An Excellent Sunday

I don't think it really has anything to do with the global struggle between economic systems -- free markets vs. government controlled socialism, etc -- but the foreign (ie, Oklahomoan) agitators were prescient: the Broncos rolled over and let the Chiefs dominate them like a leather-clad Janet Reno. It wasn't pretty at all. Fortunately, I was spending the time enjoying a beautiful fall day in the stimulating company of my teenage son.

We ate at Chipotle, went for a hike at Mt. Falcon park, and discussed everything from Algebra to Islamic Jihad. We saw some bright yellow aspen trees, said 'hi' to a bunch of our fellow outdoor enthusiasts, and calculated odds that we'd get rained on during the hike. (We didn't. But that brought up a discussion about when weather-as-a-conversation-topic is classified as "small talk", and when it constitutes actual dialog. We concluded that if current conditions are likely to influence your behavior -- ie, make you run for shelter -- then it's a legitimate topic. Mere speculation about the high temperatures for later in the week is just filler.)

We also talked about what sorts of trivial things should be general knowledge. I had made a bet with a friend that a good percentage of the general public would know the given name of "Granny" on the Beverly Hillbillies. She thought that only one in a hundred thousand would know off the tops of their heads. Tanner didn't know. I'll continue to survey folks I run into, and will let you know the results in a future posting.

For now, though, I'll just leave you with a couple more songs. Enjoy!

Swim Team Party

Even if you ignore the health benefits of competitive swimming, the pleasure of accomplishment you get from striving to achieve athletic performance gains, and the enhancement in your social status that comes from being on a swim team...you really should join one -- just for the parties!

We had an excellent party Saturday evening. Multi-sport enthusiasts Joe and Kristen were our hosts -- they opened their gorgeous, brand new home to the entire team (including whole-house tours for anyone who was interested). They barbequed ribs & chicken kabobs, and the rest of the team brought pies and brownies, etc. (I guess there were salads and stuff, too, but who wants to eat green stuff when there are brownies?)

As you might expect from a bunch of bright and articulate people, the conversations ranged from comparing computer troubleshooting experiences to reminiscing about summer jobs we had as kids. There were also discussions about marathon training, testimonials about nutritional supplements, and queries as to why today's grammar schools take such a horrifying number of days off.

The general consensus was that the world would be a better place if the youth of today would just learn to wear belts to hold their pants up. Amen, brother. Amen.

Anyway, the point is that if you're going to party, you can't do much better than hanging out with a bunch of masters swimmers. Not only are they better looking and cleaner (ie, more highly chlorinated) than normal people, but they're also courteous, unlikely to become too inebriated, and can be counted on to go home early. You will not hear the phrase "Dude, where's my car?" after a party like this.

Instead, you'll hear "See you at practice in the morning." Ahh, that is music to my ears.

And so is the phrase "Here are some leftover brownies for you to take home." Life is good, my friends. Life is good.

Presidential Debate

I confess. I didn't watch much of the Presidential debate last night. I find those things painful; almost as bad as watching the campaign ads. Besides, I think the differences between the candidates are already pretty clear, and I'd be a bit surprised if more argumentative name-calling and chest puffery from either side is going to change a lot of minds.

It really is too bad that Arnold can't run; we'd get a lot better sound bites. I'm sure that we'd never get tired of hearing him say "Hasta la vista, baby" to higher taxes, or that he was going to terminate the Middle East or whatever. And no matter how many times he call his opponent a girly-man, it would never get old.

Anyway, I think the last televised debate I really enjoyed is when Dan Quayle did his famous smackdown of that guy who thought he was LBJ or whatever. I forget his name...McGovern, maybe? Anyway, these things would be far more interesting if they were written and performed by the guys from South Park, in my opinion.

The good news is that we're down the the final few weeks of this campaign. After that, even if we elect the wrong people who further endanger the country, totally trash the economy with stupid tax moves, and generally turn our great nation into the political equivalent of Ben Affleck's career...well, at least there'll be Thanksgiving and Christmas and mistletoe and Bing Crosby music. I'll just be happy to get the election over with. In the meantime, I urge you to feel free to watch any of the future debates -- and let me know if anything interesting happens. If I have the TV on at all, I'll be watching Mythbusters.

Feedback

Here's a sample from my Feedback Mailbag:

"Dear Idjit, you are a maroon, and dont even know how to spell good. Jiggawats shoulda been gigawatts, because that's how the word is spelt, no matter how your "doctor" Brown might pronounce it. Most people say it with a hard g — as in 'good' or as in 'giggity giggity', not with a soft g as in 'ginormous' or 'gnat'."

Thank you for the information, loyal reader. As always, I appreciate the wisdom you folks continually share with me, and I strive to live up to your expectations. I concede that I misspelled the word my faithful correspondent noted, but since I was quoting a movie line rather than something from a printed document, I felt that it was best to go with the phonetic interpretation.

You see, as a creative writer, I can do stuff like that. If I were a journalist, or a proposal editor, I couldn't get away with it. Any writing that I'm actually going to get paid for requires correct grammar, flawless punctuation, and perfect spelling. But for blogging, well, who needs a style guide, a dictionary, or even common sense? It's creative, man...and that means I can intentionally violate any rules I want to. (Even ending a sentence with a preposition.)

Therefore, you can assume that any typos or other apparent errors in judgment that find their way into this blog are indeed intentional, and are done for artistic effect. What appears to be poor writing as a result of ignorance and/or laziness is merely a cleverly-designed part of the craft. When words, sentences, or entire paragraphs don't make sense to you, I assure you that it is your lack of artistic sensibility that's causing the problem, not my boneheaded inability to communicate clearly. Are we all in agreement on this? Good.

Some of the feedback I get, though, simply defies understanding. For example, after I posted my "Go Broncos. Beat the Chiefs" line the other day, I got an email from a fellow in Oklahoma who accused me of being a "Liberal Communist" for having written that. Well, while I will admit that I did spend a misguided portion of my life living in Kansas, I can honestly state that I have not been anywhere near the town of Liberal in the last several decades, and am firmly on record as a tireless campaigner against the scourge of communism in all its forms. And even if there weren't such overwhelming evidence opposed to his assertion, the fact remains that he's from Oklahoma, and therefore completely unqualified to offer opinions on any topics outside of dust, crude oil, and inappropriate relationships with farm animals.

Anyway, the point is that I write with the assumption that my audience consists of intelligent and literate folks who possess at least a passing awareness of the difference between Thomas Jefferson and Karl Marx, as well as the difference between George Jefferson and Groucho Marx. They know exactly what a jiggawatt is, and have a pretty good idea about the definition of a gigawatt, too. I guess I also expect my readers to have a passing understanding of the phrase "Those who ignore history are destined to watch the sequel".

Anyway, keep those cards and letters coming. And have a great day!

One Point Twentyone Jiggawatts

I dreamed that my brother and I had "borrowed" Doc Brown's DeLorean, and were heading off to the future to see how that whole jihad thing had worked out. The flux capacitor was... fluxing, and the speedometer was nearing the critical 88mph mark. I didn't have a radiation suit on, but I had remembered to pack a cooler full of peanut butter sandwiches and strawberry Fanta.

Unfortunately, I woke up before the sparks started to crackle, so I have no idea what my dream self would've found. Would we find a world where each flying car had the GPS factory-preprogrammed to point to Mecca? Or would we just see a bunch of slacker Eloi dweebs playing backgammon. Or would we fall prey to a trio of giant glowing brains betting thousands of quatloos on gladatorial combat among scantily-clad peroxiders.

Who knows? Maybe we'd have wound up in a sequel to Mad Max. It probably depends on who wins the upcoming election.

Whoa. Heavy.

"Gee, Terry," you ask, "do your dreams always have such deep philosophical foundations? We know that you are one of the more profound sociological & political intellects of our time...but we had no idea that you pondered the future course of humanity even within your slumber. It's obvious that compared to you, Plato and Socrates and Vizzini were all morons!"

Well, thank you for your well-deserved faith in me, but the truth is that my dreams more often tend to concern things like bacchanalian pool parties -- and questions pondered therein seem to be less about envisioning the future and more along the lines of "Dude, where's my car?" But every now and then, I remember something that carries the weight of deep philosophical thought, and (despite the Fanta) I think this dream might've been one of them.

