain to find someone to enjoy competing with. And you're certain to make new friends.

And if that's not enough, here are a few other perks of attending this meet:

It's a beautiful facility! The lanes are wide, the water is cool, and there are plenty of lanes for continuous warmup. The scoreboard is humongous and shows all the splits and final times, and there are plenty of drinking fountains. And get this -- the locker rooms actually have carpet in them...and not only that, there's a little machine that dries your swimming suit by spinning it around at a billion rpm! Technological wonders abound!

(Warning: Despite the luxurious locker rooms, the seating area in the pool isn't exactly designed for comfort. The bleachers are concrete, so unless you have a well-padded posterior, you might want to bring a cushion to sit on.)

You can participate in the Brute Squad competition! If you swim the 1650, 400 IM, and 200 Fly events, you'll receive a T-shirt that certifies your brutishness, which you'll probably want to wear constantly.

I understand that there's also something called the "Sprint Squad", but I'm not exactly sure what it is. (I tried sprinting once, and didn't like it at all. Sprinting is hard.) But if you happen to be one of those lucky people who has been blessed with fast-twitch muscles, I'm sure you can read about it on the meet entry form.

You can cheer for the recipient of the Lt. Governor's Cup and the COMSA Coach of the year!

The Lt. Governor's Cup is a prestigious award presented to someone who made significant contributions to Masters Swimming in Colorado. Sometimes the Lt. Governor even shows up in person to hand it over. It's a huge honor, and the recipients are people to whom we all owe significant thanks. It's great to have a chance to recognize and applaud their efforts.

And as for the Coach of the Year, well, I think we all know how much our coaches contribute to our swimming success. Without exception, these fine people are overworked and underpaid—they should be living in mansions, traveling in chauffeured limousines, and eating delivery pizza instead of frozen. This ceremony should probably include a brass band, a chorus line, and plenty of confetti, but I guess you can't have everything.

You can participate in a pool-deck COMSA meeting! This is democracy at its finest—what other organization brings their election right to the pool like this? What other organization allows you to vote while dripping wet? (If they only served ice cream, it would be perfect.)

And if all these benefits weren't enough to convince you to attend this meet, consider this: sometimes they give away freebies! I've gotten license plate holders, discount coupons for local merchants, and even a miniature towel with a DU logo on it. And then there's the unlimited entertainment value provided by the outstanding efforts of the swimmers, the fierce relay competitions, the clever chants and cheers, and the mysterious rubber chicken hanging from the backstroke flags.

But what it really comes down to is this: You work your tail off all year round, trying to improve your speed and skill. This meet provides the perfect opportunity to test yourself, and to verify the progress that you've made. The fact that you can go out with some old friend (or new friends) for a drink or some lunch after giving your best in the water...well, it's just icing on the cake.

Don't miss it. I'll see you there!

The Mists of Waterton

The seasons, they are a-changin'. Saturday morning was cold and damp, with a forecast of more rain showers. I got out of bed expecting to go for a run, but gave up that idea as soon as I looked out the window. I didn't want to risk freezing to death, getting eaten by a polar bear, or encountering any of the other dangers that runners experience on days like this. Like being the least bit uncomfortable.

So I went to swim practice instead, figuring that a couple of miles in the water would have to suffice as my exercise for the day. And it was a good, hard practice. But my buddy Keith was there, and he had to go start talking about how he enjoyed running after swimming, and was planning to go out to pound the pavement after the swim practice loosened him up.

After swimming, I went home and nuked up some refried beans on a tortilla with leftover Del Taco sauce. But I kept thinking about Keith's little speech -- after all, the weather was looking friendlier. So I ended up driving out to Waterton.

I wore long sleeves and tights for the first time in many months, but still felt cold when I got out of the car. Gloves, then, too. It made me think again about the dangers of polar bears, snow leopards, sasquatches, and other dangerous denizens of the winter landscape. Indeed, it appeared that some poor soul had been almost completely consumed; all that remained was a lonely boot, dangling from the fence as a stark warning to others who might be foolish enough to risk running up this road.

