Christmas Recap

I don't know about the rest of the planet, but there was definitely Peace on Earth in my home on Christmas Day. It was a joyous event, as it always is when I get to hang out with my son.

Unfortunately, sitting around the Christmas tree watching the boy open his presents -- well, it isn't really the stuff that exciting blogs are made of. His mother bought him clothes (boring!) and a digital camera (cool!), while I got him a few accessories for his keyboard. And a lighted "Aerobie" flying disc.

Of course he had asked for a real "Frisbee" brand lighted flying disc, but I had shopped at a half dozen sporting goods store and had never seen any evidence that such a thing existed. So I finally opted for the Aerobie, which resulted in one of those moments you always dread as a gift giver...when the recipient opens the package and you observe that one split-second of honest expression on his face (where you know he's thinking "What is this piece of junk?") before it's replaced with the smile and the semi-sincere "Gee, this is swell" expression of gratitude.

We've all been through that, haven't we? You're expecting a Rolex, but you get a Timex. Or you're expecting Coke and you get (yuck!) Pepsi. You can't complain, though, because it's a gift...and you've been taught to be polite and thankful. But on the inside, you're wondering the same thing that Van Gogh's girlfriend must've thought. What in the heck were you thinkin', Dude?

I can count on Tanner's honesty about such things, though, so it was no surprise when he said "Geez, Dad, you are SO totally LAME! Only a pinhead of galatic proportions could've make such a moronic mistake! Do you see the word "Frisbee" printed anywhere on this grotesque abomination? Do you? Well, I don't. It's not a Frisbee at all, is it? Hmph. Good lord, Dad, I've tried to teach you something in these past 19 years...tried to help you develop judgment and intelligence, but I can clearly see that it's all been wasted effort. Wasted! Geez!" And with that, he stormed out of the room.

Well, OK, that's not really what happened. (I told you that Christmas was boring, didn't I?) What he actually said was that he was familiar with the Aerobie, and while the Frisbee would've been his number one preference, he was looking forward to learning the subtleties of this particular alternative. So we took it outside and threw the thing around for a while. 'Twas great fun.

Now, this next item may not seem to be related to that topic, but stick with me for a minute. Back in the 80s when my brother was living in Costa Rica and training as a bodybuilder, he provided me with a lot of information about the ways muscles develop, and about the various ways to ensure that every fiber of one's anatomy received the proper attention in the weight room. Since then, I have taken care to make sure that I incorporate these principles into my weightlifting. I try to mix up the exercises and use techniques to stress each and every muscle group for a well-rounded fitness effect. I'm not trying to look like Lou Ferrigno or anything, but I had thought that I was in pretty good overall condition for just about any type of exercise.

So, I didn't think much about it when Tanner and I went over to the park to toss the Aerobie around. I felt fine — until an hour or so after we finished; then I realized that my frisbee-flingin' shoulder was going to be really, really sore. Uh oh.

But the bottom line is that I had fun with my kid, and I learned a bit more about how to throw. And throughout the day I was constantly reminded how wonderful Christmas can be, and how thankful I am for what I have.

Oh, and if that wasn't enough -- he gave both his mom and I copies of "A Tanner Heggy Christmas" CD, which was a recording of him playing a bunch of his favorite Christmas songs. It'll be available in stores at some point in the future, but when he put it on the stereo as we sat around the tree, he decided he didn't like the mix all that well and took it back to rework some of the EQ. So I guess I still don't actually have my Christmas present from him. But I will, and I might even post a song or two here, so stay tuned.

At the end of the day, though, my focus shifted to packing for our trip to New Mexico. We still don't have any concrete plans beyond visiting the UFO Museum in Roswell, but we'll wing it as we travel, and are sure to pass some other points of interest. I'll let you know about it when we get back. But there will be a week or so without blogs, for which I shall apologize in advance.

In any case, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas, and will enjoy the remainder of 2008, as well as the celebration of the new year. I have a feeling that 2009 is going to be an outstanding year, and I look forward to discussing it with you as it unfolds. Thank you for your patronage this year, my friends, and have a great week!

See you next year!

Merry Christmas!

Is the word "Jolly" used at any other time of the year. We use it to describe St. Nicholas, and to rhyme with "holly", but seriously, when else does it ever make an appearance? It's kinda sad, because it's a pefectly cromulent word, and deserves to get more usage, don't you think?

Tell you what, after New Years, let's all resolve to refer to someone as a "jolly chap", at least once during the year. The planet will be better off for it.

Of course, this isn't the only word that seems to be strictly seasonal: there's Yule, Nog, Manger, Magi, Myhrr, and Mistletoe, too. But these derive their seasonality out of being closely associated with Christmas...and have no utility whatsoever outside of the holiday. Same goes for terms like "Wenceslas" and "pa-rum-pa-pum-pum", too, I guess. But even though pear trees and partridges both exist throughout the year, you never hear anybody talking about them at any other time of year. (Well, unless Danny Bonaduce has done some stupid thing to get back into the news, I suppose.)

What's my point, you ask? Well, I don't think I have one. To be honest, I'd rather not think about "Lords a-leaping" even within the context of Christmas, thank you very much. Most of the terminology associated with this holiday is better left confined to a few chilly moments in December, and forgotten about throughout the rest of the year.

I do find it interesting, however, that the only two seasonal terms that have broken free of the holiday and made it into everyday vocabulary are "Scrooge" and "Grinch". Although originally proper names, they've entered the lexicon as adjectives, and tend to appear most frequently in political discussions and during annual employment compensation reviews. What do you think this says about us as a society? Why isn't anybody complimenting the good deeds people perform by saying "Dude, you're a regular Magi! Way to distribute the Frankincense, man!"? Wouldn't that be cool?

Oh well, linguistics aside, I really do hope that you all enjoy this special time, and can share some joy and "jolly" attitudes with the ones you love the most. Have a spectacular time, and a very Merry Christmas!

Random Bits

Here are some of the incoherent thoughts rattling around in my skull today:

• My glasses are under warranty, so the eye doctor has already ordered new lenses to replace the ones scratched during Saturday's run. Cool.


• I'm pretty much ready for Christmas. I'm not sure if it's a good idea to roast chestnuts in my apartment's gas fireplace, though -- I'll have to check into the safety instructions.


• I'm postponing the idea of going to Salt Lake for genealogy research; the websites I've read insist that you really need to know what you're looking for...and I just don't have my act together that well yet. (Any bets on whether I ever will?)


• So, I guess that means that Tanner and I will go to Roswell to visit the UFO museum instead. Perhaps I'll finally be able to explain the mysterious patterns that sometimes appear in my oatmeal.


• I wonder if the beings inside the UFOs like to do drive-bys of Earth at Christmas, just to look at all the pretty lights?


• Do birds get confused flying around at this time of year? Do they say things like "Well, that looks like the house I was going to poop on, but it's all, like, colorful and lit up now...did somebody put LSD on that worm I ate this morning?"


• I really, really enjoy this time of year. I hope you do, too. Have a great day!

Christmas Traditions—Last Minute Shopping

No, don't get the wrong idea: MY required Christmas shopping is already done this year. But I'll confess that there have been occasions in the past where I have been one of those glassy-eyed mall zombies on Christmas Eve.

Not often, though. I generally try to avoid crowds, and I'll go out of my way to avoid long lines -- so Christmas Eve shopping provides a double-whammy to my introverted activity system. Not to mention the stress provided by the noisy shoppers, empty shelves, and the self-esteem damage of not having been able to figure the whole thing out before then.

But sometimes, even after the nominally required shopping is complete, I might think of one more little item that would be a nice stocking stuffer or a pleasant add-on to the gifts already under the tree. After all, the pleasure in shopping is about making your loved ones happy, and if an opportunity pops up to do a better job of that, well, you have to go with it.