I do know what sparked it. Last night was the 2nd running race in the Sheepherder's fall series, and I was supposed to go out to Waterton Canyon after work to participate. In the end, though, I decided not to -- I needed to finish up some stuff and the office and felt that I couldn't run with any fluidity or speed anyway. But my brother participated, so I met up with him afterwards to find out how it went.

Pat did very well, coming in first overall. (That means that under the handicapping system used, he beat his predicted finish time by the largest amount. It also means that his handicap will now get tougher, and it's unlikely that he'll wind up in that position again. I'll have a pretty big headstart on him if I run the next race in the series.) And after the run, he wanted to grab something to eat. Since there's no Fazoli's on the way home from Waterton, we went to Taco Bell.

As we usually do, we chatted about diverse worldly topics including illegal immigration*, the Wall Street hiccup (and associated congressional plans to ensure that free markets continue to function freely by regulating the hell out of them), and whether or not Americans in general are as stupid as political advertisers seem to think they are.

*Is it just me, or is the irony of discussing illegal immigration at a Taco Bell almost as delicious as a Grilled Stuft Burrito?

When he lived in Washington DC, my brother became heavily involved in the "Futures" industry, which means that he made his living by forecasting industrial and political trends and then telling folks what to do to be prepared through the coming decades. Some of their predictions have already come true, such as the need for Diversity Training due to the changing demographics within the workforce. And Pat insists that in the 90s, his research had shown that terrorists would likely use airplanes in attacks on the US, and that the stock market would eventually freak out due to the economy's migration from a production-based to information-based paradigm. (He didn't have any documentation of this with him -- we were at a Taco Bell following a running race, after all -- but I am willing to take his word for it. After all, if you can't trust somebody from Washington, well, who can you trust?)

Anyway, I won't attempt to paraphrase the entire discussion here. But we basically concluded that it really doesn't matter who gets elected or what Congress does about the stock market, because Global Warming* is going to kill us all in a couple of years anyway.

*Oh come on, you didn't really believe that, did you? Ha! Face it, Global Warming is less of a threat than the World Domination plans of Ryan Secrest, or the idea of making a sequel to "Mama Mia". No, the real danger comes from Klaatu, Gort, and various guys named "Darth".

At some point, I'll probably subject you to my ideas about what I think the future might look like, but at this point I'll just remind you that our society does not have a very good track record with long-term forecasts. I recognize that it's far to early to know if "Planet of the Apes" was on target or not, but I can tell you that the world shown in "2001–A Space Odyssey" did not come to pass. In the 1960s, everyone agreed that we'd have colonies on Mars by Y2K at the very least, and would probably have flying cars, silver jumpsuits, and pills that turned into a turkey dinner by popping it into a toaster. Humans would all be anorexically thin, and would have huge bulging craniums to hold telekinetic brains and implanted communication devices. But none of that has happened.

I blame it on Congress's lack of regulatory action. If only they'd have passed laws requiring cars to fly and brains to expand, we'd be living in a Jetson-like utopia now, instead of having to worry about mortgages, terrorists, and inappropriately-compensated CEOs.

Oh well. Perhaps my dream will continue tonight, and I'll then be able to give you a report on future conditions when the DeLorean and I make our lightning-emblazoned return to the present. If there are any sandwiches left at that point, I'll be glad to share. Have a great day!

Diversity and Fine Dining

Some people consider well-refined tastes to be a gift, and something to be cherished.

I wouldn't know, of course, having no refinement whatsoever -- but I sometimes wonder what it must be like to savor epicurean experiences and to get off on going gourmet. Do those folks truly enjoy life more because of their ability to distinguish subtle flavors and ultra-fine nuances? Is there some extra-special rush of sublime emotion that comes from recognizing a superb vintage, or in detecting the exact heavenly texture that says your steak has been cooked to perfection? I have no idea.

All I know is that the crudeness of my taste buds saves me LOTS of money over what my more refined friends have to spend for a good meal. I can honestly say that if offered a $100 meal at the most acclaimed steakhouse vs. a $5 grab bag from Taco Bell, I would take the tacos every single time. Give me Hersheys over anything in a flowered box from Europe. And to me, there is no difference whatsoever between Annie Green Springs and Dom Perignon...and I'd prefer Dr. Pepper to either one, anyway.

Anyway, I'm just saying this so that you'll appreciate that I'm sincere when I tell you about yesterday's lunch. I'm temporarily working at the South Park facility. (No, not South Park as in where Cartman and Kenny live. I'm talking about the group of buildings over near Mineral & Broadway.) There aren't many advantages to working there; it's further from my home, the desks are horrendous ergonomic nightmares, and the drinking fountains taste faintly of botulism and industrial waste. But...but there is a Fazoli's restaurant right up the street. That makes it all worthwhile.

We had a Fazoli's over on my side of town for a while, but I didn't pay attention for a while, and all of a sudden it was a Good Times. Not sure how or why that would happen -- it seems odd. While I confess that I do occasionally enjoy a juicy burger accompanied by frozen custard, I can't say that I've had all that many "good times" at Good Times. But I digress.

As you may or may not know, Fazoli's serves Italian fast food. Other than their salads, I'm guessing that most of their fare is probably as unhealthy and calorically supersizing as any McDonalds combo, but I think it's kinda nice to occasionally mix some marinara into my quick-meal menus every now and then. Plus, they have unlimited garlic breadsticks soaked in butter and flavoring that makes them melt in your mouth and leave great, greasy splotches on any surface they might touch.

When I first started eating at Fazoli's, the store we went to hired some developmentally disabled youngsters (usually Down syndrome kids) to deliver the breadsticks to the tables. I thought this was a great idea for several reasons. First and most obvious, it provided gainful employment for folks who might otherwise have trouble finding jobs. Second, the kids were friendly, motivated, and unfailingly cheerful (unlike a lot of fast food workers you might encounter elsewhere). They made you feel that you were making them happy by taking additional bread, and as everyone knows, food received in this manner contains fewer calories than normal. Third, because the breadbasket bearers had only that one simple job, they were ubiquitous and attentive -- by golly, if you needed a garlic fix, tongs of savory manna would instantaneously appear.

Then a couple of years ago, the store changed their policy. You'd get one single breadstick with your meal, and if you wanted more, it would cost you. You had to order the "unlimited sticks" option. To be honest, I really didn't have a problem with that, since I knew I'd be eating my money's worth anyway. But apparently, this change in philosphy did not end up benefiting the franchise; they have since reversed their position and once again give out the garlic bread ad infinitum. During my last visit, there were no smiling basketeers in the dining room -- you had to go ask at the counter -- but fresh, hot, and delicious breadsticks were readily available upon request.

I don't know if the dining room server positions have been eliminated, or I was just there on a day when the kid wasn't on duty. I guess I'll have to go back to find out.

Anyway, my point is that the Diversity Training I've received at work seems to be making a difference in the way I view things. I have learned to respect and celebrate the wide spectrum of dining preferences that one encounters in his travels. I work with several people to whom a "good meal" requires subtle lighting, tuxedoed servers, a wine list held together with gold-braided string, french names for all the desserts, and Harry Connick, Jr. in the background. Their meals may take a couple of hours, and they're likely to find chunks of lemon inexplicably floating in their water glass...and yet somehow they manage to find the experience enjoyable. Well I say more power to 'em.

But as for me, I prefer lots of light, servers with paper hats, a machine where I can refill my own soda, and a cheerful kid with a basket full of breadsticks. That's all I'm sayin'. And if my favorite meal costs about a tenth of what the Harry Connick plate goes for, well, I won't complain about that, either.

Whatever you choose to eat, my friends, enjoy it to the maximum. And have a great day!

Broncos Football

Some years, I can ignore the Broncos, and I'm perfectly happy. Other years, I watch the games and go crazy with frustration. There's something about watching your team get a big lead and then blow it that leads to premature aging, elevated blood pressure, and a truncated vocabulary containing far too many words that would be abridged from any decent dictionary.

The good news about this season is that it'll probably only take one or two more games before it becomes obvious that the first three Broncos victories were due to odd planetary alignments and/or Vegas oddsmakers' manipulation rather than the talent level of the team. Disparage my Colorado loyalties if you must, but I'm thinking that this is about a .500 team, and one not destined for the playoffs. I guess we'll see, won't we?

