Time to do Taxes!

I tend to put it off every year, but I'm not sure why. In the past, when my income was solely derived from my entrepreneurial activities, it was a major pain. I'd have to think about whether I could deduct new underwear, etc, since they'd be essential to my comfort in teaching my classes. I'd have to keep all my receipts for glass cleaner, since staring out the window is such a large part of the writer's craft. I'd have to keep track of how many times I went to the bathroom while working on a Performance Press project, because the water that was flushed was deductible as a business operating expense.

It would take months to compile and interpret all the data, and then another month or two to figure out which subtle IRS rules applied to which segments of the business. Trust me, you will get a migraine if you ever try to understand the tax code.

Seriously, let's do away with the IRS and just go for a flat tax. Let's get rid of the complexity of interpretation, and break it down to straight math, OK?

Even though I'm agin' the Revenooers, I have to confess that my taxes are much easier now that I'm basically a W2 employee for the majority of my income. I just use an online tax software program and plug in the numbers. The whole thing can be done in an hour or so. And because I withheld so much in anticipation of business income that didn't materialize, I should get a pretty large chunk of my money back in the form of a refund. So why would I wait?

Well, other than a general dislike for the tax code and the people who want to further complicate and expand it, I guess I really don't have a legitimate excuse to procrastinate. Unless there's something interesting on TV. Or if the weather is nice enough that I should really be outside.

Oh don't worry, I'll get to them before April. I'll let you know. In the meantime, have a great day!

American Idol

You'd think people who can't sing would realize they can't sing. Especially if they're going to go enter a singing competition. I mean, I love to hear my own powerfully sexy and melodic Barry-White-like voice crooning in the shower...but I recognize the fact that anyone else who heard it would probably think there was a badger caught in the garbage disposal.

I am not going to try out for American Idol.

Oh sure, I've got the youth, charisma, and personal magentism to be a mega-popstar. I know how to prance around with a microphone and how to grimace just the right way to convey that I'm oh-so-emotionally-involved in the song. And while I may not be quite as macho and manly as Clay Aiken or Kelly Clarkson, I'm pretty sure that Paula Abdul would love me. Still, I'm realistic enough to know that I just don't sing all that well.

It makes me wonder about what some of the American Idol contestants are thinking when they audition. I can certainly see the appeal of trying out (even if you're terrible) just to get your fifteen minutes of airtime...and I'm sure that some of them are trying to be bad enough to receive entertaining criticism. But there are some folks who just flat stink, and yet seem to sincerely believe that they have talent.

My question is, who are these people hanging around with?

Oh yeah, I know that parents have an obligation to support their kids as they pursue their dreams. But I don't believe that such an obligation includes lying to them--telling them they're good when they obviously suck. I know this from personal experience: Having a kid who is a musician gives you plenty of opportunities to provide honest feedback; the challenge is in keeping it from being too harsh. There are many times when I've had to say things like "Well, I. enjoyed it...but I doubt that anyone else did." or "That was...um, interesting. Perhaps it might be better if next time you did it, you know, like, right." or "Dude, get out the Glade; you totally stunk it up on that one!"

But even if the parents are telling these kids that they're freakin' Pavarotti when they're really just Harry Caray, there should still be somebody else around to set the record straight. For example, my college roommate, Mickey, told me that I couldn't sing at least a thousand times. And of course, I returned the favor (also pointing out that he was fat and stupid, too.)

Mickey really was a pretty good singer, though. He could hit the high notes, hold 'em a long time, and play air guitar the entire time. He had a rock-star type voice (as opposed to an operatic or crooner type), and probably could've been a front man for a heavy metal band...if only he could remember the lyrics. He had this odd idiot-savant thing going where he could identify a song within the first one or two notes, and could sing along with it holding the tune perfectly -- but hardly ever got the words right at all. I found this to be highly entertaining; and it was a good thing I did -- cuz he was singing pretty much all the time. In the car, in the dorm room, and probably even in the pool during swim practice.

But despite the fact that Mickey's vocal skills were better than mine, he still wouldn't have made it on American Idol. Randy would probably say that he was "pitchy", and Simon would tell him that his roommate was right on target with the astute "fat and stupid" observation.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is that if you know anyone who thinks they're a great singer when they really aren't, it would be good for them (and good for the country) if you could gently persuade them to take up an instrument instead. If they show good general musical aptitude, get them a trumpet or a trombone. If they have no musical skills at all, they'd probably be more comfortable in the clarinet section.

In the meantime, if you want to hear some really astounding vocals, drop by the next time I'm in the shower. And have a great day!

Medication

Even though this cold hasn't slowed down any of my activities, it has kinda messed up my sleep a bit. A couple of my nights have been spent sniffling and coughing. I didn't feel bad at all and was sleepy enough -- but when these random lung explosions interrupt your dreams, it tends to have an impact on overall rest accomplishment.

I ended up taking Sudafed last night. Well, not a Sudafed, exactly. It was the King Soopers generic equivalent...and not the one you can make Meth out of, but the kind you can get over the counter. Whatever it was, it was very effective. I slept through the entire night without a problem.

I probably won't do that again, though. Don't want it to become a habit. Hopefully, the virus will have taken its course and will leave me alone to rest comfortably without chemicals tonight. We'll see.

The Stages of a Cold

First there's that little anomalous feeling in the back of your throat where you think, "Hmm, that's odd." Then after it lingers for a bit, recognition sets in and you say to yourself, "Ah, 'tis the common cold virus come a-knockin'. This pleases me not."

Then it evolves into what the commercials call "Post Nasal Drip". A better name would be "aw, man, my throat's getting raw" -- but who am I to argue with the gurus of Big Medicine? Your first thoughts during this stage are that you can whip this via will-power and positive attitude (possibly aided by some extra Vitamin C, garlic, and ice cream). And trust me, I do think your attitude is terrifically important in determining how your response to the attack progresses...but sometimes even the most optimistic of us succumb to the next phase.

Your sinuses begin to clog. You start to sound funny. Your nose might run a bit. It might run a lot.

This is the point at which you typically begin to feel rotten. Your thought processes slow down, muscles weaken, enthusiasm for life begins to wane, and you desperately seek relief via sleep, symptom-fighting pharmaceuticals, or both. After that, you mope around (if you move at all), eventually begin coughing, and blow a lot of disgusting crud into a lot of kleenexes.

[Side note: One of my Journalism professors always warned against using a Brand Name as a regular noun, ie, "kleenex" in place of "facial tissue". I certainly agree with his reasoning (it's not fair to the company who owns the brand, it may not be accurate, it's erodes the foundation of the principles of advertising -- thus damaging the roots of commerce and therefore eventually weakening the very pillars of capitalism itself, etc)...but the jerk gave me a crummy "B" in that class, so screw it.]

I think we can all agree that colds are nasty business. Once the body's defenses rebound, though, each symptom slowly improves, until finally the drippage ends and you're just hacking out the occasional cough, while going about the rest of your business without complaint.

My latest cold has progressed exactly in this fashion except for one small thing: I've never felt bad at all. Oh I've had sinus drainage, phlegm coagulation, and chest cavity spasms from coughs and sneezes...but no lethargy, weakness, or brain-function impairment at all. I've been able to continue swimming, working out, and going to the office with no interruption, and no tanglible impact on my performance. It's weird, but I'll take it.

I do not know if it's just that the particular strain of cold virus going around this year is a wimpy one...or if my immune system is the phisiological analog of the US Military, and is strong enough to kick the crap out of anybody who messes with it. Either way, I'm very pleased that I've had no down time as a result of being infected, and expect to be through with the coughing in just a few more days.

Who knows? Maybe there's something medicinal about my diet; perhaps the daily combination of Diet Coke and chocolate-covered peanuts provides undocumented health-enhancement benefits. Or maybe it's just the cumulative effect of breathing swimming-pool chlorine fumes for all these years. In any case, I think it's wise to recommend that everyone should strive to be as much like me as possible if they want to get through their next cold with minimal lifestyle impact. Plus, it would just make the world a better place. Don't you agree?

In any case, I wish you all the best of health, and please accept my heartfelt wishes that you'll have a great day!

Subzero Temperatures

I'm a bit reluctant to use the term "subzero" in its familiar context, because I'm sure that it will set Tanner off on one of his "Everybody should use the Metric System" rants, like he did the last time we visited my dad's house. (That was fun to watch -- he was completely flabbergasted to learn that my dad and brother were ready to vigorously defend the benefits of the inch-pound system...with violence if necessary. Tanner wasn't properly prepared to argue, because up until that very moment, he would not have even considered the idea that a more-or-less rational adult would argue against the metric system on any grounds other than economic ones. I was hoping that he'd be able to use that lesson to see how others might see some of his viewpoints as irrational, but so far...no such luck.)