After Sunday's rather brutal swim practice, Tanner and I went out to lunch. As always seems to happen when I'm with him, the conversation wandered all over the place, from quantum mechanics to Donny & Marie, and beyond. During the course of that free-wheeling conversation, he mentioned something that gave me an idea for some potential supplementary shopping.

We needed to go to the mall anyway, since I had to get my glasses repaired after losing a frame screw during my run on Saturday. That part of the trip was pretty easy -- the dude at Lenscrafters replaced the screw and cleaned the lenses for no charge. (Couldn't get the scratches out, but that's a topic for another day. So is the subject of how an extremely polite and helpful serviceperson can still totally creep you out, just because he has a haircut that looks like it belongs on a CSI psycho-villain. One of these days we'll have to explore the topic of whether having a haircut like that turns you into a psycho-villain, or if psycho-villains just naturally gravitate toward unattractive fashion choices. I'll probably need some help with that topic, though, since I'm so totally into looking good, myself.)

After my glasses were fixed, we spent a little time just wandering the mall, watching the shoppers. It seemed to be pretty easy to tell the "OMG--Time is running out!" panic shoppers from the folks who just enjoy cruising the mall on the weekend. Something about the eyes, and the jerkiness of movements. It's quite entertaining, really.

And then there are the guys who play with the toys that look really cool while they're performing their tricks in the mall, but would stop being fun within about 2 minutes of getting them home. This year's model is a little fan-powered "flying saucer" with lights on it. The demo guy acts like he's freakin' David Copperfield or something, waving his hands above and beneath it to show that there are no wires holding it up. Well, duh -- it's got a giant propeller under there; of course it's going to "levitate". What he doesn't show you is the fact that he has to replace the batteries every 4 and a half minutes, and that if you took it home it would make a Murphy's Law beeline for the shelf that holds all your fragile Ming vases and stuff.

As much as I enjoyed our stroll through the teeming masses of frazzled VISA-wielders, though, there really wasn't an opportunity to fulfill my own shopping needs, seeing as the intended gift recipient was strolling right beside me. No problem; I'd just go to Wal-Mart after I dropped him off at home. That was my plan, and that's what I did.

Unfortunately, Wal-Mart didn't have the item I sought...but it did have enough of a crowd to activate my "gotta get to someplace quiet before I wanna smack somebody" button, so when I bailed out of there -- I had no more shopping mojo in me. I went home and spent the rest of the day enjoying my solitude, enhanced as it was by the single strand of colored LEDs adorning the sliding glass door. It had been an excellent day, though, and had cascaded into an excellent evening.

Guess I'll have to go finish my shopping at even more of the last minute. Or maybe I'll just skip it for this season, and buy the darn thing for his birthday next year. We'll see. In any case, if you're going to go out into the throngs during the last few days before Santa's arrival, please be patient and kind to your fellow shoppers...and have a great day!

An Excellent Saturday

I was a little worried about my run yesterday morning; the forecast made it sound as if the weather in Waterton Canyon was going to be nasty. But then again, it's always kinda nasty out there, so I figured I might as well bundle up and give it a try. It was cold (high teens), but for once, there was very little wind. I can handle that.

There was one set of footprints in the snow heading up the hill in front of me. (Well, one set of human prints, anyway. At various points along the way I saw rabbit trails, squirrel prints, and a couple of different sets of fox tracks. I was a little surprised not to see any evidence of bighorn sheep or deer. Or yeti.) My predecessor's stride was quite a bit shorter than mine, leading me to believe that I might catch him or her at some point, especially since I was starting fairly soon after sunrise. But 'twas not to be; I ended up taking too many breaks.

I know what you're thinking: "Aw, geez, here we go again -- more complaint about bad knees and decrepit hamstrings"...but you'd be wrong. My stops this time were due to my sheer enjoyment of the beauty of the canyon conditions. I wanted to take a picture to share with you, so I gave up my competitive urges to try to run down the individual I was tracking in favor of creating art. Please take a moment to enjoy the natural beauty I captured for you:Of course, I had to take several photos before I got the composition I wanted. I had forgotten to bring my little pocket tripod, so I was forced to set the camera on a rock and hope it was pointing the right direction. Plus, as soon as I stopped running, my glasses totally fogged up, so I stuck them in my pocket and did the Mr. Magoo thing throughout the entire photography operation. I was lucky that the camera functioned at all, as cold as it was, but everything seemed to be working just fine.

Well, until I tried to put the camera away and remount my hydration pack, that is. When I put the backpack strap over my arm, I managed to knock my glasses out of my jacket pocket, and when they hit the ground one of the lenses popped out. I was hoping it was a popout that left the frame intact, allowing for a quick repair by shoving the lens back into place. But no such luck, the screw had fallen out. Into the snow. Sigh. I looked around briefly for an optician but finding none, picked up the pieces and zipped them into a pocket. I guess I'd have to somehow make it through the rest of the run with fuzzy vision.

Actually, the inability to focus accurately wasn't going to be a problem. The road is pretty wide after all, and other than the owner of the other set of footprints (somewhere up ahead), I had the place to myself. As long as I didn't stray too near the the riverbank, I should be fine in terms of navigation. No, the problem was that my sunglasses were clip-ons...and with nothing to clip onto, I couldn't use them. I'd need to be careful to avoid going snow blind. I'd just have to run with my eyes closed part of the time.

Somewhere around the 5-mile mark, I finally saw the owner of the footprints I'd been following. He was an older fellow, with an impressive mustache, even more impressively coated in frost. We waved at each other and plodded onward. I figured I'd have the road to myself for the rest of the trip to the dam. And I did.

The remainder of the run was uneventful. Despite running with my eyes closed on a frozen surface, I didn't slip and slide too much. I didn't get eaten by Bigfoot. And my hamstring only caused moderate distress. I wasn't running fast, but that was OK -- I was still enjoying the scenery (blurry though it was). I did make a pit stop at one of the outhouses, and took a break to eat a Clif bar, but otherwise, just sorta shuffled along. [A few words of advice, though: 1) Don't count on enjoying your Clif bar all that much when it's under 20° outside. Very tough to chew. 2) A hydration pack with an exposed tube isn't a good drink-toting choice for a cold day like this. After about 3 miles, my drinking hose had frozen solid and I didn't get another sip from the darn thing the rest of the way, despite tucking the cold hose inside my shirt for a while (which is also something I'd not recommend). I did grab a few handfuls of clean snow when I needed to, so I wasn't going to die from dehydration, but having another type of drink-delivery would've been nice.]

The rest of the day was excellent, though mellow. After cleaning up from the run and feeding myself, I talked with my dad on the phone. Then I worked a bit on the Tazmanian Hula video (coming soon) and took care of other household chores. Tanner came over for dinner, and I made scrambled eggs and Spam Balls. Tanner said that if everybody tried my Spam Balls recipe, they'd become every bit as popular as ice cream. I suspect he's right. (I also suspect he's right in postulating that a different name might assist in any effort to make them popular. Hmmm. Perhaps "Cinnamon Protein Puffs"? "Yummy Goodness Orbs"?)

Anyway, if you're bored with turkey and are looking for something special to spice up your Christmas dinner, you might want to give Spam Balls a try.

Or not. Either way, have a great day!

Christmas Traditions—Neighborhood Caroling

Both my parents were pretty good singers. My sister majored in music (with emphasis in vocal performance) so she thought she was a good singer, too. (Perhaps she was, but to my untrained ear, her college-educated voice made pretty much the same sound you get when rolling the rocking chair over the cat's tail.) My brother and I, well -- we were trumpet players.

Still, we all sang in the church choir, and as a group could more-or-less carry a tune. And when the Christmas season arrived, it was always fun to roam the sidewalks, assaulting the neighborhood with our unrehearsed renditions of all the holiday classics.

Most neighbors would politely open their doors and stand on the porch to watch. But a few would invite us in for nog, hot chocolate, or perhaps some hot lemon Dr. Pepper. (Yes, I said hot lemon Dr. Pepper. It was quite popular as a holiday drink at one time. Not sure why the company stopped promoting it. Probably because no matter how much lemon you put in your DP, hot chocolate is still quite a bit better.)