Alas, though, after driving all the way out to the canyon mouth, I wasn't about to turn around and go home just because of some silly sasquatch. Besides, according to Keith, I'd be so loose and fast that I'd be able to outrun any quasi-mythical creatures, regardless of how big their feet were.

The sky was gray, and I could feel occasional spatters of drizzle as I began to jog slowly up the road. But the dirt surface was surprisingly dry; not muddy at all. This might end up being an enjoyable run after all.

I quickly discovered that Keith's assertion that "swimming before you run makes you loose" was a load of horse manure. At least for me. I was as tight as I would've been without the morning swim, and hobbled up the trail in my normal decrepit shuffle.

But it got better. I still ran slowly, and did some walking every now and then, but began to feel looser and looser. After a few miles, my friend Katie came speeding up from behind, and would've passed by me easily, but decided to slow down and chat a bit instead. She gave me encouragement to try to go a bit faster, which met with some mild success. My speed picked up.

Unfortunately, she was planning to go all the way to the sign, so we parted company and I again ran by myself for a while. I realized that I was actually quite warm, so I took the gloves off and began to enjoy the misty and mystical appearance of the canyon slopes. I realized that I was having fun. I turned around at the 5 mile mark, though, and headed back down.

When Katie caught up with me again (after having run a couple more mile than I had), I picked up the pace and stayed with her for a while. Then we saw Mr. "I swam so I'm really loose" Keith coming up the road. And sure enough, he was running easily...relaxed and strong. He turned around and ran back to the parking lot with us. (Well, with Katie, anyway. They got to talking, and unconsciously picked up the speed to a pace I couldn't handle. I don't think they even noticed that I had dropped back. Oh well.)

The bad news is that I did suffer from my tight hamstring lockstep problem during the last part of the run. The good news is that it came and went...so there were short stretches where I could pick up the pace and (for a few moments, anyway) would appear to be a real runner. The other good news is that I never encountered whatever had eaten the boot owner. And the foggy damp weather was glorious, both in its ability to keep me comfortable during the run, and for the sheer aesthetic appeal of seeing the mists covering the mountaintops.

Stay tuned, folks. In the coming weeks, I'll have tales of snow, sleet, ice, and the occasional yetti. Should be fun.

High School Musical

As most kids do, I had occasional dreams of becoming a movie star. I felt I had all of the qualities needed for stardom -- PeeWee Herman good looks, Clouseau-like intelligence, Brando-esque appetite, and Andre the Giant elocution...how could I possibly fail?

I signed up for a high-school drama class, intending to work my way up from the bottom the same way Candice Bergen and Ben Stiller did. The Olsen twins hadn't been invented yet and Bob Saget was still in diapers, so my acting idols were folks like Lee Majors, DeForest Kelly and Grace Lee Whitney.

Unfortunately, the drama class wasn't as much fun as I had hoped. Being a raging introvert with self-esteem issues, acne, and a voice that couldn't decide which octave to use...well, I wasn't exactly ecstatic when the teacher asked me to perform in front of the group. I was a sophomore in a class full of juniors and seniors, and most of my classmates had considered themselves "thespians" for many, many years. I was definitely not in my comfort zone.

This was also my first exposure to the idea that "drama" and "theater" were "important" forms of "literature". Heck, I had always thought that being an actor meant that you got to fight bad guys, kiss girls, and dive toward the camera while stuff blew up behind you. I had no clue that most of the folks within the theater community thought that freakin' Shakespeare was some kind of god, and that "Death of a Salesman" was something other than a boring piece of crap. These people took themselves and their "art" SO seriously--it just blew my mind. But the most amazing thing of all was the fact that most of the drama dorks actually thought that stage plays were better than movies.

What planet are these people from?