Anyway, despite the fact that the Fahrenheit scale obviously has its flaws, the truth is that most Americans instinctively grasp that when the temperature goes below 0°F, it's just flat cold. And that's how it was when I went to the gym this morning; so cold that the air actually had texture, and each breath felt like a big bite of Peppermint Pattie. My car groaned reluctantly but eventually started, and the snow on the windshield was too cold to even stick to it properly. The streets were slick, but passable.

Surprisingly, there was a pretty good crowd at the gym. And despite the weather-driven biological urge to begin hibernation, I actually loosened up and had a pretty good workout once I got there. But the air temperature hadn't warmed up much by the time I left to head on in to the office.

As I usually do, I had prepared some fruit to eat immediately after leaving the gym. I didn't even think about potential problems from leaving my food in the car, but when I tried to bite into my banana, I found that it was frozen! My carrots had ice crystals inside them! This is not right, people. Geez.

When I was in college, I went through a brief (very brief) "frozen chocolate-covered banana" phase. There was this funky little hippie health-food store that was operating out of an abandoned photomat booth, which, because of its "anti-establishment" appeal, was very trendy for us rebellious youth. (I think it was even called "Sgt Peppers". They also served carob-coated zucchini, cinnamon asparagus, and various parsley-based snack dishes, but those didn't have the appeal of the frozen 'nanner treats.) But just like our commitment to the whole hippie movement, our devotion to Woodstock-inspired food fads faded pretty quickly, and we realized that just because something was trendy -- well, it didn't mean it was good.

So what I'm saying is that I was disappointed to find my banana frozen. (And rest assured, I do not plan to ever utter that particular sentence again.)

Anyway, I couldn't help thinking about a few other cold-weather memories. Someday I'll tell you about the time we went to the "Rent a Piece of Crap" car agency to procure transportation for a ski trip to Steamboat. That particular adventure did not end well at all. But I also have my own personal vehicle story to share.

I once owned a Ford Pinto. Yes, that's right -- a Pinto. And contrary to what your instincts might tell you, I really liked that car. Unfortunately, it fell apart...I mean literally fell apart at 75,000 miles, which is one of the reasons I would never buy a Ford again...but until then it was fun to drive. Except for the time I had to go home from swim practice when it was -20°F.

The car started up just fine, and I began to drive toward my house. But when I stopped for a light at Kipling and Quincy, the engine started to race. It was supposed to be idling, but the darn thing was redlining! Yikes! Not wanting the car to go supernova, I immediately turned it off.

Fortunately, I was kinda into doing my own car maintenance at that time of my life, so I knew how to get under the hood and troubleshoot some of the most obvious throttle-sticking malfunctions. The problem was that I had planned to be either in the car or in a building, and had only a lightweight jacket and no gloves. And no AAA membership.

So here I am, standing in the middle of the street with the hood up, using my bare fingers to unscrew the wing nuts off the air filter housing to get to the carburetor. Every couple of twists I'd have to stop and stick my frozen fingers up inside my shirt to warm them, with the net result of causing my entire body temperature to drop rapidly. But by the time I got the air filter lid off, I was still alive, and still had enough control of my fingers to be able to fiddle with the carb's butterfly valves. Sure enough, it was just sticky; a little WD-40 would take care of the problem right away.

Only I didn't have any WD-40. (The closest thing I had was my chapstick, and even my limited knowledge of lubricants made that sound like a questionable idea.) I got the valve unstuck (via pure frozen-fingered brute force) and started the car up again. It sounded great, idling at exactly the right speed. Risking frostbite, I reassembled the device, slammed the hood, and jumped back behind the wheel. Putting it in gear, I gently nudged the accelerator.

And here we go again: The engine began to race up past the redline! OK, dude, shut the thing down, rinse and repeat. Hop out, unscrew the wingnuts, jiggle the jiggly parts, see if it unsticks. Try not to freeze to death in the process. Stick hands in pants. Switch to armpits after discovering that your pants don't really want those unbelievably cold hands anywhere near that area. Try the car again.

It worked fine, but I chose not to reinstall the air filter housing, since I figured the problem was likely to recur. I don't remember for sure, but I doubt that I even closed the car's hood all the way. I only had about 2 miles to drive to get home, but I was really cold, and there weren't any nearby buildings where I could go to warm up. I started the car, got in, and nudged the accelerator. Rrrrrr! RRRRRR! Redline!

There's more to the story, but I won't bore you with the parts about hasty plans to write my last will and testament to leave next to my icy corpse (didn't have a pen that worked), or my thoughts about using the air filter lid to dig a snow cave to hunker down in until Spring. I'll also skip the parts about discarded plans to siphon from the gas tank to build a fire (no hose) or using the car's seat cushions to build a small igloo (hey -- it was a Pinto...not much insulative substance to work with, you know?).

My final solution was to put the car into first gear and stomp on the brake throughout the entire trip home. It was revving at about 8000 rpm and travelling about 40 mph, even though I was using the full force of my leg on the brake pedal and the rotors were smokin'. I was eventually able to make it home without permanent frostbite injury, and without blowing up the car -- though come to think of it, this incident may have had something to do with the fact that the vehicle fell apart at 75K. Hmmm.

Anyway, I offer this story as part of my continuing effort to educate people so they won't make the same mistakes I have. Lessons learned here include the following rules for life:

• Always have a can of WD-40 in your car. (Duct tape, too. And if possible, a flamethrower, some Twinkies, and at least one pair of Vise-Grips.


• If it's 20 below zero and you're driving a car with a carburetor...wear a coat and gloves, ya moron!


• Better yet, get a car with fuel injection.


• Even better than that, skip swim practice altogether on the ultra-frigid days! Stay home in bed.

Either that, or switch to using the Celsius scale -- so "zero" will be a tolerable temperature. That makes sense, doesn't it?

Oh well, it probably doesn't matter, since Pintos have been Darwined out of existence by now, and everybody has a cell phone they can use to call a cab, anyway. So, for today's driver, there's nothing to do but enjoy the crisp feeling of frozen nose hairs, savor the extra-crunchy sensation when you bite into suddenly solidified fruit. Just smile...and have a great day!

Domestic Chores

Some days, I'm just not in the mood to haul my buns out into a snowstorm to go for a run, and Saturday was one of those. It was cold, windy, and spitting frozen stuff from the sky, so my plan to go out and do a 12-miler in the canyon was tossed in the trash along with my orange peels and AARP membership solicitations.

I spent the morning doing laundry, spraying disinfectant cleaner on the kitchen countertops, and filing away all the paperwork that I'll look at in five years and wonder why I ever kept it in the first place. Then there's the vacuuming, which is actually a pretty swell thing to do on a cold and nasty day.

And if you'd allow me to digress for just a moment, I'll be happy to offer a word of advice on shopping for vacuum cleaners. In addition to testing the machine's suction, maneuverability, accessory availability, and general aesthetic appeal...make sure you pay attention to how much heat the darn thing puts out. I tested my current machine in the wide-open and well-ventilated aisles of Best Buy, and didn't realize until I got it home that it generates more BTUs than my furnace. Now, that's a dandy feature to have on a miserably cold winter day, but it totally sucks if you're trying to keep your house clean in the summertime.

Trust me. I am somewhat of an expert on vacuum cleaners. I sold the Rainbow brand machine during the summer before my final year of college, and learned all about airflow, dust-capture mechanisms, attachment/accessory utility, and a hundred reasons why owning a non-Rainbow brand clearly indicated your woeful inadequacy as a parent, as a spouse, and as a human being.

Their prospecting method was interesting: They mailed out flyers that said "You are guaranteed to have won between $2 and $1000", and all you had to do to claim your prize was to sit through a 1-hour demonstration of this "air-filtering mechanism". Once someone set up an appointment to claim their cash prize, I'd go out to their house with a big suitcase full of equipment. The first part of the demo was indeed about the Rainbow's awesome air filtering capabilities, and most people actually enjoyed the presentation up to that point. But whaddaya know? If you happen to stick a hose onto our little "air filter", why...Goodness Me...it also picks up dirt. And so it would go. By the end of the hour, you'd see how this miraculous device also shampoos the carpet, washes your car, grooms your pets, and enhances your social standing within the community. It's amazing!

Of course, it also costs more than sending your kid to Harvard. Oh, there's no doubt that it's a darn fine vacuum cleaner. But when it came time to ask the prospects to whip out their checkbooks and cough up their life's savings to have a slightly cleaner carpet than what they could get with the Hoover they already had...well, I just couldn't close the deal. And when I revealed that their "cash prize" was the nearly-inevitable $2 minimum, well, they were not often pleased.