And if any of the other neighbors (most likely fellow choir members) came around singing, well, we'd definitely invite them in...for fruitcake.

One year, our cousins were visiting and sang along with us. For some reason, little Timmy insisted upon singing "We Wish You WERE a Merry Christmas". I haven't seen him in 30-some years -- He's all grown up now, but there are times when I find myself thinking back to those olden times and wondering if he's still a pinhead.

Anyway, it's been a long time since I've lived in a neighborhood that encourages carolers, but I hope the tradition hasn't been completely lost. In fact, if you have any good voices in your family (or not), I'd encourage you to get out there and start singing. I don't have any fruitcake to offer, but I could always warm up some Diet Coke or Mountain Dew or something. Could be fun!

Have a great day!

Boeing Protest

Boeing has filed a protest about the government awarding us the GOES-R contract. Their rationale for the objection is something along the lines of "We really wanted to win it", so another few million of your tax dollars are going to be applied toward an investigation and court case. And to prepare for it, my group has to provide a truckful of documents to support the investigation.

Obviously, I can't share any of the details here -- mostly because I don't know any of them. But I can tell you that I spent a good chunk of the day yesterday helping to prepare the documents to be reprinted for the lawyers. I suppose that there are perks to being a lawyer -- all the public adulation and respect you get when you walk down the street, for one thing -- but it would truly and utterly suck to have to read dull and boring stuff like an aerospace proposal (plus the even more egregiously dull RFP) so you could determine if the deciding agency had made a fair and equitable decision. You would definitely earn your $400/hour on that one.

As an employee and stockholder of the winning bidder, it bugs me that we have to put the project on hold for 100 days while a bunch of druids genuflect over these piles of books we gathered up. As a taxpayer it bugs me even more, because I guarantee you that a good chunk of the ultimate cost for this effort will come directly out of our pockets. And in the meantime, no weather is being tracked by the satellites we could've been building.

Oh well, I suppose the weather will do what it's going to do, whether we're analyzing it or not. And I still have some good friends who work for Boeing, so it's not like I wish them ill or anything. Still, I'll be glad when the thing is resolved and our smart engineering nerds can get back to their designwork and stuff.

In the meantime, we're still working on the next proposal. They've told us that we're not going to be asked to work over the Christmas break, but around here you can never count on a statement like that. We'll just have to wait and see. The good news is that I've finished all my Christmas shopping, have pretty much finalized my holiday meal plans, and am in a flat-out holly-jolly mood about the whole thing.

I just hope that Santa got my letter. (I doubt that he has time to read this blog.)

Keep smiling, and have a great day!

The Science of Christmas

I wonder if today's kids learn as much from the holidays as my generation did when we were kids?

As OSHA, the EPA, and the PC Gestapo continue their quest to remove all physical and emotional dangers from the world, I would guess that we're losing many fabulous opportunities for holiday accoutrements to serve as environmental teaching aids. The other day I mentioned the magical bubble lights that beautified my family's Christmas tree each year -- you can't even buy stuff like that anymore. Though they sparked childhood imagination and gave parents precious opportunities to explain physics and fluid dynamics to their wonderstruck offspring, they've disappeared in favor of crummy little LEDs that don't even have enough wattage to leave a mark on your skin.

Sigh.

Here is a short list of applied science that was visible at my childhood home during December:

• Convection Currents—We had this really cool little candle holder that had trumpeting cherubs suspended on a fan-bladed carousel assembly. As the warmth from the candles heated up the air the rising draft would spin the carousel, sending the cherubs into the path of little brass bells that would ring in a cheerful rhythm as the circling cherubs struck them. Of course, we experimented to see how many candles it took to set them moving -- and what would happen if you shoved a whole bunch of extra candles under the fan blades. We learned that with enough hot air rising, you could set that sucker spinning so fast that the cherubs would fly off and crash onto the tabletop. Lesson: Fire + Crashing Cherubs = Fun with Science



• Electrical Circuitry—Helping my dad hang the outdoor lights gave me my first exposure to series vs. parallel circuitry. Back in those days, light strings were wired in series, which meant that if any single bulb went out, the entire string would no longer light up. Therefore, you'd have to screw a new bulb into each socket, one at a time, in trial-and-error fashion until the lights came back on again. Then came the real challenge -- remembering to immediately throw away the burnt-out bulb so you wouldn't end up trying to put in back in to replace the next one that burnt out. Lesson: Don't buy series-wired light sets.
  
  We also enjoyed watching the electric meter on the back of the house during this process. When the lights were out, the meter wheel would turn at a barely discernable pace, but when the house lit up, it spun like a top. Lesson: If you want to have any of your college fund left, turn out the dang lights at 10pm!
  
  The outdoor lights on the house were powered by an extension cord that ran down to an outlet that was hidden behind the juniper bushes. To turn them on, you had to wriggle behind the bushes and bend over to insert the plug into the outlet. If it had snowed, you'd get snow all over yourself, and would probably be standing in either snow or mud, and the cord prongs would be all wet, as well. Dad, being an electrical engineer, was very good about warning us to be careful when completing the circuit on damp nights. Tempting as it may be to run outside in your pajamas and bare feet to deal with the lights, it probably wasn't a very good idea. Lesson: Perhaps some of the OSHA warnings and building codes aren't really so ridiculous after all.
  
  And one final note regarding electricity. Herbie discovered that you could get a good head buzz by taking a 9-volt walkie-talkie battery and putting both terminals on your tongue to complete the circuit through your lengual flesh. Lesson: Herbie is an idiot.



• Friction—Both the hanging and de-hanging of the outdoor Christmas lights required lessons in gravitational physics. The mounting system was a series of big ol' nails pounded into the home's eaves at approximately 1-meter intervals. These nails remained in place year-round, and when it came time to string the lights, it was simply a matter of prying the twisted wires far enough apart to slip them over these nails. The problem was that the eaves were about 3 meters off the ground, and could not be reached without mechanical assistance. In the early years, the bushes were small enough that a ladder could be used, resulting in many lessons about center of gravity placement, friction coefficients of muddy shoes on icy rungs, and the fact that those small bushes were not anywhere near as soft as they looked when you fell into them. But in the later years, we found that it was easier to climb up on the roof, slide over to the edge on your belly, and install the lights from above. Lesson: Put the lights up before it snows.



• Entropy—We had this funky "Santa Clause in a Throne" statuette that was an artistic representation of that whole "Omniscient Arbiter of Goodness" vibe. I'm not exactly sure what it was made of, but part of it accumulated this funky green crust on it over the years, similar to the way that copper Capitol domes corrode. And if that semi-creepy Christmas icon was enough to teach the lesson of the inevitable systemic advancement of chaos, there was the annual ritual of polishing the silver prior to the big Christmas meal. This "good" silverware was kept in a fancy box with felt padding, and between holiday meals, it acquired a brownish patina that had to be removed with vigorous rubbing and caustic chemicals. Lesson: When you grow up, buy stainless steel silverware. Supplementary (vocabulary) lesson: Learn the meanings of "tarnish", "patina", "caustic", and coincidentally "gravy ladle".



• Pressure & Thermal State Transition—Holidays were just about the only time the mysterious "pressure cooker" made its appearance in the kitchen. To this day, I'm not sure what was cooked in there, but I did finally come to understand the purpose of the device. By clamping the lid on tightly, you create a sealed chamber, in which water boils, steam accumulates, and pressure builds. As pressure increases, it takes more energy to boil water, so the temperature inside could rise above the nominal boiling point of 100°C. This makes whatever you've immersed in the hot water cook faster. It's good science, but it can be pretty scary to a little kid, as the pressure relief valve on top sputters and whistles as it releases just enough steam to keep things from blowing up. You can't look inside, either, cuz the lid is locked on. Lesson: Turkey, mashed potatoes, pie, and cinnamon rolls can be cooked without a pressure cooker, therefore, let's avoid stuff that might explode and sling giblets all over the kitchen, OK?