It's not so bad when I can accomplish other things while the game is going on. If I can do laundry, balance my checkbook, or fix a flat bike tire while watching, well, I can still feel productive. It's the days when I become engrossed in the game and remain glued to the couch when I feel like I've completely wasted my day. Weekends are a precious commodity not to be squandered...is watching a bunch of large bruisers smack into each other really the best use of my precious free time? Do I really get that much enjoyment from watching a bunch of predominately orange millionaires allowing their opponents to catch pass after pass, so that the game's outcome is decided by some lucky fluke during the last minute or two?

This weekend (if I don't have to work), I'm planning to go to a party on Sunday. (Well, both Saturday and Sunday, actually. But Saturday's party is in the evening, and has no NFL impact associated with it.) If there are TVs or radios present during the festivities on Sunday, well, so be it -- I suppose I can absorb some of the game's details while I socialize. But I have made a conscious decision not to let Broncomania (or any of its viral offshoots, like Cutler Pneumonia or the Brandon Marshall flu) rule my life this fall. Even if the team does keep winning.

And anyway, the next few weekends present the last chances to see the fall colors for the year. From what I've heard, the aspens are spectacular this season, and the hills are practically glowing from all the hues left over from chlorophyll's annual hibernation. I'd really like to get up there to ooh and ahh and take some photos to send to my unfortunate relatives who still live in colorless Kansas.

Oh well, it's probably moot, since I'm working on a proposal -- and nothing warms a proposal manager's heart like ruining an editor's weekend. (If you've never met one, think "Grinch", only with 52 opportunities to steal the roast beast every year. The only creature born with higher levels of innate cruelty is the Government Procurement Officer, who takes great delight in scheduling due dates immediately following holidays -- thereby ensuring that we poor working slobs never get to eat turkey, eggnog, or chocolate bunnies...at least not when they're fresh.)

If by some chance, though, I do manage to escape into the mountains during the next couple of weekends, I shall be sure to provide a report for anyone who cannot break their Broncos addiction and winds up sitting on a sofa instead of savoring the season. In either case, I see no harm in saying this:

Go Broncos! Beat the Chiefs!

Acupuncture Results

I know what you're thinking: "Is there any validity to the idea that sticking pins deep into an injured fellow's buttocks will suddenly render him able to run with a non-Frankensteinian gait? Is one single acupuncture treatment enough to turn someone who runs like Foster Brooks into a combination of Carl Lewis, Alberto Salazar, and Lee Majors? Is there any Mythbuster-quality evidence that non-scientific & mystical medical procedures can provide a cure for a deeply-rooted lack of ability disguised as a chronic injury?"

Well, either that or you're thinking "Why aren't there Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Eggos?" or "Why hasn't Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson ever made a movie with the Olsen twins?". But as fascinating as those questions might be, I'm going to explore the acupuncture conundrum.

I went for a run on Saturday morning. My needles-in-the-legs treatment was Thursday evening; I stretched religiously on Friday (per "practitioner's" instructions), and figured that Saturday morning's run would flow like a crisp mountain stream -- would soar like an eagle on an updraft -- would be as smooth and refreshing as a Shamrock Shake. I was expecting to glide down the road with the grace of gazelle, and to wave cheerfully at other runners who would pass by me without muttering "Whoa! That dude is messed up!" I had received the treatment, I possessed a positive attitude, and it could not have been a more beautiful day.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite go that way. Whatever is wrong with me, whether it's physical, mental, or a gypsy curse due to some no-good pig-stealing ancestor -- it appears to resist acupunture every bit as well as it has resisted Western medicines, psychotherapy, and even the most highly-advertised sports drinks. After only a couple of miles, my hamstring was twanging like a Cahulawassee banjo, and my stride was as lopsided as a Flock of Seagulls haircut. It was very disappointing.

It appears that I've not only strained my hamstrings, but also my metaphors. Lordy, I need help.

Seriously, what should I do now? With my budget too tight to allow for unlimited experiments with alternative treatments, I seem to be faced with two options.

1. Give up running altogether, and just concentrate on sports that are actually fun (swimming, biking, badminton, etc), or
2. Get serious about stretching, yoga, self-massage, and making sure that I don't spend the entire workday sitting at a desk without moving at all.

Option number one makes the most sense, both from a health perspective and a time-optimization viewpoint. After all, I'm not ever going to be competitive in running. On the other hand, if Laurence Olivier ever starts coming after me with dental tools, I'd really like to be able to get away from him. It's a tough decision.

So...I'm going to try the stretching option. I know that my friends will support me in this, and will remind me to get up from my desk and do some toe-touches on a regular basis throughout the day. And I'm sure that my employer will urge me to avoid working overtime, so that I can get home at a decent enough hour to watch one of those yoga programs on the Fitness Channel before going to bed.

Well, OK, my friends will help, anyway. I guess I'm on my own for the rest of it. Anyway, that's my report (and lifestyle plan) for the moment. I'll be sure to let you know how the whole "self-discipline" thing works out. (Considering the way it's gone with the "eat less chocolate" regime, I'm not sure how much optimism I can generate here. But I'm going to try.)

In the meantime, here are a few of the songs Tanner is using in his attempt to get a job as a piano-bar background musician. I'll post more in a week or so. I really would like your help, here -- if you know of any restaurants, clubs, bars, or even retail outlets who might be interested in hiring a piano player, please let me know. Since I'm not much of a "man about town", I'm not aware of many such places...but they've got to be out there. Seriously, let me know if you have any ideas for the boy. He needs a job.

As always, thank you for your support. Enjoy the tunes, and have a great day!

Acupuncture

Not that this has anything to do with today's main topic, but today is "Talk Like a Pirate Day". Arrr, matey, batten down the swabs or ah'll grog ya wit' the yardarms.

Obviously, I don't really know how to talk like a pirate, or even why Pirates think parrots are cool, or anything. But I'll try to throw at least one "arrr" into each conversation I have today. That's about the best I can do.

Seriously, though, what's up with the parrots? My college roommate had a peach-faced lovebird, which was about 1/10th the size of a parrot...and that thing squawked, pooped, and caused enough general havoc to force me to flunk out of graduate school. (OK, I didn't really flunk out...it's just that once my attempt to enlist in the army didn't pan out, I guess I felt I was ready to join the workforce. Stupid, sure--there's nothing better than being a college student--but I could hear the siren call of the aerospace industry, and have never looked back. Or maybe it was just because I hated that damn bird so much.)

I'm sure that some people derive great joy out of keeping a bird as a pet, but I just don't get it. The only enjoyment I got out of sharing an apartment with Mickey's stupid bird (I don't think he ever got around to naming the nasty thing) was when it got knocked unconscious.

Oh, good grief, lighten up -- don't go getting all PETA on me or anything. It's not like I smacked Mr. Peachface on the head with a mallet or a wrench (though the thought did occasionally cross my mind when I found my homework assignments with bird poo on them, etc). No, what happened was this: Mickey (freedom-loving spirit that he was) felt that his bird would enjoy life more if it wasn't continually caged...and therefore let it fly around at will within his bedroom. And sometimes (@#$%!) throughout the rest of the apartment as well. That meant, of course, that his bedroom was awash in droppings, covered in tattered paper from where the bird had chewed up books and magazines, and littered with feathers as well. So obviously, there were one or two times during the semester when Mickey felt the need to do some housekeeping. That meant that the bird needed to be put back into its cage for a bit.

There were also a few other events that required avian captivity. Guests, perhaps -- like when our girlfriends came over, etc.

[HA! I crack myself up! As if either of us had a girlfriend. HA! Parents might drop by, or siblings, or maybe some guys from the swim team, but I'm pretty sure that no non-relative females ever set foot inside our domicile.]

Anyway, when it was time to capture the bird for caging, Mickey employed a relatively simple strategy; he opened the curtains. When the bird saw the wide open spaces beyond the room, he'd fly over to the window and continue to flap around there (baffled by the concept of clear glass), and Mickey would be able to capture him in a towel or the curtains or something. But once in a while...the dimwitted critter would take a warmup loop around the room and then fly hell-for-leather right into the window pane. You can imagine the sound -- and then he'd drop like a stone. Then Mickey could pick him up and set him in the cage. In a minute or two, the bird would regain consciousness and start squawking as if nothing had happened.