Thus, my vacuum-cleaner sales career only lasted a couple of weeks. After that, I went back to my former job at the Home Oil Company and spent the rest of the summer filling gallon gas cans with Coleman fuel for $2.50/hour. But that's another story. Regardless --the fact that I didn't sell too many Rainbows doesn't at all diminish the validity of the education I received during the process. So, the bottom line is that you should listen to me when I talk about vacuums. OK?

So, check the heat output. And also test how easy it is to tip the darn thing over when you reach out with the nozzle. And don't be fooled by the "EZ dump" cannister emptying option -- it might indeed open and dump easily, but you're still gonna get dust and dirt all over the place when you perform that particular task. Just do it somewhere that allows for plenty of airborne filth escaping and floating around and sticking to stuff.

You're welcome. Stay tuned for future lessons on such domestic topics as "Things you should not microwave" and "What not to store on shelves that are above your head".

Anyway, after my chores, I did finally feel like running, and by then the weather had improved immensely. I ended up running down the bike path from my home over to where Tanner's band practices. I saw that the kids' cars were there, so I stopped in and asked for a private performance. They obliged. (I'll talk about their new music in future postings. Public performances will begin again in March. Stayed tuned for further info.) And thus musically fulfilled, I ran back home at an even faster pace than I had gone out.

And after running, I was warmed up enough that I didn't even feel the urge to do any more vacuuming. That's what I call having a good day.

Space Art

For some reason, my brother thinks that for our track workouts, we should practice hard starts and up-on-the-toes sprinting -- in order to help me run long distances better. I'm quite sure that I will never in my life run a race of less than 2 miles, but what the heck, I'll go along with his ideas.

We did a bunch of 50-yard bursts, and I was pleased by how fast I was able to go. I even got up on my toes a bit, driving the knees -- and all the other technique things that Pat told me I ought to be doing. Of course, he still beat me by 10 yards on each sprint, but that's OK. I never ran track in school.

Back in the 1980s, though, I did have the opportunity to run on the Martin Marietta corporate track team at a fundraiser for the Special Olympics. I was going to run a 200 on a medley relay. (Coming from a swimming background, I was a little unclear on the specifics of a medley relay -- in swimming, each participant on a medley does an entirely different stroke. But as far as I knew, there was only one "stroke" in a track meet -- just plain running. But as my teammates finally explained to me, this was a medley of distances, not form.)

What was I doing on a track team, you ask? Well, for several years I had been involved with the Martin Corporate Games team as coordinator/coach of the swim team, and had worked closely with Leroy Hollins and Lori Sharp, who managed the entire spectrum of Martin Marietta participation. Well, that year, there just weren't very many people who tried out for the track team, and on the day of the competition, they still had an empty spot on the relay. Relays counted for double points, and even if the final member of the squad really sucked (which I would)...we'd still score some important points. So while the hand-wringing and worried speculation continued as the start time approached, I hesitantly volunteered to fill the empty relay slot.

Though I had quite a bit of experience in distance running, I informed my teammates that my pace for a 200 would probably be no different than my pace for a mile. They were all very kind and tolerant, but I know there was much eyebrow raising when I wasn't looking. In any case, we practiced a few baton passes and continued stretching in anticipation of taking the track.

Alas, it was not to be. As the start time for relays approached, so did the typical Denver summer storm. About 5 minutes before we were scheduled to run, the tornado sirens went off and the meet was immediately cancelled. The hailstorm arrived moments later, and it was every man for himself in a mad scramble to protect life and property. The event was never rescheduled, and I never again had the chance to run on a track in front of an audience.

So what does that story have to do with Pat's workout ideas? Well, it's this -- my legs are really sore now. Even though our total mileage was a small fraction of my normal training run distance, the intensity and differences in form were enough to torment my muscles into next-day stiffness and discomfort.

The good news is that I was able to do some good stretch-out walking at work. One of our department's highly talented artists, Bill Mitchell, was giving a lunchtime presentation on the history of artwork related to space exploration. It was at SSB, which is about a half mile away from my office on the other side of the creek that runs down the middle of the valley. Therefore, I got to stroll down the path to the creek and back up the other side. Really helped to stretch out my sore legs. It was the high point of the day.

Well, physically, anyway. Bill's presentation was the true highlight of the day. He began by showing magazine covers from the early 1950s, which were the first public images of realistic space-related science. From there, he walked us through the history of space art, explaining along the way about the process of taking real scientific ideas and translating them into breathtaking artwork. Those pictures were instrumental in translating the vision of scientists and engineers into images that we could all see and admire, giving us a feel for what was possible through forward thinking and the drive for discovery. It also gave us a better appreciation for the talent and skill that our co-workers continually apply to the aesthetic side of our business.

The presentation was an uplifting and educational experience, with more consistently fine artistic flair on display than you'd expect to see in a museum. It was a welcome break from the daily routine of our normal work, and I'm hoping they'll do more of this sort of thing in the future. Plus, I got to take another nice long walk back to the office. My legs were still stiff and creaky, but it was that "good" kind of soreness that tells you that you pushed hard without injuring yourself. It may be uncomfortable, but it still feels like...like accomplishment.

And if nothing else, having sore legs really makes me look forward to swimming. With a brain full of inspiring images of exploration & discovery, and a body that feels like it's finally inching along toward fitness, I can't wait until tomorrow. I can tell that it's gonna be a great day!

New Windshield

The weather has been gorgeous for the last few days. And when the weather is nice, I prefer to have a nice clean car. Unfortunately, when they put in my new windshield the other day, they said that I couldn't do a car wash for at least 24 hours. Something about how the glue needs to set, and the possibility that a power sprayer would blow the new glass clean off the car, I guess. So, since I always follow directions, the car is still grimy.

But the windshield is completely invisible! It's a bit odd to drive down the road and see everything so clearly, without any of the little imperfections that scatter the light all over the place. Wonder how long that clarity will last?

Probably until tomorrow. It's supposed to snow then, which means that I'll get road slop, sand, and all sorts of caustic chemicals thrown up onto my pristeen glass in the next 24 hours or so. I guess that means that I shouldn't bother washing the car, either, even though the glue should've set by now.

How often does your behavior change based on a weather forecast? Obviously, activities like tennis, running, and biking will be affected by the elements -- but how often do you re-arrange trips to the store, dining options, or hanging out with friends...just because some guy on the radio said that precipitation was pending? Do you choose the day's clothing based on the such prognostications? Is your music selected for its compatibility with the climate?

Not me: I'm usually oblivious. I pick my clothing based on whatever happens to be closest to the door of my closet, and choose my coat based on whether I was cold or not the day before.

But in addition to my obliviousness, I have a healthy dose of skepticism; I don't have a lot of faith in weather forecasts—In fact, one year, I kept track of weather forecasts on a daily basis, and compared my own predictions to theirs. (I looked out the window and predicted whether it would rain or snow based on what I thought the sky looked like. The meteorologists based their predictions on radar screens, maps, and those funny little metal trees with the spinning ice-cream scoops on them.) For that year, I was correct about 65% of the time, and the professional weather dudes got it right a little less than half the time. I concluded that I no longer needed to rely on them at all.

Anyway, as I was filling my gas tank, it made me smile to realize that I didn't have to squeegee the windshield. I still needed to remove the duct tape that the glass guy stuck on there, but otherwise, I could just stand there are watch the numbers fly by on the pump. But this puzzles me: when I inserted my Sooper Card for the 10-cents-per-gallon gas discount, the pump asked me "Do you want to use you 10-cent discount?"

I don't think it does any good to spit out a sarcastic "Well, DUH!" to an inanimate machine, but I was still tempted to do it. Seriously, why would I have inserted my customer card if I didn't want to use the benefit? Are there people who actually respond by saying "No, I'd prefer to pay full price, please!"? Or is that little extra question on a timeout system, so that if you don't answer within a certain number of seconds, you just don't get the discount on grounds that you refused to accept their offer? If so, then I can see it -- because some folks probably jump right into washing their windshield or are telling the kids to behave or pondering their grocery list or something...and totally ignore the gas pump's little screen.

Not me, though. My windshield was clean, no kids were in the car, and I was proceeding directly to work after filling up, so I pressed "Yes" and got my discount. I'm not gonna throw my money away. Instead, I went over to the booth and bought a lottery ticket.

So, with pride in my fiscal responsibility, a full tank of gas, and a clear view of the world, I intend to enjoy the rest of this warm weather. I hope you will, too!