• Photosensitive Emulsion—I will always be eternally grateful that my dad had a movie camera with which to document our holiday get-togethers. Those memories are precious. (It's too bad he never took a cinematography class, though, cuz let's face it, his composition and shot selection left much to be desired.) Each Christmas morning, us kids would gather in the parental bedroom and wait nervously while Dad set up the lights to film our procession over to the piano bench to see what Santa brought. (We had no chimney, so the piano seemed a logical place to hang the stockings. Santa didn't seem to mind.) The 8mm film my dad used was not well-suited for indoor filming, so he supplemented the ambient light was these two giant airport-runway floodlights mounted on a handheld crossbar. When the living room lit up like the surface of Mercury, we'd know it was time to march out into the living room.
  
  Of course, we'd smile and look into the camera, which meant that we also looked into the Kleig lights, and were subsequently blinded for several critical minutes as we fumbled around, trying to discern what Santa had left through tactile senses alone. At the time the lights were annoying, but in retrospect, it added one of those little unique touches to our holiday traditions that will be remembered throughout our lives. Anyway, it was a big rite of passage for me when my dad finally let me see inside the camera, and taught me how to load and unload the film. We had to do it in the dark (or nearly so), and then put the roll immediately into a can and seal it up with tape to ensure that no more light got in. But even the brief transition from camera to can created a bit of overexposure, which explained why each reel we got back from processing had a big flare in the film during the first and last seconds of the movie. I think it's kinda too bad that today's kids take video for granted, and never have that sense of wonder and awe at seeing their actions documented for posterity. Oh well, I sure had fun with it. Lesson: When recording family events, spend more time on the people than on the packages and piles of wrapping paper. Oh, and don't set the 40-million-candlepower light bar down on anything flammable.

Those are just some of the thought-provoking experiences and opportunities I was exposed to during the holidays of my youth. I suppose that today's kids learn lessons, too (such as how to use the TV remote control, or how to log into Amazon's return policy web page, etc), but I suspect they're missing some of those great and enriching experiences that can only be achieved by close contact with electric, themal, and chemical reactions.

Oh well. All I know is that I'd recommmend that each of you gather the young and old together and talk about what you might learn from the holidays that you can't get from the rest of the year. Not just in terms of stuff that burns, sizzles, or explodes, but also in terms of what Christmas really means, and how those meanings can influence the people we turn out to be. You'll be glad you did.

Have a great day, my friends!

Christmas Traditions—Fruitcake

Every year, my mom would make a boatload of fruitcakes. I'm not really sure what was in them, except for chunks of dates, a few nuts, and these slimy little jellied candy blobs. Since my mother was a teetotaler, I doubt there were any alcoholic spirits in them, but she did set them out to "cure" for a few days before wrapping them in aluminum foil for delivery to the recipient.

That meant that for a couple of frightening days, there were fruitcakes lying atop whatever space was available in the house, making the place look like some kind of baked goods Gettysburg. The house smelled good, and if you sampled the fruitcake during the first hour or so after it emerged from the oven, it tasted pretty good, too. But it looked weird.

Everybody got one—The mailman, the milkman, the paperboy, and even the gas and electric meter reader. The preacher also got one, as did the choir director, most of the neighbors, and even Mr. Roper the trumpet teacher.

I have no idea if any of them actually ate the things.

We did, though. And if microwave ovens would've existed back then, we probably would've enjoyed the leftovers even more. The fruitcake itself seemed to be impervious to the ravages of time, and would probably last for years without the application of preservation techniques, but some of the little colored jelly doodads started to become somewhat, uh, suspicious as time went on. There was no clearly-stamped expiration date, and no mold ever appeared...but there was still a point where we decided "You know, I'm just not gonna eat any more of this," and tossed it in the trash.

Thinking about all this does bring up some regrets about things I miss, including some of the things that are no longer common in our society. It seems sad that we no longer have personal relationships with our postal carriers or newspaper delivery personnel. Neighbors don't exchange food "just 'cuz", any more. And I suspect that most homes no longer have any sort of elaborate baking traditions that involved the entire family and left cakes curing on every exposed surface.

But mostly, I just miss my mom.

Christmas Carols

When Tanner came over to watch WestWorld, he played Christmas songs for me while I made pizza. I have to say that it's pretty cool to have live Holiday music playing in the background while preparing pepperoni. And it's free! (Well, "free", if you don't count the hundreds of millions of dollars I spent on food, clothes, and piano lessons for the boy over the years.)

The best part is that he tried to jazz up the songs a little bit--make 'em a bit more interesting. Some Christmas carols lend themselves to jazz interpretations more than others, though. Frosty and Rudolph don't really shout out for a Mel Tormé treatment, you know.

Anyway, plenty of other people have written about the oddities found among our society's holiday song traditions: from the fingernails-on-the-chalkboard madness of the annoying "pear tree" song, to the frightening big-brother paranoia that comes from awareness that some dude "knows when you are sleeping, and knows when you're awake". So I won't go into any rants about why God would need to rest any merry gentlemen or why oriental kings need to smoke rubber cigars, etc. And don't get me started on the barking dogs, singing cows, and all the various barnyard vocalizations we're subjected to during this time of year, either.

Pa rumpa pum pum.

No, you won't get any critical words from me on this particular topic. The fact is that I love Christmas music! I love hearing a million different versions of the same song, and I love the cheery spirit that goes along with the whole concept of caroling. In fact, if you hang around with me at all during the next week, you might even get to listen to me sing! Now, that would guarantee that you'll have a great day, right?

WestWorld

Yul is cool.

And since I've been hearing people talking about "Yul-tide carols" and "Yul-logs" at this time of year, I decided that I'd enjoy watching a movie with Yul Brenner in it. I checked out "WestWorld" at the library, and talked Tanner into joining me to watch it. (That, in itself, is significant. Normally, he refuses to even acknowledge the existence of anything that predates "Rage Against the Machine", but he agreed to indulge his old man this one time, probably just out of Christmas spirit. Or out of guilt for not yet getting a job.)

I remember enjoying this movie when it first came out, from its catchy promo line "Where nothing can go WORNG!" to the snazzy black cowboy duds that Yul Brenner wore. I've always liked Richard Benjamin, and also remember liking James Brolin at the time (before I learned what a pinhead he actually is). I had forgotten that Dick Van Patten was the badass sheriff, though, and that Keanu Reeves played the Black Knight.

Just kidding. But don't you think Reeves would make a dandy robot? Perhaps this is an idea for the inevitable remake, ya think? "Like, totally slap leather, sidewinder-type dude."

Anyway, I was interested in seeing Tanner's reactions to a couple of different elements. One was whether the tension I felt when I saw this flick in the 70s was still evident to someone who had grown up with "Terminator", "Lord of the Rings", and those terrifying Teletubbies. The other was how dated it would appear to be, since it was set in the future, inside an amusement park based on the past.

From his reaction, I'd say the tension still works a bit (although not at the intensity level of say, an alien exploding from your chest) -- He didn't completely fall asleep during the movie. And regarding the fact that it was 70s vintage (and therefore tautologically lame), he said that the most noticable anachronisms were the poofy man-hair (and mustaches), the "future" computer lab with monochrome monitors and gigantic banks of randomly blinking lights and reel-to-reel tapes, and the directorial technique of leaving the camera in one place for more than half a second at a time.

But no matter how you analyze the changes in fashion and filmmaking styles, one thing remains clear. Yul Brenner could walk with his thumbs tucked into his belt better than anyone else. The dude shoulda won an Oscar for pure menacing attitude alone, but when you throw in that look of tortured robotic confusion he exhibits when Benjamin is standing in the torch's heat glow...well, it's an acting tour-de-force. He should have easily beaten Jack Lemon (who won for "Save the Tiger", even though that movie didn't have any tigers in it at all).