To the best of my knowledge, these concussions didn't do any permanent damage. When I visited Mickey in Tulsa a few years later, he still possessed the little feathered demon, and had even purchased a mate for it. I'm not sure if the two peach-faced cagemates ever became true "lovebirds" in the sense of, like, laying eggs and stuff, but Mickey apparently thought they were happy together.

The point is, if a bird the size of motel soap can create so much noise and excrete so much doo as to make me drop out of graduate school, then how the heck could a busy entrepreneurial fellow such as a pirate stand to deal with a fowl the size of a freakin' football?

I mean, "Arrr, it shivers me timbers to ponder it, it does now. Arr."

But I digress. As I said, the whole "talk like a pirate" thing has nothing to do with this blog entry. It's about my personal journey into the mysterious world of oriental healing techniques.

That's right--I got stabbed with 14 needles last night. Fourteen needles. Stuck into my flesh. As you may recall, I purchased a 1-hour acupuncture treatment during a silent auction at a charity fundraiser event I attended a couple of weeks ago. I've tried alternative treatments before (ie, chiropractic, various kinds of massage, meditiation with new-age whale songs, getting really really drunk, etc), but had never experienced the ancient art of becoming a pincushion. With the chronic lack of cooperation from my hamstring starting to really annoy me, though, I figured "what the heck", let's give this a shot.

I arrived early to turn in the paperwork about how often I urinate, whether I eat chocolate, and all the other essential medical history. While I waited, I read through the women's magazines in the waiting room. (Side question: Do women really enjoy reading articles about "The 5 favorite snack foods of Olympic curling competitors" and "Angelina Jolie's billfold recycling project"? And seriously, how many different ways can you package an article about losing hip fat in 30 seconds per day? Geez.)

The acupuncturist (therapist? needler?) introduced herself with a surprisingly limp handshake for someone who makes their living stabbing people. But she seemed nice, and apparently paid close attention to what I said as I described my symptoms. (I always hate the part where they make you feel guilty about consuming a gallon of soda and six bags of cinnamon gummi bears each day. But on the other hand, she seemed impressed that I was able to fall asleep so easily...even at the office.) And before I knew it, I was face down on the massage table with my running shorts bunched up to allow maximum access to my as-yet-unperforated legs.

As advertised, the actual insertion of the needles was mostly painless. A couple of times, I couldn't feel it at all. She started with my ankles and worked her way up to my lower back, putting the same number of pins in each side of my body. After all, wild porcupines have good symmetry, too, don't they?

She chatted the entire time, talking about "meridians", the way that the health of different organs affects the pulse, and her enjoyment of her profession. She answered my questions about how much bleeding there was with each puncture (none, usually), and about what exactly poking a needle into my ankle was supposed to do for my malfunctioning muscles. She didn't ever go all Master Po on me or anything, but a couple of the things she said did remind me of quotes from old TV shows:

Young Caine: "But Master, I feel I am drowning under the weight of my tasks."
Master Po: "Ah, Grasshopper, but does not the pebble, entering the water, begin fresh journeys?"

or

Longstreet: "I am struggling with these moves you're teaching me."
Lee: "It is like tea flowing into a cup. You must become the cup."

I suspect in each of these examples, they edited out the next response, which was something along the lines of "What in tarnation are you talking about, ya commie weirdo?"

But I made no such queries, and basically just stayed flat on my stomach while she did her thing. When all the needles were protruding in the right places, she hooked some of them up to electrodes, explaining that the current strengthened the energy flow, the same as if you threw additional pebbles into the water. OK, whatever. And as the little electric tingles started to pulse up and down my legs, she also explained that she was going to heat up a few of the needles, too, for the same reason.

Now that was an interesting process. She had these little charcoal cones that sorta resembled the "Black Snakes" that make such a mess of your sidewalk on the 4th of July. Apparently, though, these cones burn smokelessly, and when ignited while perched on top of a needle, transfer heat down the needle and into the muscle. I'm not sure how this is more efficient that a heating pad, but it probably looks a lot cooler. Little flames on top of spikes, looking like little legtop birthday candles; I guess I can dig it.

Honestly, I didn't feel a whole lot. The electricity and the heat were mild, and when the treatment was over, I wasn't even able to tell when she removed the needles. But it took her mere seconds to de-pin me and release me back into the wild. Now I'll just have to see if I notice any improvement in my leg function. And then, based on how I feel, decide what I want to do to follow up on this. If I won the lottery or something, then I'd be getting massaged, chiropracted, and acupunked on a daily basis. But until that happens and my discretionary medical funds remain somewhat limited, I might have to rely on the Fitness Channel and my own self-discipline in stretching, yoga, and auto-massage. If there are any breakthroughs, you'll be the first to know.

In the meantime, have a spectacul-arrrr day!

Stock Market

The one nice thing about being so far away from retirement is that I don't need to panic when the stock market has a meltdown. And unlike some of the people you hear about from 1929, I don't think I'd leap out a window even if I lost everything -- I'd just move up to my mountain property and life off the land like the Clampets did until all that black gold and Texas tea crudely bubbled up.

I surely would miss my cee-ment pond, though. Swimming is the one perquisite of civilization that I fear I could not forego. Well, that and Chipotle.

Some folks, though, like my boss, must be going nuts over the current stock market embolism. He had planned to retire at the first of this year, based on his 2006 prediction of his portfolio's 2008 value. But it didn't get there, and it's gone down further since. So, the poor guy has to keep coming in to the office to supervise the rest of us who don't have enough money in the bank yet. He was all set to move to Mexico and live in comfort where everybody talks like Ricardo Montalban and watches soccer 24/7. Ahhh.

But no. Fannie Farmer and Biggie Mac and even Duke & Duke have all gone down the toilet. It's a good thing that the government will bail them all out, because as we know, the government has unlimited funds that magically appear whenever they need 'em -- thus keeping all us middle-class folks from having to worry about whether we've mortgaged ourselves into a black hole or not.

This may surprise you, but despite the fact that I can talk the lingo (hedge funds, dollar cost averaging, short-selling, price-to-equality rations, Nazdak, etc), I really don't know squat about the inner workings of Wall Street. All I know is from watching movies -- a bunch of rabid guys who look like Michael Douglas all stand around with little pieces of paper in their hands yelling and screaming while all sorts of numbers flash by on the Jumbotron. Somehow during all this yelling, I get the impression that one dude sells 100 shares of Microsoft and some other shouting fellow buys them. They agree upon a price amidst the noise, and moments later, they do the same thing again, only at a different price.

Seems rather odd to me. I mean, I can't see going into Target to buy a toaster and having to yell at the clerk to get a little piece of paper with the price on it...and then watching the next guy get a better deal. Well, I suppose the the ancient Mesopotamians did that in their marketplaces (only with pigs instead of toasters), so I guess there is historical precendent. But it just seems...uncivilized.

And if I were to call John Houseman over at Smith Barney and tell him that I needed a dozen shares of Dow Jones (or Dow Corning...which one is the one that makes bug spray??), how does he get my order into the hands of one of the shouting morlocks on the floor, anyway? Does everybody have those Borg-looking bluetooth thingies sticking out of their ears? And how can you hear anything anyway? Why isn't this all handled electronically? I can buy a bicycle through eBay...why not a controlling interest in Geico or something?

Anyway, I've forgotten if I even had a point to make in this entry. Hmm.

Oh yeah, it's this: Unless I win Lotto or suddenly get discovered by Hollywood as the next Billy Bob Thornton or something, I'm not going to be drawing funds from my retirement account for many, many years to come. Therefore, I am not going to get my intestines twisted over whatever gyrations that stock market goes through each day. I will pay attention to general trends, though, and will vote against the pinheads who want to raise capital gains taxes, etc., and will try to avoid putting my money into products that look good now, but will soon vanish from the face of the earth (eg, reality television, hubcaps that spin after you stop, Larry the Cable Guy, etc).

So, as the market roller coaster screams through its hills and valley, I say -- enjoy the ride!

I Didn't See the Truck

I'm speaking metaphorically -- but I feel like I got run over by a truck.