To me, it is obvious beyond any argument that sitting through the worst Pauly Shore movie is infinitely better than watching Laurence Olivier wander around the stage stabbing curtains and talking to himself. Even the mutated-bug dreck on the sci-fi channel is better than 2-plus hours of watching Willy Loman tromping back and forth on 60 square feet of floorspace while complaining about how tough the sales business is. You just want to shout "Well then, go get a job in construction or work-at-home medical transcription, ya loser! I need to go to the bathroom!"

Anyway, the point is that the high school drama kids were a little too high-strung for my tastes, and I didn't feel that I fit in very well. And after the embarrassment I had suffered from my Barney Fife-quality efforts in the church choir...well, I wasn't very enthusiastic about the assignment to perform a scene from a musical. What scene could I choose that would minimize my likelihood of achieving laughingstock status, while still allowing me to pass the class?

I went with "Trouble in River City", from the Music Man. I loved that movie, and if I could channel even a tenth of the energy I felt when I watched Robert Preson's performance, I should be terrific--with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for Passing Grade!

It's probably a good thing that camcorders didn't yet exist. And since I'm not going to tell you the names of anyone in that class, you won't be able to find any witnesses. Therefore, I can describe my performance as triumphant, scintillating, and magical...and nobody will be able to prove otherwise.

But due to circumstances that may or may not be related to my portrayal of Prof. Harold Hill, I did not continue with the drama curriculum. (I did take the "Fundamentals of Play Directing" class in college, because it was required for my Radio/TV/Film degree program, but trust me -- it brought me no closer to being a real thespian than my high school experience had. There were some interesting moments, though -- perhaps I'll share them with on at some other time.) In retrospect, perhaps I should've continued down that path...after all, I'm still as handsome as PeeWee, and now that my voice has stopped changing, I can sing every bit as well as Lee Majors.

Anyway, the point is that I finally saw Disney's "High School Musical", parts 1 and 2. Part 3 is coming out on October 24th, and I intend to see it. I only mentioned my own background in musical theater to give me credibility as a reviewer of this particular genre of film.

It's a story about a handsome highschool basketball star and a cuddly-cute math whiz who want to sing and dance and fall in love with each other. (Side question: Were the math whiz chicks at your high school totally hot? We had one whose nickname was simply "The Scientist". I'll let you draw your own conclusions about whether "The Scientist" was a babe or not.) The dramatic tension is provided by the self-centered hottie who wants to hoard all the singin' and dancin' fame for herself, and therefore develops a variety of evil schemes to thwart our heroes in their quest for personal fulfillment.

Will Troy and Gabriella win the lead roles in the big school play? Will the basketball team win the championship? Will the Math Squad defeat their archrivals in the competition to see who can draw the most confusing equations on the board? Those are the big questions.

But there are subplots as well: Will the fellow who likes to bake krembroolay end up dating the blond hottie? Will the hottie's long-suffering brother ever find someone who appreciates his flashy volcano dance outfit? Will her parents ever apologize for naming her after a breed of ugly, wrinkled dogs? And perhaps most importantly, will the school administration ever gain control over this unruly horde of teenagers who seem to burst into song and dance at the drop of a fuzzy band hat?

And what the heck is a krembroolay, anyway? I assume it's food, since you apparently bake it. But it sounds like something a terrorist would eat before going on a suicide mission. Am I right?

I'm not going to give away the answers to these questions. But I will tell you that I found these movies to be utterly charming and immensely enjoyable. The kids are charismatic -- every single one of them -- and the music is fun. And I'm a sucker for the romance, too.

Of course, there are places where you have to really work to achieve suspension of disbelief -- like when the two kids (who've never sung in public before) sight-read a complex duet and totally nail it...but hey -- it's a musical. The most impressive thing might be that you end up liking Sharpay (the self-centered babe) every bit as much as any other character. (Perhaps in some future blog, I'll explore the question of why evil highschool girls are inevitably blond. It involves some quantum physics and chaos theory, though, so I'll probably have to have the help of a math nerd -- brunette of course -- to explain it.)