A Day Off

Yesterday was a most excellent day! Since there was nothing important going on at the office and I had a bunch of chores I needed to do, I took the day off work. I started the morning with a good workout at the gym and then had a nice run in beautiful weather later. I got my car's windshield fixed, and also had a productive day around the house. A most excellent day.

And I have a confession to make: I did end up watching some of the TV coverage of the events in Washington DC. I missed the inauguration itself, but I caught the interview with the Head Usher at the White House. (I suppose that his position is the pinnacle of the usher's craft, the ultimate career goal to which all who ush aspire.) He seemed like a fairly sharp dude, and seemed to like his job. I kinda tuned out, though, when he was talking about his duties, so other than showing people to their seats in the White House movie theater, I'm not real sure what he does.

I was an usher at my sister's wedding, but that was probably my only experience in the field. And to tell you the truth, I don't even remember much about it. I seem to recall that I received some brief training about how to do that thing where you kinda stick your elbow out for a lady to grab onto, but beyond that, nothing stands out. I don't even remember if we were operating on the "bride-side vs. groom-side" paradigm...but if we were, it probably worked out OK; my sister and her husband were probably about equally popular. (I've been to weddings, though, where one side of the church is full of happily weeping people, while the other side contains nothing but blowing sand and tumbleweeds. Makes you feel sorry for the unsupported member of the pair -- kinda like when there are a dozen bridesmaids and just one or two groomsmen. It's funny how the concept of symmetry seems to be an unspoken requirement in nearly every type of ceremony, isn't it?)

Anyway, the point is that the President has a lot more stuff going on in his house than you or I do. I'm not sure I'd like that. Oh sure, I'd definitely dig having a cleaning staff, and a cook -- but even then I'd just want them to come in and do their thing and then leave. I understand that the White House has a bunch of people actually living there (or at least hanging out pretty much all the time), and I think that would eventually get on my nerves.

Sigh. I guess that's just one more argument against me ever becoming Commander in Chief. It's really too bad (especially considering my vast wisdom, innate leadership qualities, and fondness for blowing stuff up), but somehow the country must continue to muddle by without my smiling face behind the Presidential Podium. Have no fear, though -- I shall continue to serve this great nation via my blogging, coaching, and tireless promotion of Mexican food's health benefits.

And I shall also offer this jewel of personal wisdom -- If you can get away with occasionally taking a vacation day in the middle of the week, DO IT! There's no better way to have a great day.

Inauguration

According to the media hype, Obama's inauguration will be quite the spectacle -- an event of epic magnitude, heralding in a new age of enlightenment and progress. Filled with rock stars, movie celebrities, and religious leaders from a dozen different belief systems, the inauguration is a can't-miss, once in a lifetime event. And once it's over, it'll only be a matter of weeks before there's a chicken in every pot, a bio-fuel flying car in every garage, and universal acclamations of love, peace, and tolerance from every country on earth. (Well...except for the rich people; those evil bastards are finally going to get the punishment they deserve for their continuing crimes of productivity. Bwaahh haaa haa ha!)

I have to say that even though all the inaugural ceremoniality sounds pretty darned awesome, all right, I'm afraid that I'm still going to skip it. I'm just not that much of a pomp and party dude. And though it's probably un-American to admit it, I really don't like Bruce Springsteen at all.

But it does make me think about what I would do if I were ever elected President. (Oh, don't worry -- I won't run. I realize that not knowing the difference between Nigeria and Nicaragua would be a handicap in developing foreign policy. I've also been known to confuse Iran and Irene Ryan...so it's doubtful anyone would vote for me. Plus, I've always believed it's best to nuke first and ask questions later, which is a position you don't hear many successful politicians take. No, I don't think I'll ever run.)

If I were elected, though, you can bet that my inauguration ceremony would be unique. The catering would be by Chipotle and the music would be by Dome Cube. All speeches would contain references to San Dimas High School Football and/or lines from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail", and would be no more than 30 seconds long. And there would probably be a swim meet, a Bruce Lee movie, and at least one set of dueling banjos. And even with all those activities, we'd still be home in bed by 7:30pm.

I wouldn't change any of the drapes in the White House, because quite frankly, I can't think of any activity more useless than worrying about drapes. I'd probably take down the previous occupant's Bon Jovi and Madonna posters, though, and replace them with dentist-office art -- because I'd definitely want my staff to understand the importance of flossing between meetings with heads of state. I'd order the butler to fill the fridge with Diet Dr. Pepper and the cabinets with Junior Mints, and I'd be ready to govern.

Anyway, the point is that until you folks decide to put me in charge of the Free World, I'll probably continue to pay more attention to how the President runs things than to what sorts of parties he throws. But I know that some folks are really into the whole celebration and ceremony part of it, and more power to 'em. So, whether you ignore the inauguration or spend the day glued to the tube, you have my best wishes and encouragement to enjoy yourself, and have a great day!

Another Enjoyable Sunday

Saturday morning's run started out a LOT tougher than I thought it was going to be. The wind was blowing down the canyon with evil determination and sadistic glee. And my ancient and decrepit body, with all its internal heat being stripped off, was abnormally reluctant to function. For the first mile, everything hurt. My knees, ankles, muscles -- they all were firmly in agreement that it was NOT a good morning for a run. My hands were frozen, even though I had them tucked into my shirtsleeves, and my nose and ears felt like they were covered with icicles. The wind stabbed like Norman Bates, and there were patches of treacherous ice on the road. I seriously thought about turning around and trying to run after work instead. But I somehow talked myself into doing two miles uphill (walking if I had to), just so I'd be forced to cover a total of 4 by the time I returned to the car. Then I could at least say that I did something.

My discomfort didn't diminish a whit during the second mile. But despite my hands feeling frozen, I realized that they weren't in danger of frostbite, and weren't getting any worse, so I decided to just keep going. Maybe if I forced myself to go to the dam, I'd feel better about the whole fiasco, no matter how badly I sucked. At least a 10K would count to burn off my breakfast calories, even if I did walk the whole thing.

After 25 minutes of puffing and panting, cursing and groaning, and making plans to burn all of my running gear, I finally reached the 2-mile stick. And it was right around there that the wind let up for a bit. So I tried to concentrate on my form (slow as it was) and keep putting one foot in front of the other. I made it to the 3-mile mark, and then started to actually feel better. I decided to try to make it to 4.

And that's all it took -- three miles of warmup; then I was fine. My hands warmed up, my ankle got loose, and my attitude improved tremendously as I began to feel human again. Because it had taken me so long to get that far, though, I still decided to turn around at 4.5, so that I could make it to work on time.

I don't know my exact splits, but I'll bet that I negative split the run by something like 10 minutes. I felt SO much better on the way down, and with the strong wind pushing me, I was covering ground a lot faster, too. The only problem was that I'd still occasionally start trying to speed up past my "spaz point", and my left hammie would shriek at me until I slowed down. But I felt so strong! I didn't want to go slow!

The best news, though, is that I ran the entire final mile in what I would call my "real runner" mode (hardly limping at all), and felt good. I got my heart rate up to 170, and was cranking along pretty good. I'm sure an outside observer would still be tempted to call an ambulance if they saw me, but I felt like I was freakin' Forrest Gump.

I probably should have run another couple of miles, but I really did need to get to work. I took a nice hot shower at RDL, changed into my work clothes, and then sat down at my desk to process the artwork that was waiting. I felt pretty good, and ended up having a great Saturday at the office.

One bit of bad news, though -- I learned late Saturday afternoon that there would be no swim practice on Sunday morning, due to a gas leak that affected the heaters at the pool. That meant I'd have to find some other way to exercise on Sunday morning.

So Sunday morning, I decided to go out to Red Rocks and run some stairs. The weather was decent and there was a pretty good crowd of folks up there. Most of them were working out, too. (I love living in a place where so many people like to stay in shape!)

I ran up six times, which I figured was about the same number of steps I'd have to cover in the Run the Republic race next month. (Of course, in that race, I won't get to go back downhill 5 times in the middle of the run. It'll be a LOT tougher.) I figured that was just about the right amount to make me just a little bit sore, but not crippled. We'll find out later if I guessed correctly.

After doing the steps, I jogged a bit more inside the park to loosen up my legs, and then went home for a quick shower. At 1:30, I went over to pick up Tanner and the two of us went out to lunch.

As you probably know, I think that my son is one of the smartest guys around. His intellect and talent are truly impressive...and I've heard enough other people agree to think that it's not just my parental pride talking. But that doesn't mean that I don't sometimes get frustrated with his teenage pigheadedness. It's my job to offer life advice to the young man, of course...and having collected far more life experience than he has, I feel qualified to provide direction and encouragement that would make his journey to adulthood much smoother and more productive. But being a teenager, he has an instinctive need to refuse my advice and proceed down his own path. Our lunchtime discussion was enjoyable, but didn't result in the meeting of the minds that I'd hoped for.