Some days are like that, I suppose; for whatever reason, you just feel a bit run down. Of course, it's always better when that happens after a really hard training day, or the day after a race. It makes sense then. But you don't want to feel Mack-smacked after a boring, average day. And let's face it -- yesterday was a pretty ordinary Monday. Swim practice, a day at the office, an evening watching Jeopardy, then reading a book.

But perhaps the metaphorical grillmarks on my backside are the result of cumulative strain rather than a single day of pummeling. The weekend did have its tougher moments (challenging swim practice, moving more boxes into the basement, etc), and yesterday's office workload was a bit higher than usual. Yeah, I think that's it. I'm not coming down with the flu or anything, I just need a vacation.

It's been a long time since I've gone on a nice, restful trip. It is true that I went to Wichita to visit my dad a couple of months ago, and it was good to see him...but it's not the same as going someplace that doesn't suck.

For a real restful vacation, I need to go someplace where the air smells of pine trees, the brooks babble, and you feel like you probably won't get eaten by a mountain lion...but you just might see one in the distance. I need a few days of quiet, solitude, and little hole-in-the wall restaurants that serve aspen-bark waffles and jackalope sausage. I want to wake up to find myself in a place where the word "proposal" can only mean that some local kid is giving a diamond to his best girl, and where anyone from the "government" is likely to get their britches filled with rock salt and bacon rind.

I want to stick my feet in an ice-cold stream and pretend that the temperature doesn't bother me. I want to hit pine cones with a gnarly stick and visualize that I'm smacking humongous homers, while the breeze in the branches sounds like a cheering crowd. I want to sit on a big warm rock and look out across a wide valley where there are no red or blue campaign signs, just greens, yellows, and browns.

You know what? Just thinking about such a peaceful scene has made me feel a bit better. I guess it's good to take a mental break every now and then, even if a physical trip isn't on the agenda. Oh, I still have my workout to do, and a day at the office to face, but maybe I'll do a little more "deep in the woods" meditiation before I go to sleep tonight. I might just wake up with a little more pep tomorrow.

I'll let you know. Have a great day!

Lazy Saturday

I took my camera with me up Waterton Canyon, hoping to see a fox, a porcupine, or the elusive Rocky Mountain pine monkey or something...but no. Didn't see a single critter (other than rabbits, which don't count cuz they're as ubiquitous as Udall commercials). Sorry, but my inner John Fielder didn't come to work today.

There's nothing to say about my run, either, other than to continue hoping that the mystic art of accupuncture will provide a miraculous cure to my chronic lameness. (I mean that in the "bad leg" sense of the word, not the more modern "uncool" sense. Though I suppose I could use a cure for lameness in all its myriad forms, I somehow suspect that accupuncture won't do a thing to solve my social ineptness and lack of grooviness.)

(Wait...using a word like "grooviness" is probably pretty lame all by itself, isn't it? Ugh. I guess it makes me wonder even more what other "cures" I need. Oh well, let's get through the accupuncture on Thursday, and then worry about being "hip" later, OK?)

After a nice bubble bath, a short nap, and a homemade taco burger, it was time to head to Golden to listen to the band. They were playing at the Buffalo Rose as part of a benefit for...something. Tanner doesn't pay attention to such details -- or if he does, he feels that it's too much trouble to tell me. All I knew was that it was a benefit. I paid my money, hoping that it was for cancer research or hurricane victims or firefighters or something, and not a fundraiser to pay for more Udall ads.

I parked at the Golden library, and walked down the river path to Washington Street. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. Many smiling citizens were out to enjoy the day, and the faint smell of the Coors brewery wafted through the air while the cheers from the School of Mines football game could be heard above the rippling splashes from the creek. It reminded me once again just how glorious it is to live in Colorado.

"From the Mouth of Cthulhu" was going through their sound check when I arrived, and most of the spectators appeared to be there more for the food than for the entertainment. Plates of burgers and fries were being gobbled down, and nobody had positioned themselves anywhere near the dance floor. I chatted briefly with Sharon (the drummer's mom) and her friend Doug, and then found a barstool over near a couple of groupies. I figured I could hear well and maybe get some good photos from there.

I thought they played well. As I've noted before, this music grows on you -- it's not something you'll want to dance to or immediately start singing along with -- but if you listen a few times, I think you'll really start to appreciate it. Here's a short clip from the performance:

I enjoyed the show a great deal, and as usual had trouble fitting through the door after swelling up so much with pride in my son's talents and creativity. (Seriously, I do love that kid!) But somehow, I managed. I took the long route back to the library, walking past the ballfields and kiyak training area. Somebody had just finished getting married in the park, so I watched the groomsmen tear down the gazebos for a bit, and then went in and browsed the library's video collection. I checked out a Sharukh Khan movie; I'll let you know how that is in a future post.

Summary of the day: Excellent all around. Did I accomplish all the chores I had on my to-do list? No. Not even close. Did I savor being alive, listening to music, and realizing that my to-do list really wasn't that important? Why, yes. Yes I did.

I plan to do the same thing on Sunday, too. I'll let you know how it goes.

Sleeping In

You know that I'm worn out if I don't get up to work out in the morning.

No, it's not like I'm obsessed or anything, and there are plenty of days where my workouts are executed with less of an "Energizer Bunny" attitude, and more of a "Generic Sloth" approach. But unless something is horribly wrong, I'm awake early in the morning, and if I'm awake, well, then why not go over to the gym or the pool to try to keep the ravages of age at bay for one more day? Right?

Anyway, I didn't set the alarm Monday night, and I didn't wake up until after 6am on Tuesday morning. Ugh. I'm whupped.

It all started with the TV Preview on Friday night. I was up WAY past my normal bedtime. Then on Saturday, after my run and some lifting and toting, I was pretty well bushed again. But the day wasn't over. When I finished helping my friends with their move, and had taken my son over to his band practice, I was still not finished with my day's activities. My next appointment was at the Camp Paha fundraiser. The event was up in Lakewood, and I arrived shortly after the festivities had started.

For some reason, the event was titled "Yippie Ki Yay Paha in Margaritaville" or something equally abysmal...probably in a misguided attempt to get across the flavor of the evening, which (as far as I could tell) was "Mountain state residents pretending to be Carribean Islanders who eat Mexican food". The music was provided by a boombox that had been stuffed with more Jimmy Buffet than should be legal -- and the attire was Hawaiian shirts, shorts, sandals, and umbrella drink accessories. My sister-in-law Liane even had sunglasses that were shaped like plastic cups with lime slices slung over the sides. Once I got over my confusion about the seeming mixture of disparate themes, I found it all to be quite festive.

And the cuisine was excellent! (But let's face it -- let's face it, it's tough to go wrong with an all-you-can-eat Mexican food buffet.)

Anyway, Camp Paha provides a wonderful opportunity for families with special needs kids, and the campers universally cherish the experiences they have there. The staff is dedicated and enthusiastic, and were there to give us plenty of reminders about how much good this charity does for the folks who need these services. The food and drink may have been the main focus of my attention for most of the evening, but the real purpose of the event was to raise money for a good cause.

Numerous people and organizations had donated items to be auctioned. The big-ticket items (fabulous vacations, golf extravaganzas, camp sponsorhips, etc) would be put on the block during a live auction later in the evening...and were also well beyond my financial means. But a wide collection of other goodies was on display for a silent auction, which was open to browsing and bidding until midway through the dinner. There were tickets to Broncos and Rockies games, artistically handcrafted items of various genres, apparel, restaurant gift certificates, and my favorite item...a large collection of homemade salsas and pasta sauces. I immediately bid on that. I also place bids on some of the restaurant coupons, as well as massage and accupuncture appointments.

The salsa and pasta sauce bidding zipped past my checkbook balance fairly quickly, but I was surprised to learn that I ended up with the winning bid on the accupuncture appointment. Cool! Perhaps becoming a human pincushion is just the thing I need to get my hamstring to become compatible with my running ambitions. I'll let you know.

Anyway, the party was fun, and I got to chat a bit with Liane's parents, who I really like. I also got to watch the Mayor of Lakewood auction off a Mazatlan vacation that sounded delightful, as well as some other enviably attractive trips. But by the time I left, I was running on fumes, and ready to crash.