Anyway, the point is that you should rent the first two of these movies, and then go see the third one when it hits theaters. Kids will love it, too. (Well, not MY kid, cuz he's an "alternative" rock star and thinks that any music from, ugh, Disney would just have to be bad. But he also thinks that not getting a job is the best way to help the struggling economy, too...so I don't think I'll listen to him. But normal kids will enjoy this, I'm pretty sure.) So check it out. And have a great day!

PS. By the way, I just learned that "crème brûlée" isn't a terrorist ritual at all, but instead is some kind of hoity-toity dessert thingy where they take a hockey-puck of custard and attack it with a blowtorch until it sets off the smoke alarms. Sounds yucky to me -- I'm a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup kind of guy -- but I understand that rich Democrats, Europeans, and even certain thespians totally dig it. If you're into that sort of thing, well, knock yourself out, my friend. Still, if you're looking for a snack to eat during the movie, I'd stick with popcorn or Junior Mints.

Career Development

I suspect that most large corporations have a similar convoluted systems for assessing employee performance and making salary management decisions. And I suspect that all are as universally hated as the system we use at my office.

Performance appraisals and the granting of salary increases are supposed to be motivational. If you work harder, you'll get a larger annual raise. I suppose that there are some rare cases where the thought of an extra 1 or 2% salary increase really does inspire someone to bust their butt every single workday, but in the vast majority of instances, that particular carrot only provides incentive and motivation for about a week. If that.

The truth is that most people work hard if they enjoy the work itself, have a passion for their department or company's mission, or develop a sense of loyalty to their coworkers and/or bosses. Nobody is going to crank up the energy level for an entire year for no reason other than a potential fractional financial reward that is still based on subjective ratings by people who don't know or care anything about you.

Of course, I'm talking about salaried or hourly positions in companies with larger infrastructures. This discussion doesn't apply to people who make their livings with commissions or as contractors, of course; but in a corporate environment with an HR department that makes it difficult to fire people...well, the annual "merit" raises received by sloths are not that much different from those collected by the high-performance fireballs. Unless you find a way to get a promotion, you'll only get one raise each year, and it'll be within a range rigidly bounded by HR calculations.

Salary is certainly a motivation to keep your job, and to come to work each day, but I don't think the system provides motivation to excel.

Anyway, it's that time of year again: We each have to fill out a form describing how we performed against the objectives we stated a year ago. And since some of the objectives are mandated by the company (ie, "promote diversity"), it might be a little tough to even find the opportunities to pursue those goals. For the most part, my annual statements look pretty much the same as they did last year.

"Worked on XX number of proposals, in XX-type of lead position. Managed XX resources, and performed within schedule and on budget. Yawn. Got through the year without anybody voicing any particular hatred toward me or my work, and learned a few minor things that help prepare me for a management position that might or might not open up in a decade or so. Double-yawn. Didn't sell any secrets to the Commies, and didn't set fire to any important company property."

Sleep well and I'll see you next year.

I realize, of course, that whining about a system without proposing a solution is deplorable behavior, so I am going to offer some suggestions. The most obvious answer to all of the world's problems would be to appoint me as Supreme Dictator With Absolute Power, which would result in the elimination of sluggards, promotion of high performers, and creation of a management structure in which all of the leadership shared my vision of a perfect world and would implement my policies with surgical precision.

I suspect, though, that such a solution (perfect though it may be) is unlikely to happen. After all, if everyone thought the same way I did (with the attendant gains in efficiency and productivity), the concept of "diversity" would, by definition, be thrown out the window. And that would violate not only cherished corporate policy, but probably some number of federal and state statutes as well. Therefore, we'll need to come up with an alternative approach.

I'll have to give it some thought. If anyone knows of a corporate system that works better than this, please let me know. In the meantime, I'm going to suggest that raises be determined solely by swim meet performance. For those who can't swim, we'll determine salary rank via Texas Death Match Cage Wrestling. If there are any ties, we'll have a Jeopardy playoff -- with every category being based on either Star Trek or the Beverly Hillbillies.