Oh well, I suppose that every parent goes through that...and that all children eventually realize that their folks weren't quite as muddle-headed as the kids once thought. But in the meantime, I find myself doing the same old clichéd expressions of parental frustration that everyone does -- banging my head against the wall and wailing to the sky, saying "Where did I go wrong?"

Sigh.

The good news is that even though he hasn't yet learned to make every single decision in accordance with his father's nearly-infinite wisdom, he's at least still willing to discuss things with me...and then go play tennis afterward. So we had an excellent lunch, and then bopped over to the tennis courts to knock some balls around. And let's face it -- any day where I can run stairs, eat like a pig, and then still chug around on a tennis court with my son is a good day, indeed.

I hope you had an enjoyable weekend as well. Keep smiling, my friends!

Workin' the Weekend

Here it is, another Saturday where I have to go into the office. I shouldn't complain, cuz every weekend hour I work converts into a weekday hour I might possibly get to take off (once the proposal is finished). That's a good thing. And seriously, what would I accomplish on a Saturday at home anyway? Laundry? (It can wait.) Make a pizza? (That would just make me fatter.) Redecorate the apartment, rearrange the furniture, or shop for new drapes? (What do I look like...Charles Nelson Reilly?)

Well, OK, I could do more exercise, maybe hang out with my kid, or perhaps do something creative. But most likely I would fritter it away; noontime, suppertime, choretime too. It's probably good to keep me chained to a desk and off the streets.

Before I head to the office, though, I do intend to go for a run. The weather report says that it might be a tad cool and a tad windy, but I think I'm prepared for those conditions. I'll head out to Waterton and try to put in 6 or 8 miles. I'll let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, please enjoy your Saturday, and don't waste any energy lamenting how unfair it is that you're out riding your bike, hiking in the foothills, or shopping for a new hat -- while I'm buried under paperwork in a sterile cubicle, completely oblivious to the full pageantry of life kicking up its heels in the outside world. No, don't worry about me; I'll be fine. You just go ahead and (sob) have a great day!

Blog Clog

Longtime readers already know this...but when I'm busy on a proposal at the office, my brain cells become too depleted to fire adequately for quality blogging.

OK, you're right -- they're never adequate for quality blogging, but you know what I mean. Perhaps I should've said, "When I'm super tired from slaving over a hot desk all day, I ain't gonna post nuthin'." Semantics aside, the message is that while my intent is to blather away on meaningless topics each and every day, the reality is that every now and then there will be days when I just don't get it done. And it's all their fault; you know -- those people who sign my paychecks. Heartless monsters!

So, in lieu of a written diatribe or deep philosophical discussion, I shall simply leave you with a short educational documentary of timeless importance. Please feel free to forward it to anyone you know who may experience challenges is this area. and have a great day!

Smoke Detector

As you may be aware, I make the world's greatest pizza. I had made one of these masterpieces the other day, and was looking forward to savoring the last leftover slices when I got home from work. Well, I finished off my pizza all right -- but there was quite an interval between the first bite and the last. Therein lies today's tale.

I was blissfully eating, making that "mmmm" noise you make when your food is too delicious to be described in any known language. In the middle of my twelfth bite, there was a knock on the door. I had been pretty hungry when I got home, so I was a tad annoyed at the interruption. I figured I'd look out the peephole, and if I didn't know the person, would ignore them and go back to eating.

Nobody was there. I turned back toward my dinner plate, figuring that the kid selling magazines or candy or whatever had given up, when there was another knock. I went back to the peephole, and this time, I recognized my neighbor Rosemary. The first time, she had just been standing too close to the door, and not being very tall, was below my field of view. Anyway, after I opened the door, I found out that her smoke detector was beeping, and she couldn't reach it.

Those things are a total pain in the butt. Yes, I know they save lives...but what kind of moron designs something that is SO incredibly difficult to deal with when it begins to whine for attention? There's no "snooze" button. They're usually mounted on the ceiling, using a hidden screw system that forces you to work blind with your arms over your head while standing on something precarious. I suspect that more people die from smoke-detector ladder accidents than from actual fires. But I digress.

Rosemary said that the foul thing had kept her awake throughout the previous night, sleeping in the other room with a pillow hugged tightly over her head. Anyway, long story short -- I dragged my barstool over to her place, and after much struggle, sore arms, and some language I'm not proud of, I got the defective detector down and replaced the battery with a spare she had...and it still kept beeping! ??? I didn't have any other suggestions for her, so I wished her luck and went back home while she was holding the offending device in her hand. I suspect she ended up smashing it to pulp, throwing it in the trash, and will buy a new one tomorrow.

The bottom line is that I really need a stepstool or a small ladder. Anyway, I performed my good neighbor duties for the evening, and was finally able to finish off my pizza. Then I played guitar until my soda was gone, and zipadee doo dah--here it is at bedtime. And believe it or not, I think I'm sleepy enough to snooze.

Here's wishing us all a peaceful, beep-free night!

A Busy Day

When I woke up and looked out the window yesterday, the parking lot was dry and there was a general feeling of mild weather. Therefore, I was surprised when I walked out the door an hour later and found over an inch of snow on the ground and a full-blown blizzard in progress.

Well, as they always say...if you don't like the weather in Colorado, then move to the Bahamas.

(Actually, they say "wait a minute", but I suspect that this witty comment isn't unique to Colorado. I'm pretty sure they say it in Kansas, North Dakota, and probably Iowa, too. I doubt they say it in San Diego, or in Seattle, or in Antartica, but it's still got to be a pretty common phrase. Personally, though, I'm committed to the Bahamas version. It's been a pretty mild winter, all things considered, but I'm still finding myself thinking about living on a Jimmy Buffet album cover.)

Oh well, despite the Hoth-like conditions, I was still able to make it to my workout, and then into the office. Good thing, too, because our proposal workload has picked up a bit. There was plenty to do. And as always happens when a proposal ramps up, my blogging will probably suffer...as my brain cells become depleted from being pounded against various walls. I do ask for your patience, though, because when I finally return to a more stress-free period, I promise that I'll try to actually generate something with entertainment value. I do so appreciate it when you stop by this site: Thank you!

Someday, I might even attempt to describe to you what exactly it is I do during my workday. Or not; it's probably really boring to an outside observer. Even though there are times when I feel that the action has attained James-Bondian proportions, the fact remains that what you'd see is just an exasperated fellow scratching his head, typing at his keyboard, or using his cheap ballpoint pen to make red marks on various sheets of paper. Yawn! I may be a cog in the machine upon which our country's freedom is built...but I'm an aesthetically uninteresting cog, to be sure.

Oh well, the weather did clear up, and it became a fairly nice day. Most of the frozen roadstuff that made the morning commute crawl was converted into the stuff that made the evening commute into a car-wash-owner's dream.

The point is that these postings may be even more lame and feeble than usual for a while. But there's no reason you can't find entertainment value here, even then. Why not make it into a creativity game? "Terry's blog was as lame as..." and then fill in the blank. Might be fun!

But please don't waste any time worrying about how much I might be suffering under the brutal whips of my mericiless corporate overlords, or about whether my brain might completely implode under the pressure of being used beyond its meager capacity. I'll be fine. Instead, you should just go out and enjoy the lovely weather, whether it changes every minute or not. Have a great day!

100 x 100s

Yesterday was our annual "New Year's" workout, where we swim 100 one hundreds (for a total of 10,000 yards) in one practice. We had a good turnout, and about a dozen people finished the entire thing.

An event like that takes precision planning, good communication, and cooperation from all the folks involved -- and we had all of that. What we didn't have was a way to get into the stinking building!

That's right, we had the 3 Foothills staffers, 2 coaches, and about a dozen swimmers all standing around outside the building when it was time to start swimming. The doors wouldn't open. Oh, we had keys, touchpad codes, and all the authorized access we were supposed to...but the doors just wouldn't open. They'd make the right "I'm unlocking now" click sound, but no matter how hard you yanked on the handle, there was no movement. And yes, we tried the other doors, too -- but it was as if the facility was just refusing to let us in on this particular morning.

Thankfully, the lifeguards were able to reach pool manager Zach, who promptly showed up with his Super Double Extra Powerful manager's key, and was able to get us in without setting off any alarms. And like the helpful people that swimmers always are, the entire group pitched in to pull the tarps, install the lane lines, and help the guards set up the pool for our event. (Of course, if the door lock fiasco wasn't enough, the tarp roller machine also refused to cooperate. But with some deftly applied muscle power, we were able to overcome that challenge, too. Brute force is sometimes just as good as fancy equipment. Just more tiring.)