I did get up for Sunday swim practice, and again to go to the gym on Monday morning -- but ended up working about an hour late on Monday night. Hopefully, sleeping in will revive me, and turn me into a productive dynamo for the rest of the week.

We'll see. In the meantime...ZZzzzzzzzzzz

I Need Another Weekend

Despite my late arrival in dreamland on Friday night, I still woke up early for my Saturday run. I was planning to help my friends Tom and Tina move later in the day, and wanted to get my exercise out of the way early.

That was probably a bad decision. I got plenty of exercise during the move. But more about that later.

The weather was great! In addition to a few fuzz-antlered deer, several of my swim team friends were also out there in Waterton canyon. Wildlife and humans both ran past me as if I were fossilized, watching my asynchronous strides and shaking their heads with a genuine "Oh, that poor fellow..." type of unspoken sympathy. (Katie's friend Vicki, I learned later, actually asked her "Is something wrong with him?" Sigh.) Anyway, public embarrassment aside, I was able to eventually cover a dozen miles or so, and thus achieved my cardio workout goals for the day.

After the run, I grabbed a quick shower and a bite to eat, and then went over to pick up Tanner to help with the move. When we arrived at Tom & Tina's townhome, they had the flatbed truck ready to go. It was a 1970s vintage Chevy with a hydraulic lift that moaned like something from Ghostbusters, but seemed adequately functional. Our first chore was to move a Tempurpedic mattress from the upstairs bedroom onto the truck.

As you may know, Tempurpedic is like sponge on steroids -- it's soft and comfy to sleep on, but weighs a ton and tends to become entirely amorphous when handled. Tanner, Tom, and I are all adequately muscular fellows, but trying to get a grip on a dense, queensized slab of foam designed specifically to give way and change shape under pressure...well, it was like trying to wrestle with a school of soapy eels.

With brute strength and applied geometry, though, we managed to get the thing down the stairs, around the corners, and out into the truck. With the fatigue I was feeling at that point, it did not do my spirit much good to hear Tom announce, "Well, that's the easy part -- let's go get the heavy stuff!" Lordy.

Riding over to the self-storage place reminded me of the very first time I was allowed to drive. My granddad let me drive his old rustbucket truck in the fields of his farm when I was about 11 years old. The creaks and groans of grinding gears and the shrieks of under-lubed hydraulics will always evoke recollected scents of harvested grain, overworked machinery, and cow manure. But that's a topic for another chapter. Bottom line: I enjoyed the ride over to the U-Stor-It.

The good news? With the exception of a sofa (which was handled by Tom & Tanner), everything was neatly packed in boxes, and ready to transport. The bad news? The boxes contained either rocks or books, the two heaviest substances known to mankind. You see, Tom and Tina are both highly intelligent, highly educated, and highly curious people. They read a LOT, and also happen to be interested in geology, spelunking, and for some reason, crystal or fabric-based arts & crafts. Anyway, most of the boxes in their storage unit were heavy, and not in the whimsical Marty McFly slang way, but in terms of actual mass and density.

The other good news was that the rolling carts we had and the truck's hydraulic lift made the task of loading the flatbed a relatively easy one. Unlike me, Tom has the Tetris sense, and was really good at stacking everything in an efficient and stable way. Tanner stood on the lift and passed the boxes from me to Tom, and we had the thing loaded in pretty short order. We left a few boxes behind for later -- but they were the ones with the fragile and delicate fossils that were not meant to be handled by ham-fisted brutes like Tanner and myself. They didn't belong on a rattle n' hum vehicle like the ancient Chevy, either. We'd let Tina worry about those later.

Over to the new house. My first thought upon arrival was that they are going to be very happy here -- it's a vast improvement over their other place, both in size and in style. Very nice. But my second thought was how the layout was not conducive to using wheels...it appeared that we'd have to hand-carry the boxes from the back of the truck, up the sidewalk, up the front porch steps, and into the house. Well, at least those three porch steps were the only ones we'd have to navigate.

"All the stuff from this truckload goes into the basement", Tom announced. "The farthest room in the back of the basement," he added. OK, then. That's good. I've been wanting to give my creaky knees a good integrity test, and this would be the opportunity. Either result would be positive: if they held up, then I'd know that my glucosamine tablets were working...and if they exploded and left me crippled, well, I wouldn't have to move any more @#!* boxes of rocks, would I?

It actually went very smoothly. Other than my occasional panting, moaning, and cursing, nobody talked much -- we just got the truck unloaded quickly. From his energy level and efficiency, you'd never guess that Tom is actually even older than I am. And despite the fact that I sometimes give Tanner a hard time about his insipid slackerhood within these pages, he did an excellent job thoughout, without tiring or complaining. It wasn't long at all before we were taking a PowerAde and cookie break, and then heading back over to the townhome to get the other beds and the canoe.

I won't bore you with the details of those tasks, but I do need to compliment Tom on his creative use of bungee cords in strapping the canoe across the bed and onto the top of the truck. You don't really think of a canoe as a large item until you need to lift it above a vehicle and figure out how to keep it from sliding around. Trust me, this is a bigger challenge than it sounds. But somehow, we did it.

There was more work to be done, but after the mattresses and canoe were safely unloaded at the new place, Tanner and I bailed out. He had band practice, and I had committed to attend a fundraiser dinner up in north Lakewood. We grabbed a couple more cookies and wished them luck with the rest of the move.

I never did hear how the band practice went, but I enjoyed the fundraiser. I'll tell you about it in my next entry. I'll also give you an update on how my knees handled the day's events. Until then, have a great day!

TV Preview

Staying up late on a Friday night makes for a long weekend, and a rough start to the next workweek. But I made a conscious choice to do it, so I guess I shouldn't complain about the consequences.

It all started when some tickets arrived in the mail. "You have been selected..." the letter began. OK, I thought, this goes in the garbage. But then the phrase "to review potential network TV programming" caught my eye. And since I studied how to be a TV executive as part of my degree program at the University of Kansas, I thought I'd be the perfect person to help the network bigwigs select the next huge hit show. Maybe it would be something with LeVar Burton, or maybe that one kid from "Home Improvement" who could actually act.

It sounded legit. Though any solicitation to join a room full of people for a "presentation" smells strongly of TIME-SHARE, this operation actually had a professional-looking website that reinforced what the letter said. They really seemed to be in the business of providing feedback for folks who wanted to get stuff on TV. I figured it would primarily be about the commercials, but what the heck, it sounded fun. I invited Tanner to join me, and after work on Friday we headed to the Tech Center to watch a couple of TV pilots.

We arrived early, and amused ourselves by observing the other attendees. There was quite a mix, from nicely groomed grandparents to hygienically-challenged toothless yokels to loud teenage girls who were working very hard to appear to be lesbians, but were probably just trying to cover up the fact that none of the boys liked them. The woman who took our tickets was probably a very nice lady, but it was hard not to stare at the inch-long hairs growing out of her chin. I found myself hoping that some of the commercials we were about to watch contained messages about depilatory creams.

We sat next to a family that must've had an argument on the way to the hotel; they wore industrial-strength frowns throughout the evening. The teeny-bopper couple behind us were obviously on a date, and she was trying very hard to impress her escort via the time-honored technique of vacuous giggling, but I don't think it was working. His eyes kept darting around the room as if looking for an escape hatch.

Our first task was to fill out our "gift request sheets". They were 12-page booklets that contained icons for several brands of products, and we were to circle the product we preferred. One page was toilet paper (I had no idea there even were so many varieties), one page was paper towels, one was lip gloss, and so forth. Whoever was chosen in the upcoming door prize drawing would receive a package of each of the products they circled. Or coupons for them, or something. I'm afraid that I couldn't get too excited about receiving a bag full of cleaning supplies and feminine hygiene products. Still, if the TV shows were good, the evening could be worthwhile anyway, right?

The first show was a drama called "Soulmates". It was about a hypnotherapist babe who had flashbacks that made her think she had made out with one of her clients in a past life -- in Hawaii shortly before the Pearl Harbor attacks. There was also some sort of subplot about a dentist's convention where other Pearl Harbor flashback guys were killed by Asian cult switchblade dudes who worked in a secret factory that the therapist accidentally walked into. And all of the conspirators had mystic hieroglyphic tattoos and walk-on parts within the flashbacks. And I have no idea what the deal was with the Abbie Hoffman/Sigmund Freud guy who did business from Ward Cleaver's den.