Sounds fair to me. I'll let you know if the Board of Directors will buy it.

Fall Foliage

We finally had a chance to drive up into the mountains to look at the aspen trees. The plan was to shoot up a lot of videotape, and then edit it into a documentary about xanthophylls and anthocyanins...or maybe something about DB Cooper, alien abductions and Bigfoot. It would depend on what sort of footage we got. So I loaded Tanner into the car, along with my camera, extra tapes, spare batteries, tripod, water bottles, and all the other stuff that delineates you as a geek, rather than an ordinary tourist.

The tentative goal was to take Highway 285 up to our property at Elkhorn Ranch. We have a boatload of aspen trees, gorgeous pines, and occasionally a few columbines; it's a very picturesque place. And the road up there is surrounded by aspen groves that tend to be absolutely spectacular at this time of year. There's nothing quite like flaming yellow swatches among deep green pinery lining the slopes of majestic mountains, is there?

Of course, you have to hit it at the right time of year. Too early and the leaves are still green; too late and they've either turned brown or fallen off, making the mountain look more like a mange victim than an artistic masterpiece. We discovered that we had missed the absolute color peak time...but not by much. There were a few bare patches, but still plenty of dazzling color.

But the weather didn't cooperate. For the best photography, you need a bright sun at the right angle...and our day ended up being gray, overcast, and breezy. The diffused light made the pictures somewhat dull, and the wind made it too darn cold to get out of the car for very long. And being in "creative artiste" mode, rather than drawing upon our Boy Scout heritage, we had chosen to wear shorts, t-shirts, and Erich Von Stroheim monacles rather than sweaters, hats, and gloves. Ergo, our artistry suffered in the interest of self-preservation.

Still, we had a very enjoyable drive, and did see some pretty nice examples of Nature's autumnal handiwork. This photo is at the summit of Kenosha pass.We turned off on the first dirt road on the west side of Kenosha, which I'm pretty sure is the road we drove up to camp on when Tanner was in the Scouts. It was a cold November campout, where we did a moonlight hike on the Colorado Trail, and each earned our "Polar Bear" patches for camping when the temperature was below 0°F. We enjoyed reminiscing about it.We decided not to go all the way to Elkhorn, though. It was too cold, we were tired, and our all-knowing Congress hadn't yet taken the necessary steps to fix the stock market and lower gas prices...so we turned around and headed back to Denver.

Tanner's buddy Kallas was celebrating his 19th birthday, so the kids were going to meet at his house to drink Mountain Dew and eat Totino's pizza rolls, or whatever kids do nowadays. I told Tanner I'd take him there -- wouldn't want him to miss out on the lively discussions about how cool it is to get older, right? (Oh, they'll learn the truth about that, all right, but why not let them enjoy their youthful perspectives while they can.) But no one was there yet, so we took the time to zip over to Boulder Running Company to get Tanner a pair of running shoes.

As you know, I work hard at running; I train regularly, study the sport with some intensity, and strive to improve my abilities. But I still totally suck at it. Tanner, on the other hand, has never trained in any conceivable way, but can show up at one of our track workouts wearing cargo pants and clunky dress shoes...and run circles around me. By now, though, I'm used to dealing with those frequent blows to parental pride that come when you realize your kid is better than you at stuff -- so my reaction is not to curse him for making me look bad; it's to encourage him to get serious about the sport and see what he might be able to accomplish. And step one in this process is to get him some proper footwear. Which we did.

He's planning to come to the next track practice. I'll let you know if the new shoes make any difference. Until then, get out and look at the trees, have a stimulating conversation with your loved ones about chlorophyll-cycle impacts on the local economy, and keep your eyes open for Bigfoot.

Have a great day!

Eagle Eye

WARNING: If you want to remain in suspense about the movie "Eagle Eye", do not read this review. I'm going to reveal who the bad guy is. I'll probably give away critical plot elements as well. I don't normally like to provide "spoiler details" within a review, but honestly, I can't think of any way to talk about this film without doing that. Sorry.