Stephanie helped folks get organized, and within a few minutes, thar be splashes.

10,000 yards is a bit over 5.5 miles (9.14 km), and I've heard people compare swimming that far to running a marathon. But in my opinion, it's WAY easier. Oh sure, your shoulders will get a bit stiff while swimming for 3 hours or so, but it's nothing compared to the pounding your feet and knees take in a long run. Your body is supported and cooled by the water, and you can stack up all the food and drink you'll need in the gutter at the end of the lane. A nice restroom is never more than a couple dozen yards away, and if you decide to quit...well, you're no farther away from your car than you were when you started the thing.

Oh, I suppose if you don't know how to swim at all, there is that whole drowning thing that you don't really have to worry about during a roadrunning race. But otherwise, it's just not that big a deal. The 100 x 100s is not a race; you get to stop 99 different times if you want to. Still, even though it's not nearly the accomplishment that running a marathon is, you do burn a few calories and get yourself a pretty good aerobic workout.

And that's always an excuse for eating a HUGE lunch. What more could you want?

Carbo Loading

There's no better excuse for a party than a long-distance swimming event. Since we have our special New Year's "100 x 100s" practice on Sunday, we decided to have a pasta party on Saturday night. And quite the party it was, too!

I may have eaten more brownies than pasta, but brownies have high-energy carbs, too. Don't they?

Anyway, it was an excellent party! The kids played Guitar Hero and Wii games, and the adults talked about swimming and running and stuff. As I said, it just doesn't get any better than that. And the best part was that I was still home and in bed by shortly after 8pm. Ahhh. Par-tay perfection!

Now we'll see if the extra nutritional efforts will pay off with performance. Stay tuned!

Steps

Ah, that was the kind of "overtime" day I enjoy.

It was an "off" Friday, which means that I wasn't supposed to be at work. But we were expecting a lot of proposal tasks, so they asked us to come into the office anyway. But fortunately, we had enough people to handle the workload, and I was able to take off after just a few hours. I had a most excellent lunch, and then headed north to the eye doctor's office to get new lenses to replace the ones I had scratched while running at Waterton.

As usual, they were very efficient, and I had spotless glasses back on my face within a few short minutes, and the sun was still a long way from setting. It was cool outside, but tolerable, so I called Tanner on the phone and invited him to come run some stairs with me over at Red Rocks. Unfortunately, he had already planned to play tennis with his buddy Kallas, and politely declined. I told him that I'd call again after my run, and maybe come over to join them for a game or two.

As everyone knows, Red Rocks is probably the most beautiful outdoor concert venue in the world. But it is also a Denver city park, and is open to the public when not being used for face-melting rock n' roll. From the charming town of Morrison, it's a short drive up a winding road to the amphitheatre parking lot, which was almost empty. I changed into my running clothes, and then jogged slowly up the steep ramp into the seating area.

With the 100 x 100s swim event coming up, I didn't want to overdo it and make my legs sore, so I decided to only run up the steps a couple of times. There were a few tourists wandering around the place, and a couple of other people exercising on the opposite side of the bleachers, but I had the southern stairs all to myself. That turned out to be a very good thing, because I discovered that I really need to watch my feet as I go up stairs, especially those with uneven sections (like the "access platforms" that occur every dozen steps or so). With my head down, I could easily plow into someone if I wasn't careful...or could fall on my face if I spent too much energy on avoiding other park patrons. Neither problem surfaced, though, and I was able to make my quads ache and my lungs burn, even at the laboriously slow pace I was going.

The good news is that I've now gotten a taste of what I need to do to train more for the upcoming stairclimb race. The bad news is that combining my total day's lung-toasting climbs only amounts to about a quarter of what I'll have to do all at one time on race day. Ugh.

Still, it was a start, and I felt reasonably confident that I hadn't hurt myself for the 100 x 100s. I began to jog back to the car with a smile on my face, planning to savor the spectacular view of Denver as I returned to the vehicle. But alas, 'twas not to be: the vista from "the Rocks" out toward the plains was obscured by some sort of white flakes, falling from the sky. What???

Yep, it was snowing. And by the time I reached the car, it was snowing pretty hard. A quick phone call to the boy confirmed that the tennis game had been scrubbed, and that the blizzard was not confined to the Morrison area. Oh well, at least I'd gotten some exercise in before the weather had gone all poopy.

I headed home, and spent the rest of the evening working on stuff around home. Not very exciting, but when you total up the day's activities, I'd have to say that I'm pleased with the way everything had gone. I need a lot more stairs to run during the next few weeks, though; let's hope the snow doesn't decide to stick around. In the meantime, well, it's winter -- let's just enjoy the white stuff and have a good ol' time, OK?

Have a great day, my friends!

Fun Friday

I have to work for a few hours today, but that's OK. I also have to pick up my new glasses, run some steps, and make sure my kid gets his tuition paid on time. And then there's the challenge of coming up with a "Fun Friday" swim workout that will be appropriate for the folks who'll be swimming 10,000 yards on Sunday -- while still fitting the definition of "fun".

(I've been told repeatedly that my idea of fun doesn't match the way "normal" people define it. I don't understand it, but most folks don't seem to enjoy swimming timed 1000s, or descending sets of 500s and such. Hmm.)

Otherwise, the mantra for the day is "Relax". We might do a few short sprints or something, but overall, I think we'll be leaning toward a taper-type practice. Then with the pasta party tomorrow night, everyone will be all rested and fueled up to knock out the 100 x 100s with no problem.

I'll be sure to let you know how it goes.

Poetry

Bob Dylan once said, "The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind." Well, I hate to tell ol' Bob this, but I listened to a heck of a lot of wind a-blowin' last night, and didn't hear any answers at all. The only thing my ears could pick up was my own complaining about the stupid weather and how it was messing up my running. And even most of that self-diatribe was lost in the noise from the gale-force gusts.

When you live in Kansas, you expect the weather to blow...after all, there was the well-known unpleasantness with that farm kid and her dog...but in Colorado, well, you expect to be able to sleep through the night.

It wouldn't be quite so bad, except for the fact that my fireplace rattles. Don't get me wrong, I'm an enthusiastic supporter of the Bernoulli Principle most of the time, but my enthusiasm wanes when it keeps me up at night by rattling the flue door. And seriously, why does my tiny little apartment even have a fireplace, anyway? Oh I suppose it might provide a romantic backdrop for couples who play backgammon on a bearskin rug while drinking wine in front of the fake-log flames...but I don't even remember the last time I did something like that.

So for me, the fireplace is constantly ignored until it does start to rattle. And until that happens, I can usually ignore whatever Mother Nature wants to do around the rest of the building, too -- but if the wind is strong enough, I might begin to hear sounds of dry leaves being batted about along the sidewalk, or maybe even the dumpster lids being levitated and dropped. All that commotion can make it tough to obtain adequate rest.

Anyway, the point is that I'd recommend a new tag line for Mr. Dylan's song:

The answer, you creep, is to let me have my sleep.
The answer is let me have my sleep.

That's all for now. In later posts, I'll be suggesting revised lyrics to "Takin' Care of Business" and "MacArthur Park" (if you're going to leave food out in the rain, after all, wouldn't it make more sense to do it with say, apples...or maybe a cabbage?).

In the meantime, wear your earplugs to bed, and have a great day!

Slumdog Millionaire

After hearing about what a fabulous movie it was, Tanner and I decided to go see "Slumdog Millionaire". It's a movie about a kid from India who gets on the New Delhi version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire", and seems to know answers that he shouldn't know. But as we see through flashbacks, various traumatic experiences in his youth have seared those unlikely answers into his brain. It's a rather clever premise.

Of course, it's also preposterous -- especially the fact that the flashback for each successive question just happens to come in chronological order, so that as he plays the game, we get to see how he grew up. He goes from being brutally orphaned, to being tortured in a slave-labor orphanage, to being a con man & grifter, to finally getting involved with the Indian mafia. The publicity for the movie calls it a feel-good story...but the majority of the film is about the seedy life of a petty criminal who constantly endures filth, hardship, betrayal, and loss. Not much to feel good about there, in my opinion.

According to mainstream movie critics (and literary critics, for that matter), a story becomes a "feel good" tale if the protagonist should die, but doesn't. So I guess by that criteria, I'll have to accept their take on it. And I suppose some people might consider it uplifting to see someone who has spent his life stealing from others being given the opportunity to win a million dollars, so he doesn't have to ever rob anyone again. But for my money, if you want a "feel good" movie, go rent Back to the Future again, OK?