Anyway, the point is that while watching old movies may not be the very best way to do the male bonding thing between a 19-year-old cynic and his slightly older parental unit, a good robot-cowboy-gone-berserk movie is probably not a bad choice for a way to spend the afternoon together with your kid. I really enjoyed it!

The next question is: Do you think he'd agree to watch "The Wild Bunch" with me? I'll let you know. In the meantime, have a great day!

Office Luncheon

Another year of devoted service to the company, and another complimentary coffee mug to show for it.

We had our annual Department Holiday Luncheon yesterday, and it was swell! I was hoping it would be a Mexican buffet as it had been in years past, but I guess there are folks who complained that steaming piles of goopy beans, rice and cheese don't adequately represent the spirit of Santa Claus or something. Anyway, we had roast beast and salmon this year. And it was very tasty.

The boss made a short speech and gave away some door prizes. (Every single person at my table received one -- except me, dadgummit!) Unlimited desserts were available (but the chocolate cake was a tad dry). And there were plenty of opportunities to socialize with departmental folks you don't normally spend time with (but nobody did). Most conversations I overheard seemed to be about work, holiday plans, and whether or not the auto industry should be bailed out. (Concensus seemed to indicate that the government shouldn't interfere in Capitalism: everybody really likes their Japanese cars.)

Anyway, the highlight of the luncheon was being away from the office for an hour. And getting a box of See's Candy as a parting gift. (Personally, I prefer Heggy's Candy, but my opinion was not solicited on the matter.) As previously mentioned, we also received a nice coffee mug with a nice illustration on one side and a garishishly large department logo on the other. It's very nice, but since I don't drink hot liquids I'm afraid that it will join its previous commemerative-item ceramic brethren in being re-gifted, donated to some coffee-guzzling homeless guy, or simply tossed in the trash. (I wonder what percentage of landfill material is made up of giveaway logo merchandise?)

On the other hand, if you are an avid coffee mug collector, please contact me before my next housecleaning binge, and I'll be happy to pass this one along to you. If you're like me, though, and would prefer a second box of chocolates to another useless promotional cup, then please join me in lobbying for candy to become the standard giveaway item. (But not those really hard & chewy ones that have bits of figs in them or whatever -- those are nasty.)

Christmas Traditions—The Tree

Today begins a sporadic series of recollections about Christmases past, wherein I shall attempt to describe my some of my family's least-traumatic holiday traditions. I suspect that my early youth was not unlike those of most of my contemporaries. Pretty Cleaver-esque -- and not all that far removed from "It's a Wonderful Life", except that we didn't have any cranky wheelchair-driving misers trying to destroy us.

Without the benefit of a Hollywood budget for writers and wardrobe, my dad may have lacked Ward Cleaver's flair for turning a lost dime into a major life lesson, and my mom didn't always match June's elegant kitchen fashionability. And come to think of it, I didn't have any friends like Eddie Haskell, either. (Herbert the Pervert didn't get that nickname until we were in high school; he was just "Herbie" back then.) But otherwise, we pretty much fit the middle America family mode. We got a tree every Christmas, and decorated the crap out of it.

During that timespan, there were two years where we got a "live" tree, which was a small blue spruce with one of those big upside-down-tootsie-pop root balls on it. We stuck it in a big galvanized tub and hauled it into the living room, same as we'd do with a chopped-down tree. We'd decorate it the same, too -- the only difference was that the gifts didn't quite fit under it the same way, and when New Years came, we'd go dig a hole in the frozen tundra of the back yard and plant the sucker. Both those trees are probably still growing in that yard, and enriching the environment with sweet, sweet oxygen. Yes, that's right -- my family was "green" long before it was popular. Oh yeah.

Well, maybe that's an exaggeration. We only got the "live" ones because we had a spot in the yard that really needed an evergreen for aesthetic purposes. Most years we bought dead trees just like everybody else. We always bought them from the church lot, where the profits were used to buy supplies for the Christmas Eve "Candlelight" service. (In retrospect, I'm not sure how wise it was to give every single man, woman, and child a lighted flame to carry around inside the sanctuary, but I don't believe anything other than wax ever got burned. I do remember my brother and I daring each other to drip the hot wax onto our hands...and how cool we thought it was to have that extra layer of "fake skin" that the wax coating provided. It stung a bit when it hit the flesh, but it cooled quickly and no permanent harm was done. Of course, our parents would tell us to stop, but...we were boys and we had fire, and everyone knows that parental instructions have no power under such circumstances.)

As Boy Scouts, we were expected to work at the church tree lot. Not to handle money or anything, but to help little old ladies lift the trees onto their vehicles, and to use our knot-typing expertise to ensure that they'd have to use an industrial-strength machete to release the thing once they got it home. The trees were shipped to us wrapped in that plastic netting material that looks like a cafeteria worker's white hairnet, but is a thousand times stronger. They just discarded the stuff after the trees were unwrapped, and I thought "Hey, I could probably make something out of that". I collected a big wad of it and took it home.

A week or so later, I took the wad of plastic into my dad's workshop in the back corner of the basement. I figured that since plastic could be melted and molded, I ought to be able to apply a bit of heat, reshape the stuff, and make my own cool, custom toys. My dad had a handy-dandy little propane blowtorch, and I had my Boy Scout fire-handling skills, so I set about my task with no worries.

Unfortunately, the netting didn't behave like I thought it would. I expected it to soften (possibly become liquid) and allow me to create my artistic plastic masterpieces. Instead, it bubbled, turned brown, and began to emit fumes. Hmmm, I thought, perhaps I'm just holding the torch too close. I backed off a few inches and kept on a-meltin'.

Somewhere inside my brain, though, there must've been a self-preservation alarm...and it finally went off. "Terry," it said, "this stuff isn't melting -- it's decomposing into sludge and gases. And since there's no ventilation in here and we have no idea what those gases contain, it's probably best if you shut off the torch."

My conscious brain of course replied with "But I'm using a blowtorch on plastic stuff. It's really cool!"

Eventually, though, the my rational subconscious won the debate, and I snuffed the flame. I went outside to get some fresh air, and after a while returned to take the remaining netting and toss it in the trash. That particular experiment was never repeated.

The other Christmas tree traditions, however, were pretty much the same from year to year. First, Dad would wrap the lights round and round the tree. These were the big, multi-colored, old-style incandescent light bulbs, of course -- not the tiny little LEDs that people use today. These suckers would get hot! And as pretty as the regular bulbs were, the ones I enjoyed most were the "bubble bulbs" -- little colored glass tubes that contained some kind of liquid that would bubble when hot...kinda like a bunch of miniature, tree-mounted lava lamps. Very cool. (Well, actually they were very hot. It seems like I got burned multiple times each year from scalding tree lights, but a few patches of tender red skin is a small price to pay for a tree that glows, warms, and bubbles throughout the holiday season.)

After the lights, the ornaments were installed. Ours were the very fragile, mirrored glass kind, and were all the same (except for hue). No "custom" ornaments were used -- we had a generic postcard-type tree. The only thing that changed was the topper: one year we'd use the angel, and the next we'd use the star. And once the lights, ornaments, and topper were installed, the kids were turned loose in a tinsel free-for-all. We'd cover every square inch of the thing with "icicles", and then throw on a few candy canes for good measure. Occasionally, somebody would get ambitious and make a popcorn string, and that would be looped around the tree as well.

Packages got piled around the foot of the tree, and the whole thing became the centerpiece for many family activities, from singing carols to listening to Mitch Miller or Steve & Edyie records to begging for Santa-shaped cookies and hot chocolate.

Now you may think that it would be a sad time when the tree was removed after New Years, but that's not necessarily true. We had a lot of fun removing and repacking the tinsel, lights, and ornaments. Putting things away became almost as much of a family-bonding experience as setting it up. It was all good, and it started the process of looking forward to the next December when we'd get to do it all again. It was never about the tree -- it's about the people.