Well, actually, I guess I could give you a very brief summary review without spoilers: "A fun adventure, despite a multitude of insultingly stupid plot elements." There. Was that a satisfactory review?

Didn't think so. And the truth is that I don't think your enjoyment of "Eagle Eye" will be diluted any by knowing of the details I'm likely to reveal. So, if you think you can handle it, read on.

Here's the stuff you already know (even if you haven't seen it): Shia LeBeouf stars as a typical American slacker dude who suddenly finds himself framed as a terrorist, simultaneously receives escape instructions from a mysterious telephone caller, and spends the next several days performing tasks to please his new unseen master. From the beginning you figure that he'll hook up with the girl, discover the true plot behind the phonecall machinations, and bring down the powerful secret mastermind behind it all. And you'd be right.

As I've stated in the past, this guy has the most unfortunate name of any actor in Hollywood. I'm pretty sure that his first name is pronounced "SHY uh", but I've heard the last name stated as "La Beef", "La Boof", "Le Buff", and even "Lee Bee-oof". He really needs to get a nickname, like other big stars (J-Lo, Diddy, Carrot-Top, etc). I guess we could just call him "Beefy" or just "Shy". Or why not just "Caveman"?

Anyway, despite my discomfort with the fellow's name, I have yet to see a movie he's in that I didn't greatly enjoy. He's good.

And that bring us to the reviewer's dilemma: the "Eagle Eye" cast is fine, most of the action is fun, and I certainly enjoyed my time in the theater -- but lordy, lordy, lordy...this story is DUMB!

I mean, come on! The bad guy has the ability to pyrotechnically disconnect high-tension wires in the middle of the desert, and have them fall directly onto a running Bolshevik? It can predict and/or control the exact disruption to traffic flow caused by two dozen consecutive automobile accidents? Orchestrate the theft of a grade school kid's trumpet and return it to him (containing a device to eliminate the entire government) without anybody getting suspicious? Come on!

And probably the biggest unbelievable plot element: the grade school band plays The Star Spangled Banner in the key of concert E-flat (transposed to "F" for the B-flat trumpet)...and play it flawlessly, in-tune, and without cracking any high notes. Hey, I've seen a LOT of school bands in my time, and trust me -- that just ain't gonna happen.

Oh yeah, and there's a computer that takes over the world, too. Surprise! It happens to be a close relative (aka "blatant plagiarism") of HAL-9000, the rogue computer that tries to kill Gary Lockwood before Captain Kirk finally finishes the job.

Yes, that's right: the bad guy is a deranged US government computer that thinks it can best protect the country by knocking off the President, his cabinet, and half of Congress -- and then giving nominal control to Michael Chiklis.

Shades of SkyNet, WarGames, M-5, and WestWorld, all in one movie. But at least those major malfunctions don't ask you to believe that the CPU consists of a roomful of golden orbs and a giant swiveling eyestalk that talks to you with the voice of the chick who says "The number you have dialed has been disconnected."

I'm sorry, but psychotic computers just aren't very interesting unless they have Austrian body-builder robots as henchmen.

But the motivations of the characters ARE rather interesting. It's fun to put yourself into their shoes to speculate on whether you'd react the same way. Would you fall for the girl, just because the looney-tunes computer told you to catch a ride with her? If you were Billy Bob FBI agent, would you go all Tommy-Lee-Jones "I don't care" on poor shanghaied Shia...or would you give him the benefit of the doubt? If you were the trumpet-playing kid warming up for the biggest concert of your life, wouldn't you notice the detonator crammed into your horn's blow-tube, obviously obstructing your airflow? And if you're the Secret Service dude who puts three bullets into the maniac who started shooting inside the White House...wouldn't you, oh I don't know, hurry to get over to him to see if he's really been taken out?