On the other hand, if you want to spend a couple of hours immersed in the seedy side of Indian ghetto existence, and you enjoy seeing how cleverly the writers entertwine vignettes of unspeakable cruelty and torture with the excitement and glamour of network TV game shows, then you'll probably get a kick out of this movie. Does he win the money, get the girl, and temporarily escape from the mafia hit men? I'm not going to tell you. But I can reveal that there is a big Bollywood-style dance number in a train station during the closing credits. What more could you ask for?

Still, if you really, really want to see something in the "criminal youth runs away from even nastier folks" genre, I'd have to recommend "T2 - Judgment Day" instead. And if you want the big dance numbers without seeing orphan abuse and children covered with flies, then I'd recommend "HSM-3". But whichever movie you choose, I hope you enjoy it. Have a great day!

Mexico

After spending the night in El Paso, Tanner and I were planning to attempt a jaunt over the border. According to various websites, though, it appeared that you would need a passport to re-enter the USA from Mexico. Neither of us have one, so we'd definitely need more info before we ventured away from good ol' American soil.

We apparently had a couple of options, one of which was to park the car and walk across (which was recommended by the travel guides we looked at). I had two problems with that idea: one was that the walkable area would surely be specifically set up for selling crappy sombreros and zapatos to turistas--and therefore not an "authentic" experience...and the other was that my guitar and Tanner's keyboard would be visible in the back of the parked car -- potentially marking the vehicle as a good target for theft while we were across the border haggling over polaroid photos of Linda Hamilton and her dog. We decided that we'd rather cruise over to the automobile bridge crossing, and consider taking the car into Mexico.

We'd check at the Visitor Center before we went, though, to make sure that our driver's licenses would suffice as ID to get us back home. If there was any uncertainty about it all, we just wouldn't go across.

Tanner read the map and directed us toward the crossing point. When we got near where we thought we were headed, I spotted a sign with an arrow point toward Juarez. I turned to follow that arrow. The Visitor Center should be straight ahead.

And suddenly we were on a one-way bridge crossing the Rio Grande. There were no signs saying "Warning -- Turn back now if you don't want to end up in Mexico!" There was no place to back up, nowhere to pull over, and apparently no choice other than stopping in the middle of the street and abandoning your vehicle. It made me very nervous to just cruise along with the traffic, but I didn't see any other options. Suddenly, we were in Mexico!

We could see across to the other half of the bridge, where there were hundreds of cars lined up to go through the US Customs inspection. But on the "to Mexico" side of the bridge, people were just driving across without so much as a friendly wave from the border patrol. There were probably at least a dozen guys in camo gear carrying wicked-looking machine guns, but they were playing hacky-sack and probably chatting about Sabado Gigante or something -- they didn't even glance at us as we drove past.

It made us wonder what it would be like to be from a country that doesn't have to care at all about who or what crosses the border. Hmm.

On the El Paso side of the river, a lot of the signage is bilingual. But not on the south side. There's no English anywhere (unless you count the fact that one of the streets was "Abraham Lincoln Blvd"). The stop signs say "Alto", and the speed limits are all in kph. I obeyed the posted limits, but apparently none of the natives did, as cars were whizzing around us, constantly honking what I assumed must be friendly greetings of welcome to the gringos.

I think I'd have enjoyed gawking at the billboards, storefronts, and other evidence of the Mexican culture, but I found that I was a bit too worried about obeying traffic laws (I've seen too many movies about norteamericanos tortured in Mexican dungeons), and about eventually being able to find our way back to the USA...not to mention a nagging fear about that whole can't-get-back-in-without-a-passport thing. We saw one friendly gentleman gesture that he might offer assistance, but despite my 4 years of college Spanish, I had no idea what he was talking about. He was either telling us where we could find a place to park, or was trying to sell me his sister...I wasn't sure. We said a polite gracias, and drove on.

Tanner's map did list some of the streets on it, but since every single one of them curled and bent, and every single intersection had at least 5 streets cascading off of it, we were hopelessly lost within one minute of crossing the river. Fortunately, it was a Sunday morning and the stores were closed, so traffic was light. (Since we heard at least one car honking its horn at each intersection, I wondered how noisy it would be during a workday rush hour? Pretty wild, I'd imagine.) The was one street light that we passed twice -- don't ask me how we got to it either time, though -- and it had flashing yellow and red arrows on it, apparently directing us to stop turning or something, even though the road was a straight one-way thoroughfare. I just kept driving, urging the boy to look for signs that said Estados Unidos on them.

At one red light, a young fellow in clown makeup began frantically blowing a whistle while he ran out in front of the car. He began juggling, while still blowing his whistle the way a French cop would if a bank had been robbed. He was actually a pretty fair juggler, but there was something really creepy about his clown makeup, and something quite annoying about all the whistling. (And by the way, the red lights in Juarez last forever!) After spending a minute in front of the car, alternating through various juggling patterns, he came around to the driver's side window and demanded one dollar for the performance. I should've had Tanner get out of the car and show the guy that I could see juggling any time I wanted, and from a guy who didn't look like a mime with Rip Taylor fashion sense...but I wasn't thinking clearly enough to suggest that. In any case, the light did eventually change, and we left the poor fellow looking dejected, blowing half-hearted tweets as he returned to the curb.

Unfortunately, we spent so much of our time worrying about staying alive and trying to find "north" that we didn't do a very good job of photographically documenting our little cruise. But eventually, we did somehow manage to get back on the road that would take us to the US Customs checkpoint. Unlike the drive into Mexico, where the traffic didn't even slow down as it passed the "guards" -- the US side had a line of cars backed up all the way across the bridge. The majority of the vehicles seemed to be scrambling to get into the left-hand lane, but we couldn't see any signs that indicated why that option would be preferred. Perhaps there was an "express lane" for people who had monthly passes or something...we never did learn what was going on over there. We stayed to the right.

Several Mexican teenagers were running around the bridge, wiping off cars and cleaning windows in exchange for donations, but we were spared...which appeared to be a good thing, because the rags looked like they left more dirt behind than they picked up. Normally, I'm in favor of displays of entrepreneurship -- I almost always stop at neighborhood lemonade stands -- but I was happy that these guys seemed to be choosing the Mercedes and Lexus drivers for their customers, leaving the beat-up Subarus alone.

Eventually we made it to the checkpoint. A friendly young fellow took our drivers licenses, and asked for our passports. When we said we didn't have them, he made us take our clothes off and go through a combination x-ray and anal probe process.

Naw, I'm kidding. He did look us over pretty well, and opened all the car doors and poked around through our luggage, but he allowed us to remain clothed and sitting in the car the entire time. He asked about the mesh bag with my running gear in it, but ignored the far more suspicious guitar case. He asked us where we'd been, whom we had visited, and who played shortstop for the New York Yankees in 1939. None of his questions were anything that would reveal evil intent on our parts, I don't think -- it was more as if he was just trying to see if we'd get nervous enough to blurt out where we had hidden the bazookas and opium.

Finally, though, he decided that the two bland Brady-bunch-type guys from Colorado probably weren't a threat to national security, and he let us through. Whew!

I know what you're thinking, though -- you want to know if we ever ate at an authentic Mexican restaurant, right? Hey, we saw the UFO museum, visited Mr. TheKid's grave, and survived an attack by a Mexican mime...we'd had enough excitement for one trip. We decided during the long drive home that we'd just have to take another trip to New Mexico one of these days, and we'd do a better job of restaurant hunting then.

I'll let you know when that happens, for sure. In the meantime, just be glad that you live in a country that keeps its border secure (well, kinda) and its jugglers under control...and have a great day!

Carlsbad Caverns

And so begins another year of life as an inconsequential corporate drone, an unnoticed cog buried deep within the machinery of industry. Another year of slaving to the drumbeat of the merciless time clock, turning out batch after batch of nearly identical product, toiling without hope of ever breaking free of the shackles of white-collar labor, basing all hopes and dreams on the flimsy promise of another series of bi-weekly lottery tickets.

Another year of paychecks. Hopefully.

But you don't want to hear me talk about returning to the office after a long and wonderful vacation. You want to hear more about my dangerous and exhilarating trip to Mexico! Right?

As you may recall, Tanner and I were on our way to Carlsbad from Roswell, NM, where we had made the dubious decision to trust that we'd find somewhere to eat before we starved to death. We were still hoping to find an authentic Mexican restaurant, but we also were able to compute that we were going to cut it close on getting to the cave before it closed. We ended up eating at (sigh) Sonic, in Carlsbad.