Anyway, my friends, I hope that you and your families all have an excellent time with the holidays, and can enjoy whatever tree traditions you might have. And if you have none yet, well, I'd recommend that you get started creating them. You'll be glad you did. Have a great day!

Track Workout in the Snow

After starting the day with snowplows on the road, Texans driving cars into ditches, and Barb at the gym giving me a stern lecture about how I really should wear a coat on a day like this...well, the sun came out and we decided to do our track workout anyway.

Oh yeah, there were still about 4 inches of snow covering the track surface, but Pat had trampled down a single-track path through it by the time Tanner and I arrived. He had also come up with a proposed workout -- 5 x 300m with a 100m walk in between, descending.

We decided to all run in the same flattened path, so we'd have to go single file. Tanner didn't have a watch, so he went first, enabling Pat to get his times by watching from behind. I went last.

And you know what? It was a blast! It wasn't quite Currier & Ives-ish, but it was certainly prettier than the dull brown color of the dry track. And to be sure, there was some slippin' and slidin', and a little bit of frost on the fingertips, but there was something positively delightful about plodding through the white stuff on a day when nobody else was stupid enough to be out on the athletic fields. And get this: my hamstring didn't hurt a bit, my knees functioned more-or-less like human knees, and I was dead-on with my descent progression. That's the kind of stuff that makes you feel good about a workout!

Of course, we decided to run up the steep hill after finishing our 300s, and...well, let's just say that there was balance-adjusting arm flailing and finally, a significant face plant.

But you know, I'm OK with that, too. Heck, since my very first day on the ski slopes back in my youth, I learned to savor a good face plant into thick snow. It's almost a badge of honor, you know? When Mickey and I used to ski during college breaks, we applauded spectacular crashes, knowing that a good wipeout reflected a genuine above-and-beyond type of effort. So even though I was barely moving at the time my foot slipped and I got my eyebrows frosted, I figured that I was still way ahead of the 2 million other Denverites who were too chicken to even try to run up the hill that afternoon. In your face, you couch potatoes!

Hmm, after tooting my own bugle that way, perhaps it would be wiser if I didn't mention pigging out at Taco Bell after the workout. Yes, I'm sure of it...let's just end this discussion by saying that "it was a good night on the snowcovered field of self-discipline", and leave it at that. Oh yeah!

But if you're struggling with a decision of whether to go out for exercise while there's snow on the ground, I'd say go for it! You might just end up having a great day!

Mother Nature's Poor Sense of Timing

Lately, it seems that every time my brother selects a day for one of our track workouts, the clouds roll in, the temperature drops, and a big pile of snow dumps all over our plans. We were planning to run some sprints this afternoon, so sure enough, there's white stuff all over the place this morning.

[Side thought -- why does the thought of riding in a sleigh seem so romantic, but driving a car under the exact same conditions makes you grind your teeth and curse the cruelty of the earth and its unforgiving seasons? A pox upon thee, o foul axial tilt!]

Regardless of precipitation, though, I'm not going to meet my weight-loss goals if I don't do some kind of exercise tonight. If track practice is cancelled, I suppose I can ride my bike on the trainer again. But Pat is not afraid of challenges, so perhaps he'll applaud the idea of hitting the track, snowbound though it may be. If the sky has cleared up by then, I think that would be my preference.

He's got spikes, though, and my running shoes are not especially traction-oriented. I could be slipping around on the ice, like Socrates and Ghengis Khan on the San Dimas mall hockey rink. But it might be worth giving it a shot. Perhaps it'll give me something to write about tomorrow.

If you don't hear from me, though, send out the St. Bernards. And have a great day!

Nothing to show for it

I had a productive and enjoyable weekend, but I'm afraid that other than having the laundry baskets empty, I have no tangible results to show for all my hard work.

Oh sure, I made progress on the videos I'm editing, and on my dad's autobiography...but "progress" doesn't have any concreteness to it, does it? When my brother is working on the house he's remodeling, he can see whether it's been painted or not, or whether the previous owner's "Hasselhoff Shrine Nook" has been reduced to splinters. When you go shopping for a new Sousaphone, you'll likely come home with the ability to play oom-pah-pah drinking songs. But when you edit stuff without completing it, all you have to show for it is a different number in the "file size" column. Boring.

Of course, there will come a time when I'll have a complete book to share with the world, and a complete video to post on YouTube. Then I'll feel productive. But this weekend produced no such results, so I'm feeling about as useless as a leaky zeppelin or a Congressman. Sigh.

Oh, and I also worked hard at swim practice -- so perhaps my muscles grew by some microscopic increment or my lung capacity increased by a few molecules. But again, there's nothing I can point to and say "See?". Oh well. The important thing is to maintain a positive attitude and to keep plugging away, making progress in some small way each and every day. And I am doing that.

Really.

No, seriously.

Oh all right, Mr. Skeptical-pants. I'll just have to finish one of the videos and post it. You'll see. Any day now...

Thoughts About Running

I did my normal Saturday run at Waterton yesterday, and as usual it contained elements of "Hey, I'm really running and it feels great!" alongside thoughts of "Shoot me now, please!"

Most of the "shoot me" thoughts came early in the run, where the road was muddy and slippery, and my knees were belligerent. Until I'm warmed up and loose, each footstep can send shooting pain from the knee up my femur, through my torso, and into my brain. And when you add in the loss of traction and extra shoe-weight that comes with muddy conditions, well, a rational person would begin to question the activity altogether.

Ah, but rationality has no place in my internal universe, and I reject all forms of logic. Instead, I continue to run, content in the knowledge that while my form may elicit laughter and derision from independent observers, and my knees may swell to the size of coconuts...at least I'm burning off the calories from last night's chocolate binge.

The good news is that I got better. After a couple of miles, I loosened up and ran more or less like a normal person. As I plodded along, though, I thought about my "real" runner friends, and how they all just seem to float along the road, gaily chatting and laughing, nonchalantly cranking out the miles as if it's something they'd do even if they didn't have a choco-addiction.

In fact, today is the day my friend Katie is running the California International Marathon...and she's doing it for fun! That's 26.2 miles, twice as far as I ran yesterday, and she'll do the whole thing at a faster pace than my quickest mile. Then there's Sue, who runs 50-milers for fun, and would probably want to go climb a mountain afterwards. And they make it look so easy!

And when it's easy, staying in shape is fun! That's my goal then: to use the inspiration from my smooth-running, make-it-look-easy friends/running mentors to reach a point where I can look forward to running in the same way I look forward to my swimming workouts. Oh sure, I'd like to be able to do another marathon at some point, but I'm not going to obsess about that. I just want to work hard enough to reach a point where it's no longer such hard work.

So...remind me of that the next time I start whining about my knees or whatever, OK? Instead of being jealous of their style, ease, and expertise, I just need to try to imitate them the best that I can.

Well, either that or stop eating so much, so I wouldn't have so many calories to burn. Hmm. I'll let you know which option I decide to go for.

Flannel Nightmares

OK, "Flannel Nightmares" may not be quite correct as a title for today's blathering; it makes it sound like I'm about to launch into a fashion critique of poorly-designed pajamas or something, and that's not even close. And it's not the fabric itself that gives me nightmares, either. I'm not really frightened of any particular cloth, except for maybe stuff that's been printed with "Hello Kitty" designs -- those things totally creep me out.

No, today's discussion is about the fact that I seem to have much more vivid and memorable dreams during the winter time, after I put flannel sheets and my fleece blanket on the bed. I don't know if it's something to do with static electricity that's generated by the interaction between the fabric layers, or if it's because I'm so toasty warm under the covers while it's so frosty cool on the outside of my cocoon. I'm sure that the people who study such things make a lot more money than I do, so I'll leave it to others to discover the science behind it. My job is just to report the effects.