I dunno. Maybe it would actually be somewhat of a relief to have the all-seeing computer tell you what to do. I mean, just picking out a pair of socks in the morning pretty much overloads my own "personal responsibility" circuits; and maybe it would be somewhat comforting to team up with an entity that can change the traffic lights in your favor, deposit vast fortunes into your bank account, and automatically replace all Mark Udall commercials with the Budweiser lizards.

Bottom line: Go see "Eagle Eye". Leave your technical skepticism at home, though, along with your expectations of logic and plausibility. Be ready to see far more car crashes than any non-Blues-Brothers movie requires, and be prepared to hear a few "this proves that technology is evil" discussions from Luddites in the parking lot. But enjoy the Caveman, and if the "line-is-disconnected" lady happens to call your cellphone, just ignore it, OK?

Have a great day!

Rest and Recovery

I woke up dreaming about using a microwave oven to prepare a hot dog. I can't believe that the dream was motivated by actual hunger; I've eaten enough in the past few days to fuel an NFL team, including the coaches. And if the bathroom scales are any indication, I really need to spend a few days eating nothing but items you could find on Carmen Miranda's hat.

But in my dream, I had split the hot dog down the middle so that I could stuff it with ham. I was also planning to cover it with mustard, jalapeños, and sauerkraut. I have no idea why I would dream about sauerkraut; that is not something I ever eat in real life. Jalapeños, sure...a natural hot dog condiment if you ask me, but there's something about sauerkraut that supresses my appetite. Probably the name: I tend to think of Eva Braun (or sometimes Major Hochstetter) when I hear that word.

Toppings aside, the plot point around which the dream revolved wasn't the food, but the preparation. It was a nice summer afternoon, and several of us were trying to get our lunches made between innings of a ballgame. I think we were at Coors Field, but instead of vendor stands on the concourse, there were townhomes with microwave ovens. My dad was using one of them and Regis Philbin had commandeered another, so I was forced to go next door to use the one that was hidden in the dishwasher.

You can imagine the challenges; after all, hot dogs, ham, and buns do not each nuke at the same rate. But I was confident that I'd have found a way to perfectly heat my meal...if I hadn't woken up.

The real surprise isn't that my dad and Reege were hanging out -- I suspect that they'd get a long just fine in real life -- it was that I slept as late as I did this morning. Since there was no urgent work to do at the office yesterday and I still needed to recover from some late night and weekend work on a very frustrating proposal, I came home from work early yesterday. I won't bore you with the details, but I will say that I deeply enjoyed the time I spent at home, and it was all very relaxing. So relaxing, in fact, that I ended up taking a 3-hour nap. When I finally woke up, it was time to head back out to Waterton canyon for the Sheepherders race. Even though my head was still foggy from the nap, I threw on my running gear and boogied out the door.

I had been doing well on my hamstring stretching program...until the late-night proposal work messed me up. I fear that too much uninterrupted computer facetime had caused me to revert to my previous tightness, and that I would find any attempt at running to be marred by the same asymmetrical hobbling affliction as before. Therefore, I wasn't sure I wanted to run at all. But my brother was going to be there, and we had agreed to meet -- so I went out to the canyon anyway.

I arrived in a mellow mood, figuring that I'd just hang around and wait for Pat to finish. But as anybody with a competitive background knows, it's tough to just be a spectator. Especially when you can only see about 100 yards of the racecourse (not much to spectate)...and the weather is gorgeous. And everybody else is running. And really, when you come right down to it, your leg doesn't hurt that badly, and anyway, it's only 3 lousy miles, and you can always walk if you need to.

So when my designated start time arrived, I put my toe on the starting line and took off down the dirt road.

As my recent running history might predict, it wasn't pretty. I finished dead last. And the last mile included several twitches, hitches, and spasms that would make witnesses wonder if I was being intermittently tasered.