It wasn't as good as it sounds. The acting was bad, the dialog made you want to slap the writers, and the editing was done by the monkeys who weren't good enough to be hired for the Shakespeare typing project. Surprisingly, though, a show of hands revealed that a dozen or so of the 150 attendees wanted to see it as a weekly series.

OK.

There were commercials, too. The only ones I remembered were of South American jungle animals singing about Mountain Dew, and the one where the Pillsbury Doughboy gets in trouble for not serving milk to some French family.

I like the Doughboy. But unfortunately, not "Soulmates".

The second show was a sitcom called "Dads". It was about, well...dads. Very standard stuff, with a couple of recognizable actors. Summary: single dads are stupid, horny, and abused by their shrewish ex-wives...and all 5-year-old kids are funny when given risque and/or multisyllabic dialog. Tanner and I agreed that it was boring, insulting, irritating...and would probably show up in next fall's NBC lineup. It was appallingly dumb -- but I've seen worse stuff run for several seasons.

The one thing I suspect they'll change when they go to production is to replace the guy who acted exactly like Tony Danza. If a show really needs a Tony Danza type (which I doubt very seriously), they should just get Tony Danza; I'm pretty sure he's not working right now. But it would probably be better if they replaced him with somebody appealing, like maybe Justin Long, or Gary Coleman.

By the time the viewing finished, it was well past my normal bedtime and I could start to feel my patience dwindling. I just wanted to get the surveys completed and get the heck out of there. We each had a "fill in the square with No. 2 pencil" answer sheet, and the hairy-chinned lady read us questions about the shows. Did we enjoy the chemistry between the actors? Did we like the stars? Did we think the series would have the longevity and timeless quality of Bewitched and/or Leave it to Beaver?

Well...no. Frankly, those were pretty easy questions to answer. The tough part came when they started into the product usage queries. How many times have you blown your nose in the last week? What brand of nose-blowing tissue did you use most often? What was your second-most frequently used snot collector? And on and on and on.

They solicited opinions about everything from lunchmeat to enemas. I was starting to lose interest, and was getting a bit edgy. Even when I'm fresh, I find discourtesty to be intensely annoying...but when it's two hours past my bedtime, I really wish that people would just pay attention! Seriously, do you have to ask the emcee to repeat every single question? How hard is it to answer whether or not you've eaten Spam today? C'mon, people, just fill in a circle! You're not being graded -- it's not going on your permanent record, and even if you get it wrong, do you really think your one ballot is going to impact the availability of delicious canned ham?

After another 10 pages of grueling and inane questions, we were finally released. I didn't get to bed until almost midnight, and fell asleep wondering why they can't make sitcoms like "Police Squad" and "Green Acres" anymore. And did the golden age of TV drama really end when Bill Bixby died?

I'll have to think about it, my friends. Perhaps the abysmal quality of these pilots means that there are openings in Hollywood for some new writers -- maybe I could finally get the job I thought my Jayhawk education would bestow upon me.

Maybe I'll whip up a few scripts and let you guys decide. I know that Ron Howard is interested in producing something with a talking pie...I'll have to get to work on it.

Have a great day!

PS. In case you were wondering, no, we didn't win any of the door prizes. I guess I'll have to buy my own wet wipes. Sigh.

Thursday Night Run

The weather forecast had predicted storms. Sitting in my office in the windowless basement at the Plant, I had looked to Mother Nature to provide my excuse to wimp out and not do my evening run. But alas, when I walked outside, the weather was gorgeous.

Stupid Mother Nature.

I had no excuse not to run. So I parked in the Waterton lot and put on my running clothes. One last check of the skyline confirmed the lack of impending rain, so I took off up the canyon.

The last several runs I've done have tended to repeat the following pattern: Mile 1 is tough because I'm not warmed up, but no mechanical problems manifest themselves. Mile 2 is a little faster due to loosening up, but there are hints that my left hamstring may not be 100% cooperative. Mile 3 is spent mostly in trying to overcome the urge to create a limping gait to favor my left hammie, which is now actively complaining and shortening up. And Mile 4 is a combination of loose strides with good leg speed (when I'm able to stretch out), and hobbling mummy-shuffles when the leg freezes up and makes me limp like a wooden-legged pirate. It's SO weird...one moment I'll be flying along like a Kenyan and the next I'll be mincing and wincing like a thespian who sat on a cactus.

Yeah, I know...I should stretch more. Or get massages. Or accupuncture. Or some really powerful drugs. But I keep thinking that I'm not really injured; it's just a temporary tightness that I could get rid of if I were mentally strong enough. Perhaps I need a hypnotist.

Oh well. At least I ran 4 miles. That means I can eat peanuts and Jr. Mints with my dinner. That's all that really matters. And if by some strange chance, I do suddenly become disciplined enough to do some yoga or something, I will surely let you know. In the meantime, please send plenty of "loose hammie" vibes my way, and have a great day!

Winding Down the Lake Swimming Season

Sometimes, sitting through a day at the office can be like getting stuck on a busstop bench next to that idiot Gump fellow and having to listen to stories about shrimp and pingpong until you just want to superglue your ears shut. Other days are like those Arabian sultan scenes from 1940s movies where you lean back on an opulent couch while giant eunuchs fan you with palm fronds and voluptuous belly dancers feed you grapes during breaks between finger-cymbal songs. Unfortunately, most of mine are like the former -- I hardly ever get fed grapes.

And after a tough day at the office, it's hard to get psyched up for much of anything else. I generally just want to go home and eat Mexican food and chocolate on my way to hitting the mattress. But as summer draws to a close, there are certain elements that awaken a bit more spirit. On Wednesday, for example, as I walked out of the office, the sun was beaming, the sky was clear, and the temperature was toasty. I couldn't help but want to go swimming in the lake.

The crowds have thinned. Most of the triathlons have concluded for this season, leaving the pond to those of us that swim simply for the joy of it. (Well, us and a few of the hardcore triathlon dorks who haven't quite figured out that they could join a Masters team and learn to swim in a pool, where the water is clear & chlorinated, and the bathrooms aren't made of plastic.)

I was figuring that I'd have to swim alone, but my buddies Keith and Craig suddenly appeared. Being manly men all, none of us wore wetsuits, but despite the weekend rain the water wasn't too cold. Being a tad less manly than the other two, though, it took me a while longer to take the plunge. By the time I was completely wet, they had a bit of a headstart.

Conditions were excellent! There was no wind so the surface was calm. There was no sign of pirahnas, sharks, or water moccasins, and the geese and gulls were pleasantly absent. It felt good, and my stroke fell into an easy rhythm; I was eventually able to catch the others and take advantage of their draft. After resting behind Keith for a bit, I took over the lead and headed for the twin bushes known as "the buttocks" at the far end of the pond. It was strange not seeing too many other swimmers out there -- usually you have to pop your head up every couple of strokes to keep from running into some myopic nimrod coming from the other direction with his head down and his brain disengaged. But this time, it was clear sailing. After a brief rest in the south end shallows, we had much the same experience on the trip back to the beach.

It's stuff like this that makes you appreciate the summer. A smooth lake at sunset, envigorating exercise, and the companionship of like-minded fellows...a pretty nice way to spend an early September evening. And even the mosquitos weren't too bad.

I may make it back out to the lake another time...or I may not. It doesn't matter that much. It's been a good outdoor swimming season for me, and if I don't get back in the pond again this year, I'm OK with that.

But if it's warm and sunny on Saturday morning, perhaps I'll see you there.

Have a great day!

The Boy Gots Wheels

My brother and I went to the track last night for our traditional "last timed mile of the season".

What? I can't call it "traditional" because this is the first time we've done it? Well, OK, then, it's our "First Annual Last Timed Mile of the Season", then. Happy?

The good news is that I finished an entire mile without any new injuries. Oh, I'm sure I looked funny, and probably evoked thoughts of "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" among any spectators...but I finished it. The bad news is that both my brother and my son ran past me as if I were standing still.