Anyway, I'd be interested to know if this phenomenon happens to anyone else. In the months where I'm not all bundled up under all these covers, I tend to dream about swim meets, baseball games, and streetcorner political conversations with Al Trautwig, Reggie Rivers, or Isaac Newton. Normal enough stuff.

But I can tell that things are getting weird when people like Benicio del Toro and John Goodman start showing up. I wouldn't say that I actually get frightened...but those dreams are certainly more unsettling.

For example, I recently had a dream where I was part of an elaborate plot to ambush and eliminate the entire cast of the TV show, "Heroes". I was setting up a party at Stately Wayne Manor to bring them all together, and there was supposed to be this huge Kill-Bill-style swordfight massacre, except that I must've been plotting some sort of double-cross because I gave Nikki one of those round knife-sharpener things you get in one of those wood-block kitchen knife sets instead of the short sword/dagger she thought she was getting.

Zorro was there, too.

I woke up when somebody started making noise outside my bedroom window, but I found that I was humming a Weird Al song that I think might've been the motivation for the swordfight dream in the first place. Normally, when I wake up from a dream I might remember a few vague details -- there was a cat, or Walter Cronkite was wearing a spacesuit...stuff like that. But when I'm warm, I remember vivid specifics -- the third button of Sylar's shirt was a lighter shade of puce than the others, or Hiro pronounced "arregato" the way Styx did in "Mr. Roboto", which is just wrong.

The worst part is that I always seem to wake up right before something exciting is going to happen, and I have this feeling that I missed the best part. It's like having to listen to one of Yoda's boring "there is no try" speeches and missing the part where he lifts the X-wing out of the mud.

Oh well, at least I get some entertainment value out of my flannel-driven dreams. But I'm thinkin'...perhaps I'll pile on a few extra blankets tonight and see if maybe I'll get the samurai action I've been missing. I'll let you know.

Sweet dreams, my friends.

State Songs

Yesterday in the gym, I heard "Sweet Home Alabama" coming over the room's speakers, immediately followed by some lame ZZ Topp song where they say their hearts are in Mississippi. It made me wonder if there were songs that sing the praises of each one of our 50 states. After all, I thought, if crummy states like those are worthy of a song, then surely all the others would be, too, right? Heck, there's even an entire Broadway musical about Oklahoma, fergawshsakes. And nobody likes Oklahoma!

I don't recall ever hearing anyone singing the praises of Wisconsin, or any of the various Dakotas, but I'm sure that such songs exist. It's only natural to be proud of the state you live in. (Well, unless it's Oklahoma, that is.)

Anyway, for some reason it reminded me of an experience I once had at Stapleton Airport. I was about 26 years old and had just returned to Denver from a business trip to Utah. It was a silly trip; the company sent six of us to meet with one Air Force guy at Hill AFB near Ogden. We flew, spent the night in a hotel, and then went to the meeting...where the Captain started off by saying "Where's Eileen?"

"Um, sorry Cap'n, Eileen's in Denver."

"Mm. Well, she's the only one I needed to talk with. There's no point in having the meeting if she's not here." And that was that. No meeting. No reason to be there.

Oh well, I had a rental car and an entire day to kill, so I spent the time driving through the hills of Utah, and even had a couple of hours to spend at the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake, which I enjoyed very much. They had elaborate dioramas explaining each significant event in the church's history, and despite the fact that the plot resembled a really bad SciFi movie, the quality of the presentation was pretty decent. I felt quite well entertained, and got on the airplane feeling better than I would have if I'd have spent the day in a meeting about missile deployments.

When I arrived in Denver, I hopped on the shuttle van back to the parking facility where I'd left my Pinto. It was more like somebody's car than a bus, and I got in the backseat, hoping that no smelly fat guys would try to squeeze in next to me. As it turned out, there was just one other guy who crawled in the back, and then, just as the driver was about to pull out, another fellow jumped in the shotgun seat.

OK, fine, I wasn't crowded, and it was only a few miles to the lot; perhaps I could shut my eyes and relax for a bit.

But no. As the van pulled away from the island, the guy in the front seat started singing! And not in a "Tourette's syndrome, I-can't-help-myself" kind of way, either, but with full Jim Nabors volume. "If I had a wagon, I would...GO to Colorado -- GO to Colorado!", and so on. Good lord! What is wrong with this dude? Is he high or something?

Both the driver and the other passenger appeared as nonplussed as I was. What the heck do you do when some bozo just starts cranking out a song in a public minivan? I had no idea. Just listen, I guess.

The thing was -- well, the thing was that it was kindof a catchy song, recognizing the appeal of Colorado, etc., and I was glad to be home. Plus, the dude had an excellent voice. And he was so...enthusiastic!

It doesn't seem like a few verses of a sugary "gosh, golly, gee I like this place" song would give one enough time to go from a cynical "How can I make this guy shut up?" attitude to "Dude, you totally made my day!", but it did. By the last verse (If I had a spaceship...), we were all singing along. And everybody shook the man's hand and thanked him for the song when we unloaded the van. Huge smiles all around. My suitcase seemed lighter, the sun seemed brighter, and it struck me just how infectious a positive attitude could be.

I learned a couple of big lessons that day. One was that if you're going to embarrass yourself in public, go ahead and do it with gusto! And another one was that it's a pretty cool thing to spread a little joy among strangers.

No, I can't say that I've followed in this inspiring man's footsteps; to this day, I've never started a sing-along on a shuttle bus. But I think about it sometimes, and it makes me smile and feel just a tiny bit better about the world and the people in it. And I hope there are times when I spread a little part of that feeling around to the folks around me.

Anyway, my advice for you is this, my friends: If you feel like singing, do it! And you know, it's OK to dance a little bit as you walk down the street, too. Try it! Trust me, you'll have a great day!

Sitting (ouch!) on the Bike Trainer

My road bike is a Specialized Roubaix Comp, a sweet, carbon-fiber, lightweight and comfortable machine. It has special body-friendly features, like thick padding on the handlebars and this little rubber thingy embedded in the fork that's supposed to stop vibration. I love riding it, and can sit on the thing for hours with only moderate discomfort.

Before I got the Specialized, though, I had been riding a 1960s-vintage Mirella racing bike. I bought it from a classified ad back in the early 80s (when it was already old)...but it had full Campagnolo components, a lightweight frame, and some zippy sew-up wheels. It looked like crap even back then, but it was inexpensive, too ugly to be stolen, and faster than bikes costing thousands more. I rode it in triathlons, century rides, and even used it to commute to work. Putting it on a trainer allowed me to keep riding it, even when I couldn't get out on the road. And since I already had it mounted on the trainer when I bought the new bike, I've just kept it there to serve as the outlet for all my indoor cycling needs.

Since the ol' Mirella is already mounted on the trainer, it's quite convenient; all I have to do is fill up the water bottle, put on my shoes, grab a towel for perspiration, and jump on the pedals. (Well, and turn on the TV and set it to display captions; it's too loud if I turn it up high enough to be heard over the drone of the trainer and the gasping/panting/cursing of the rider.)

But it may be time to change. For one thing, the old bike is nearing the end of its mechanical lifespan. I took it to the shop a while back to have a tune-up done...and upon seeing it, the mechanic hissed, pulled out a crucifix and backed away from it in terror. "This abomination cannot be repaired!" he moaned. "Take it away. Please, please just make it go away!"

I was eventually able to calm him down and elicit a more coherent analysis. There would be no point in trying to work on the old buggy, he explained; they no longer make replacement parts for (cough) ten-speed bicycles. And even if you tried to replace all the worn-out components with their modern-day counterparts, they wouldn't fit the frame geometry...and would cost more than a new bike, anyway. Therefore, he said, I should not even bother to oil the chain -- just ride it until it locks up, and then toss it in a landfill.

Al Gore would not approve of that, but on the other hand, I'm not sure where you go to recycle stuff like this. Maybe I should give it to one of those restaurants that puts broken guitars and old skis and crap like that on the walls. Or maybe just leave it unlocked in a downtown bike rack and let it become some stupid thief's problem.