The good news is that I burned a few calories. And my legs were loose and my stride was normal for at least a small portion of the run. After all, I actually saw the guy in front of me cross the finish line, so I wasn't that far behind. All hope is not lost; I just have to become positively religious about my stretching and rehab, and not let conditions at the office dictate whether or not I take care of myself. And since you are my friends and supporters, I know that I can count on you to remind me to stop whining and just do my yoga, right?

Hey, thanks. You're swell.

Anyway, Pat ran an excellent race, and was very pleased with his time. Afterwards, we chatted about politics while we ate tacos, and concluded that the world would be a better place if we were the absolute dictators of the universe. But I guess that's not news to anyone, is it? In the meantime, I am continuing to digitize Tanner's piano videos, so I'll leave you with one more for today. If things go as planned, I might have some "fall colors" photos, or maybe even an outdoor video to post by the weekend. Stay tuned, and have a great day!

Baboons

Last night, as I ate my peanut butter sandwich for dinner, I watched a PBS special about some guy who studies baboons. Being raised in Kansas, I've always pronounced the word BAB-oon, but PBS announcers are under contract to try to sound British, even if they're not...so as I discuss the program, try to think "buh-BOON", OK?

Anyway, the researcher was doing blood tests, checking cholesterol, and making other observations to determine the levels of stress that each baboon was under within their monkey society. Turns out that the alpha male, aka "leader of the pack", had the lowest stress, while the lowest peon in the hierarchy (aka "proposal editor") experienced the most.

The scientists interview postulated that baboon society functioned exactly like human culture. The "boss" orders everybody around and enjoys his position of authority, with finely-groomed fur and extra-large bananas. His immediate subordinates get frustrated with his pompous demands, and relieve their stress by whaling away on their subordinates, who in turn, go off to pound on the smallest and weakest among the tribe.

I can't say that my job is a perfect analog of monkey society; after all, my boss hardly ever physically smacks anybody upside the head. In fact, I'd have to say that almost all the people I work with are unfailingly nice, and head-upside smacking is non-existent within the group. But the part that the PBS narrator mentioned that I can easily relate to is this: It's not the amount of labor or the difficulty of tasks that creates the stress...it's the lack of control. Since the biggest baboon is in total control, his blood pressure remains low. But the other guys never quite know for sure when they're going to get smacked, or sent off on a midnight banana run, or urgently summoned to remove fleas from the boss's big red buttocks. And it's the uncertainty that leads to the tension.

And boy, can I relate to that! The truth is that there are very few tasks in my job description that, if taken individually, are not enjoyable. I like editing, writing, and even document formatting. No problemo. But the fact that on any given day I don't know how late I'll be asked to work, or whether I'll be ordered to fly to Ala-freakin-bama, or am going to be laid off because the government didn't offer the programs we were expecting -- that's the kind of stuff that makes my hair fall out and my neck veins bulge.

I'm not saying that I want to go back to canning Coleman fuel, like I did when I was in college. That job had very little uncertainty -- you just put empty cans on the assembly line, and then pulled full cans off the belt and loaded them into boxes. Over and over. All day long.

Oh sure, a couple of times each summer, the distributor mechanism would fly off the dispenser machine, and flammable liquid would spew all over the room -- but those occasional exciting near-death experiences didn't begin to make up for the endless daily tedium of filling cans and putting them in boxes. Filling cans and putting them in boxes.

I guess what I'm saying is that I like variety in my job. Working on different projects, meeting different people, learning more about the cool satellites that the company makes -- that's all good. I just don't need the annoying "it's out-of-my-control" feelings that come with not being able to plan weekend activities...or even a dinner menu. And don't tell me that I just need to become the head baboon, cuz I'm far enough along in my career to be fairly certain that it ain't gonna happen. I think I'll just stick with the "beat on your subordinates" philosophy; that's why it's really good to be the swim team coach!

So, if you're the type of person who likes to do sociological research (ie, a bearded, hippy-ish nerd who can shoot tranquilizer darts with a blowgun), then you might want to take some statistics on how my stress level at the office affects the sets given in swim practice the next morning. Could be interesting.

Just don't call me a buhBOON, OK?