But we did make it to the monument in time to join the next-to-last group to be allowed to enter the cave, so we headed down into the bowels of the earth.

It was nothing like I expected. No creepy vampire bats, no cuddly fruit bats...in fact there was no bat-related stuff visible at all. No bat poles down from Stately Carlsbad Manor. No bat-computers, bat-arangs, or bat-mastersons, either. No one was doing the batusi. You see, it turns out that the bats migrate -- spending their winters in Capistrano or someplace, drinking piña coladas, listening to Jimmy Buffett, and laughing at all the poor slobs who drove thousands of miles to see a stupid cave that had no flying rodents in it at all. Hmm.

But batless or no, the cave itself is pretty spectacular. The nicely-paved pathway descends into chamber after chamber, each one revealing more of the magnificent geological artwork left behind by eons of erosion. What makes this a very special cave is simply the size of everything; it's HUGE, and it keeps going and going. There are dozens of spots where you just have to stop and make fireworks crowd noises -- "Ooooh. Ahhhh! Whoaaa!"

But you make those noises quietly. Every sound, no matter how small, echoes forever in these vast rooms. They say you can hear Philadelphians talking from nearly a mile away while you're down there, and I believe it. Tanner and I whispered in the softest voices possible, and could hear each other without trouble.

The total descent is 750 feet, the height of a 75-story building. As I walked down the fairly steep path, I started thinking about the upcoming stair-climb event I've entered, and decided that walking (or maybe even jogging) back up this path to the cave entrance would be a dynamite way to get in some good training, and to see the cave formations from a different viewpoint. Tanner agreed that we should try it, and since we were among the last folks in, we should have the path to ourselves when we started back up.

'Twas not to be, though. When we finally managed to squeeze our way past the fitness-impaired folks clogging the walkways in the main section of the cave, we found that the path was now guarded by a stern-looking fellow with crossed arms and a Smokey Bear hat. "Excuse me sir, but we'd like to ascend back to the surface via this fine trail, sir. May we, sir?"

"Nope. Can't."

"But it appeared that there were no restrictions against upward movement, and the other tourists have vacated the path. We'd be no trouble at all, I assure you."

Dramatic pause, possibly to prepare a Strother Martin speech. Then..."Sorry, guys, but they've shut off the lights and there's a big candlelight tour coming down. You'll have to take the elevator up, like everyone else." Well, there goes my workout.

Still, if you're going to ride straight up in a fast 75-floor elevator, what better way to do it than in an open-sided box where you can see the rock wall zipping past as the operator reels off his memorized patter for the 87th time that day? It's dandy entertainment -- unless you have a problem with being squished into a small box with a bunch of obese and smelly tourists, rising upward at near-supersonic speeds on a thin strand of steel cable. Which I do.

Claustro-odor-dangle-o-phobia aside, though, I'd have to recommend this attraction with great enthusiasm. We had a fantastic time, and if amateur underground flash photography could do a better job of portraying the cavern's magnificence, I'd upload all the rest of my snapshots. (Sadly, though, they mostly look like icky piles of dirt and dog doo. Sorry.)

Anyway, after being dazzled by Nature's subterranean wonders, we decided to go ahead and press onward towards El Paso, with the idea of finding our authentic Mexican restaurant for dinner, getting a good night's sleep, and then crossing the border to sample the hospitality of Juarez in the morning.

Yeah, you guessed it. We ended up eating pancakes at Village Inn. Sigh.

But we did find a motel that had minimal exposure to live electric wires and an Internet connection, so after dinner we did some research about the trip over the border, and got a good night's sleep. But did we really make it into Mexico? I'll tell you tomorrow. In the meantime, watch out for migrating bats, and have a great day!

Happy New Year!

Greetings, Loyal Readers: I apologize for the blogging hiatus, and beg your forgiveness. It's been a busy and satisfying week for me, though, and I'll do my best to bring you up to date on the alien encounters, foreign intrigue, and historical education that've kept me occupied.

The morning after Christmas, immediately after swim practice, Tanner and I loaded up the car and began our trip toward New Mexico. Despite meteorological reports touting the beautiful weather, we started off in a snowstorm (which appeared to be localized to the area directly surrounding my car). But by the time we hit Monument Hill, the skies had cleared and precipitation ended. The wind continued to blow, and did so throughout the entire trip, but we never saw another cloud until we returned to Denver several days later.

Our main goal for the trip was to find out what really happened in 1947, and to experience the UFO-crazed culture of Roswell. Beyond that, we agreed to stop at any interesting tourist site we happened upon along the way. And since we were going so far toward the south, we also wanted to try to find an authentic Mexican restaurant.

So where did we stop for lunch? KFC. Way to push the envelope, dudes.

The first cool-looking tourist spot we found was the Las Vegas visitor's center. (Yes, there is also a Las Vegas in New Mexico. Instead of casinos, this one features only dry sagebrush and tumbleweeds. But the visitor center looked nice.) Unfortunately, they apparently didn't plan for a couple of guys from Colorado dropping by to visit on the day after Christmas -- they were closed. Bummer.

The next stop was the Ft. Sumner Museum, which features Billy the Kid's Grave. Unfortunately the museum was closed, but we were able to wander through the graveyard to our heart's content...which didn't take long. Even though Billy was famous, his gravestone was pretty dull. And the few other graves in the cemetary were even less spectacular. We were on the road again before too awful long; next stop, Roswell!

It's a good thing I was accompanied by an interesting conversationalist, because the road from Ft. Sumner to Roswell was as empty as Mike Shanahan's locker. During one stretch, we drove for almost a half hour without seeing another car, human, or manifestation of civilization. No wonder the aliens picked New Mexico for their landing!

Roswell is actually a pretty nice little town. There are a few indications of its UFO connections, but not as many as you might expect. The McDonald's PlayPlace is shaped a bit like a flying saucer, the Post Office has an R2D2 box, and a few of the restaurants say "Welcome, Aliens" on the marquee, but otherwise, it's no different than any other small American town of the Southwest. It's a nice place.

I'm not sure you can attribute any of this to aliens, but the motel room had no spindle for the toilet paper holder, several missing light fixtures where bare wires protruded from the walls, and a television set that defaulted to C-SPAN. But the price was right, the beds were comfy, and the neighbors quiet...so we enjoyed an excellent night of rest and woke up excited about seeing the museum.

I know that you're probably expecting me to go on and on about government cover-ups and military conspiracies, and to rant about the truth being out there and demanding that our new President come clean about what's really hidden in Area 51, etc etc. But to my surprise, the museum actually took a pretty even-handed approach in describing the events of 1947 -- and the conclusion was that...well, people got confused.

They did have a fascinating display on crop circles, as well as some posters/props from various alien-themed TV shows, movies, and "documentaries". And if that weren't enough, there was a gift shop where you could buy all sorts of doodads, t-shirts, and office supplies with little green men on them. The fellow behind the counter was certainly enjoying himself--he wanted to tell each and every customer that he was "livin' the dream" working there. And he was serious! It made me smile.

But I still didn't buy anything at the gift shop. Not even Christmas ornaments.

After we left the museum, Tanner and I debated whether we should eat lunch, visit other tourist attractions in Roswell, or go to Mexico. And while we recognized that we were probably missing some excellent cultural opportunites by vacating the town so soon, we finally decided that our overall vacation experience would be enhanced even more by heading on south. (Of course, what we didn't realize was that we wouldn't find anyplace to eat for several more hours. Probably shoulda eaten in Roswell. Have I mentioned that much of New Mexico is as empty as Barney Fife's revolver? As vacant as Paris Hilton's cranium? Well...it is.)

Please don't get on my case about disrepecting the "stark beauty" of the high desert. Hey, I appreciate the aesthetic appeal of vast wastes of open space as much as anybody. Scrub brush, sand, and the occasional cactus do indeed make for some fine visual experiences, I'll grant you that. But let's face it, when your land is too barren for even prairie dogs to live there, well, it doesn't take long before you're wishing the speed limit was about 200 mph.

Our plan was to tour Carlsbad Caverns, find a place to stay near there, and then hang around to watch the bats fly out of the cave in the evening. I know you're dying to hear about all of it -- Will the boys opt for the elevator ride...or the long trail that descends into the bowels of the cavern? Will the bats suddenly attack the crowd and feast upon the blood of the onlookers? Will we finally learn the meaning of the word "spelunking"? And what the heck do bats and stalagmites have to do with the adventure of going into the fabled land of Old Mexico?

Stay tuned, my friends, and the answers to these questions will be revealed in future postings. In the meantime, have a great day!