Well, to be honest, it wasn't that bad. Pat only beat me by about a minute, and Tanner didn't actually finish the entire mile. He ran the first quarter with Pat, then sat down and waited for me to pass by, then got up and zipped past me to beat me to the half mile by about 20 seconds. But then he sat down again, and let me run the rest of the way without the humiliation of having a peachfuzz-faced guy in cargo pants and velveteen street shoes storm around me like Jesse Owens passing Raymond Burr.

After the mile, we cooled down a bit, then ran a 100-yard dash. Why time a 100? I have no idea.

I have to admit that I was surprised by the results there. Pat has been working on his sprint speed, and has track experience. Tanner is just young and tall...which I didn't think would be enough of an advantage. But it was -- he beat Pat by almost 2 full seconds, and bested my time by a full 5. The kid is pretty fast. Maybe I shouldn't feel so bad when he beats me at tennis. He's got some natural quickness.

And just to finish off the evening in proper fashion, we also decided to run up the side of the hill. Tanner won that one easily, too, beating the best times that Pat and I had previously managed by over 10 seconds. Trying to catch him, though, inspired us each to beat our previous best times, too.

It was a good evening, all around. We may go back to the track next week, but if the weather doesn't cooperate, it's no big deal. We've got the Sheepherders running series coming up, so that'll serve as "speed work" as the days get shorter.

My current challenge, though, it to convince Tanner that he should run on a regular basis. I think he'd enjoy entering some races, and maybe even joining us for the Sheepherder's series. He claims that his only desire for running is so that he can play Ultimate Frisbee with his buddies, but I'll keep working on him. He might become a real runner yet.

I'll keep you posted. In the mean time, get outside and enjoy the remaining few summer evenings, OK? Have a great day!

Short Workweek

After our proposal was completed, I was kinda thinking that I'd have time to mellow out. You know, sitting around in flipflops, sipping umbrella drinks, pretending to read a Ludlum thriller or a Hawking textbook, etc. (It's still OK to call it an "umbrella drink" if all you've done is poke a toothpick through a sticky note and floated it in your Diet Coke, isn't it? It doesn't make the drink taste any better -- it just makes me feel more like I'm at a tropical resort, even though I'm actually in my underwear on the couch, and am too lazy to even throw a Jimmy Buffet CD into the boombox. Sigh.) But no—I'm not being mellow. It hasn't worked out that way at all.
Last weekend went by way too quickly, with far too many chores to do. Fortunately, I was able to squeeze in some fun with my son -- we went to the movies and played tennis. But it's probably best if you don't ask him about it; I was brutally dominant during the tennis match, and then compounded the injury by applying an intellectual smackdown during our subsequent debate about anarchy vs. socialism vs. democratic capitalism. (I guess I'm glad that public education, plus the innate desire for youthful exploration of ideas, results in the willingness to participate in discussions on political/economic systems...but all the idealism a kid might possess is still no match for the logic you absorb from firsthand observation of how things work in the real world. Actually paying taxes, earning an income, donating to charities, etc. seems to grant a person some perspective that reading the dust jacket of an Abbie Hoffman book just doesn't duplicate. Another way of saying it? Well, how 'bout we just put Warren Buffett and Richard Branson in a room with Karl Marx and Chairman Mao and, you know, see what happens.)

In addition to performing the solemn parental duty of teaching my kid how to gracefully handle defeat, I also participated in multiple social events. On Saturday morning, I joined my friends Joe and Kristen in moving some of their possessions into their marvelous new home. I was of minimal utility, since I can only be trusted with nonbreakable items...but I'm proud to say that neither humans nor property were harmed. Other friends Tyler and Randy did far more of the work, but I was able to tote a fair number of boxes from the truck into the garage, so I may have sped up the process by a few minutes overall. Joe is a very sharp and well-organized guy, and under his guidance, the tasks went like clockwork. I enjoyed myself.*

*Disclaimer: The fact that I enjoyed myself during the move is due to the quality of the company I was with...not because of anything related to performing manual labor. The foregoing statement should not in any way be interpreted as an invitation to solicit my services for potential future moving day events. Don't even think about it.

My other social event for the weekend was an opportunity to watch the CU/CSU football game with my longtime friend Bob and his wife, Robyn. Bob had recently turned 50, so they invited some pals over to watch the game, knock back a few cold ones, and eat some tasty grilled treats. Bob and Robyn have a daughter who's about Tanner's age, so we had a few laughs telling stories about the fun we've had with our respective teenagers.

Of course, my bedtime arrived before the football game was over, so I missed the last part of the game. Having attending the University of Kansas, and therefore being ambivalent about who won (as long as it's not @#$%! K-State or stinking Nebraska), I was able to sleep peacefully.

As for the workweek, well, it's a short one. It's an "off" Friday for us this week, and with Labor Day on Monday, we only have to work 3 days. I am really looking forward to the upcoming weekend. On Friday night, Tanner and I are attending a "test marketing" panel, where we're supposed to provide feedback on a couple of new TV shows. (Please let it be a sitcom starring Carrot Top or William Hung!)

If that's not thrilling enough, there's even more happening on Saturday. First, I get to help my friends Tom and Tina move. (Unfortunately, Tina collects rocks, and they both love books, so I'm anticipating their boxes to be really, really heavy. It's a good thing that my swimming training has given me Schwartzeneggerian arms and the lower body stamina of a million Lance Armstrongs. I'll do fine, I'm sure.) After that, I am attending a charity fundraiser for Camp Paha. They'll have a silent auction there, so who knows what sorts of goodies I might come home with?

And finally, the weekend ends with Lockheed Martin Family Day at Elitch's. Tanner has agreed to come along with me, so I'm sure we'll be having deep philosophical & political discussions while riding roller coasters and eating partially-botulized midway hot dogs. Of course, that assumes that I'll be able to figure out where I stashed the tickets...

In any case, there should be much to report upon next week. If you want political convention coverage, you might want to go elsewhere, but if you want to hear about TV pilots that are too bland to risk putting on the air without testing, or about proper rock-filled box lifting techniques, or even about eating questionable carnival food and then strapping yourself into a vehicle specifically designed to separate you from said food...then I'm your man. Stay tuned for all the exciting details. And have a great week!

Tropic Thunder

I have no desire to ever see Jack Black in his underwear again.

Despite that horrifying vision, though, there is much about the movie "Tropic Thunder" that I did enjoy. As always, Robert Downey, Jr. is a delight; probably deserves an Oscar nomination. And as always, Ben Stiller creates a character whose cluelessness makes everyone in the audience feel smart by comparison.

You might expect this movie to be marinating in crude language, ridiculously lowbrow bathroom humor, and heinous violations of multiple political correctness standards...and you'd be right. Tropic Thunder is not for anyone who is easily offended.

So...I know that you're asking yourself "What did Terry, a sophisticated intellectual with such incredibly high standards of personal grooming, think of a movie that includes Private Ryan-level piles of guts, squallid and unsanitary jungle opiate production huts, richter-scale flatulence, and Jack Black in his underwear?" Well, the short answer is: "It made me laugh."

Since seeing the film, I have tried to explain to friends why I found the Robert Downey character so appealing...and I have failed miserably. In fact, I'm not sure how the idea for his character even made it past the brainstorming stage -- it's so ridiculous and difficult to articulate. But it works, and provides the central entertainment of the film. Of course, there are also a ton of digs at Hollywood producers and agents, movie previews, hip-hop moguls, people who care about stuff, and even the beloved Australians. The only folks who are treated with respect and portrayed with sympathy are the hardworking members of the Southeast Asian heroin manufacturing industry.

I'm not sure why I have such a hard time accepting Ben Stiller as one of the dominant forces in Hollywood, after all, he's made some of my favorite movies (Zoolander, of course, but Mystery Men is even better). Perhaps it's that his name is Ben, and I subconsciously associate him with others who have brought shame and disgrace upon the name (Affleck, Cartwright, Laden, There-done-that, etc.) I don't know. But the facts don't lie -- the guy is a major star and a major moviemaker.

Anyway, I won't spoil the movie by revealing the plot, or re-telling any of the jokes. I think the best way I can help you to understand how much I enjoyed it is to say this: I didn't hate Matthew McConaughey.

That is high praise, indeed. So, if you can handle grossness, profanity, and infantile crudeness (and could use a good laugh), go see this movie.

Have a great time!