But as of today, the wheels still spin, the gears still shift, and the handlebars still support my cake-inflated body mass. Yet even though the Mirella still functions, I am still tempted to just go ahead and put the Specialized on the trainer, instead. After all, the Mirella was built in an era where bicycle racing seats were designed with the philosophy "the harder, the better", and gearshift levers were attached to the tube at that convenient position right between your ankles. (Seriously, what design engineer decided that shifting gears would be enhanced by removing your hands from the bars and reaching down between your flailing knees? I wonder how many crashes have occured in the midst of that ill-conceived act?) Plus the frame is actually too small for me, meaning that my weight isn't correctly distributed. This was acceptable in my racing days -- the small frame weighed less than a properly fitted one, and it was amazingly responsive. But when I'm perched on the thing in front of the TV, well, the weight and responsiveness don't count for much. A tad more comfort might be in order.

Of course, it's not as easy as just swapping out the bikes. The hubs on the newer bikes are a different style than the old ones, and I don't know if I can make them fit into the trainer's clamping mechanism. I might be able to swap the quick-release spindles and be done, but it could be much more complex than that...and might even require the purchase of a new trainer. And with my lack of mechanical aptitude, even taking the old bike off of its mount is fraught with potential disaster. I foresee the possibility of flames, explosions, breaking glass, and many different varieties of cuts and bruises. Still, if I could accomplish the indoor training I need to get my weight under control in comfort, it might be worth it.

I'll let you know when I decide to tackle this daunting task. In the meantime, have a great day!

Two-a-Days

Through no fault of my own, I've become a victim of the Big-Business conspiracy to promote American obesity. It's definitely time for Congress to do something about this! I hope you'll join me in writing to our elected representatives to demand that they do something about the fact that I've gained so much weight.

It all started on the CRS proposal; the program managers brought in free lunches and gigantic cookies every single day. I might be able to resist things like turkey sandwiches, apples, and salads, but how the hell do they expect any human to resist those delicious peanut-butter cookies that are so rich they bend like a Dali watch whenever you pick 'em up? Mmmmm.

Then there was the trip to Kansas. Fancy dining, fast food, and well, fried stuff. Follow that with Thanksgiving and its fabulous feast, a few meals at Mexican restaurants with Tanner where the conversation was so lively that it required an extra basket of chips, a King Soopers sale on salted peanuts, and then a birthday cake so sweet and delicious that it causes diabetes from two blocks away. There's nothing I could've done: I'm a victim, I tells ya!

Well, OK, I probably could've exercised more. But c'mon...it's cold outside. Anyway, the point is that I've gained weight, and I need to get rid of it if I expect to remain in contention for People Magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive" award. (Hey, don't laugh -- they haven't told me that I'm NOT in the running, have they?)

The good news is that I don't plan to travel soon, Thanksgiving has passed, and I'm no longer on a proposal with catered cookies. The bad news is that it will take Congress a while before they pass legislation to help me, and there's still some of that irresistable birthday cake left -- therefore, I probably need to start exercising more.

I think I've been doing all right in the mornings. I either swim, run, or go to the gym pretty much every single day. After examining the situation, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed to also start exercising in the evenings. Two-a-days.

Ergo, I've started riding my bike trainer in the living room the past few nights. So far, the results are depressing. I haven't lost any weight...and now my legs are really tired all the time. As Gene Wilder would say, "I'm fat! I'm fat, and I'm tired!" Sigh.

Oh well, I have to be patient, I suppose. Rome wasn't burnt in a day, after all. (Hey -- Wasn't Nero a fat guy, too? Hmm. I wonder if his problems were also started by working on government proposals? Probably.)

Anyway, I'll just have to do the best I can, despite the conspiracy between the evil food manufacturers who make their products so delicious and the evil corporation that pays me money I can use to buy such food. Working out in the evenings is tough, but it'll have to do...at least until we can get laws in place to ban everything but celery, grapefruit, and tofu. Let's make it happen! Let's march on Washington! Let's shout slogans like "Nutritious, not Delicious!" and "Ban the Bonbons!" C'mon now! Who's with me?!

Hmm. Not much of a response there, dudes. Sigh. Maybe I'll have to rethink this a bit. I'll see what I can come up with in terms of alternate ideas, and I'll post them here. In the meantime, stay away from cookies that bend, and have a great day!

Happy Birthday to Me!

Yesterday was my birthday, and it was one of the best ever! Of course, when you consider the dizzyingly high number of birthdays I've experienced, it would not be surprising to find that I've forgotten a few dozen of them over the years. Oh well. Yet despite the Methuselah-esque numbers on my driver's license, I fully expect to experience (and possibly forget) another four-score and seven (give or take) before I've had enough.

I'm not going to share the details of how I celebrated the event, other than to say that there was cake involved. And nachos. And cherished conversations with the people I love most dearly in the world. And a trip to the auto repair shop.

The good news is that the automotive checkup didn't find anything wrong with my car at this point. Cool.

The other good news is that I still look decades younger than one would expect given my near-constant immersion in caustic pool chemicals. Who knows why? Perhaps in addition to its well-known properties as a bleach/poison, chlorine also possesses some sort of preservational qualities. Maybe in some ways it's like Oil of Olay...or mummification.

In any case, I feel great, and am looking forward to another excellent year of trotting about this planet, hanging out with my friends, and eating the endless variety of dishes that can be constructed from rice, beans, cheese, and salsa. Life is good, and so is the privilege of being able to write about it. Thank you for dropping by to listen!

Productive Weekend

My weekend to-do list didn't seem all that long, but I didn't come anywhere close to finishing it off. Still, I felt mightily productive, and accomplished a lot.

The further I get on my dad's biography project, though, the more historical gaps I discover...thus creating additional work. He mentions living in California, but doesn't explain how he got there. He talks about marrying my mom, but leaves out any details of their courtship. And even though he was alive when it happened, he doesn't mention the "War of the Worlds" broadcast at all! (Though come to think of it, he did live in Stafford, Kansas; they probably just haven't received those particular radio waves yet.)

So, my dad and I will both have a bunch more to do before we'll have anything ready for publication. I'll ask questions about those gaps, and he'll have to dredge up the appropriate memories (or maybe just make up something that sounds good...who would know?) And I still need to dig up the photos that go along with the text. That project will continue for a while. If I don't have to work too much over the Christmas holidays, though, perhaps we can shoot towards having something solid by early January.

I have to say, though, that I thoroughly enjoyed my Sunday. I had an excellent swim practice, and then Tanner showed up at the pool to start shooting the Tazmanian Hula training video we decided to make. We struggled a little bit with the narrative intro, but I think we got all the footage we needed to begin assembling the instructional documentary. It may be a while before I'll be able to get the editing completed, but at least the shots are in the can.

["In the can" -- That's Hollywood talk for having the footage shot. It comes from the pre-digital age, when movies were captured on this stuff called "film", which contained a photo-sensitive emulsion laminated to a long strand of cellulose acetate. Once the "film" had been exposed in the camera, it was removed and sealed within a completely opaque container so that no further light could reach the emulsion. These containers were generally made of metal, and were colloquially called "cans"...thus the saying. Even though "film" is no longer used, we big-time producers still use the phrase, because it sound so much cooler than saying "the appropriate bytes of digital data have been recorded onto the storage media and are preserved in machine-readable format".]
The problem is, of course, finding enough time to do the editing, record the narration, and add the graphics...not to mention the upload to YouTube. And after that, I'll have to find time to deal with the calls from Hollywood producers, the guy from "Time" Magazine who wants to write one of those "Is he the next Spielberg?" articles, and all the various swimsuit vendors who'll want me to endorse their products.

Oh well, it was a good weekend, so I have no complaints. (Well, except for having to go back to work.) Let's do what we can to see that the entire month remains equally excellent, OK?