Curling

I'm thinking of moving to Canada.

Oh, I know there are curling teams in Denver, and that the game (can you really call it a sport?) is catching on down here in the States...but I don't think you can really get the flavor of it unless people are yelling about (aboot? aboat?) each and every shot. Plus, it just seems like the environment should include Mounties and mooses and, well...Canadians.

[Side question: Can mooses swim? Answer below.]

Yes, I will confess that I was one of the infidels who had formerly mocked curling. If polo is the Sport of Kings, then curling must've been the Sport of Really Bored Ice Fishermen. But after watching hours and hours of it during the Olympics, I have to admit that I've become intrigued. It's not about the frenzied sweeping, or even the tortured concentration it takes to put JUST the right amount of spin on the stone -- it's really more about the strategy of planning, blocking, and deciding when to smack your opponent's rocks...and when to let them lie. It's like a chess match where it takes 30 seconds for your Queen to slide to Queen's Level 3...and it just might miss. Can you imagine the tension Boris Spassky would face if he had to curl his bishops?

(Actually, the Spass-man probably IS curling nowadays. What the heck else is there to do in Siberian exile, anyway? Plenty of ice where that dude lives now, that's for sure.)

Even though I've become a fan, I confess that I still don't really understand the subtleties. Sure, I get it that it's good to have the hammer, and that you score by having your rocks in the house (hoose? hohse?)...but I'm not sure I'd be able to correctly decide whether to go for a blank end or try to score. It's way more complicated than trying to decide whether to have Tulo throw down a bunt with no outs. (Oots?)

Anyway, I'm planning to start a letter-writing campaign to see if we can't get more curling on TV during non-Olympic years. Why don't you join me in this effort? (And while we're at it, we can write to our idiot State representatives and urge them to repeal the ill-considered HB 1189 "Sales Tax on Internet Purchases" law.) I'm not sure which network would be best prepared to handle the rigors of televising curling, so I guess we'll just write to them all. It's gotta be better than "Supernanny", or "World's Deadliest Badger Attacks", right?

In the meantime, I'll just have to entertain myself by looking for frozen ponds and sliding dirt clods across the ice. Or maybe I'll grab my O-Cedar broom and portable steam-iron and head out to Chatfield to see if anybody's looking for a pick-up game.

I hope to see you on the ice. Have a great day!

Gilligan

It's funny how key words trigger associations within our minds. Some images are so indelibly locked to those words that the full picture is displayed across our mental movie screen the moment we hear them. For example, it is impossible to hear the phrase "shoe pounding" without thinking of Nikita Kruschev, or "JFK assassination" without thinking of Keith Hernandez. Nor is it possible to hear the name "Ted" without thinking of Wyld Stallyns.

Those associations are universal, of course, but there are the occasional less-obvious ones that pop up for no apparent reason. For example, I was recently speaking to my friend Bob, who had just returned from a trip to Alabama. Somehow, the thought of Bob traveling to the South suddenly reminded me of a childhood memory of a unique wrestling match wrap-up I heard while watching sports on TV. Unparalleled announcer Bill Kersten said "Nobody likes to win more than Texas Bob Geigel, that great German wrestler from Iowa. And win he always, usually does."

Now, that, my friends, is pure eloquence.

And I defy anyone to think of Texas Bob Geigel without thinking of that other famous wrestling Bob..."Bulldog" Bob Brown. You don't mess with the Bulldog.

True story: I was in the audience for a Maynard Ferguson concert at the Century II Convention Center, and during the intermission I saw something truly inspirational. Maynard was making one of his speeches about the value of music education, when none other than the Bulldog struts right out onto the stage in his wrestling tights. As the crowd reacted with astonishment and awe, the Bulldog snatched the microphone away from Maynard and proceeded to deliver a surprisingly articulate endorsement of everything Maynard has just said. "Music is a wonderful artform, and everyone should play an instrument to develop their cultural maturity," he said. And then he reiterated that we should all thank our music teachers, gave Maynard a bear hug, and lumbered off the stage.

The crowd went nuts!

Turns out there was a wrestling match in the arena right next door to the concert venue; BBB was a huge MF fan, and vice versa. There was a surreal sort of synergy in that relationship, and I guarantee you that everyone in that audience left Century II that day with an altered perspective...and a new appreciation of the beauty and harmony that large sweaty men can create onstage.

Anyway, the point is that when I recently met a woman named Mary Anne, I couldn't help but think of Gilligan's island.

Yeah, I know...you're expecting me to weigh in on the "Ginger vs. Mary Ann" controversy. But in my mind, there is no controversy at all. No disrespect to Tina Louise, who is a fine actress and deserves every single performance award she's earned over her long and distinguished career -- but it's gotta be Mary Ann all the way. She's from Kansas, she's wholesome, she's cute, and she would never be caught dead in one of those hideous beehive hairdos.

Who invented that look, anyway? And who ever thought it was attractive? And why on earth are there still commercials on TV for the "Bump-it" thingy that makes hair look all poofy? Are there really that many trailer-trash beehive 'do fans out there with credit cards?

[Side comment: I love my sister dearly, but when she got the highrise hairdo with the pearls in it for her Senior Prom, I nearly died of embarrassment. Fortunately for all of us, that was a one-time error in judgment for her, and despite that one night of attempted fashion suicide, her date married her anyway and they've lived happily ever after. With normal hair.]

Anyway, the whole point of this blog was to explore the unsolved mysteries of Gilligan's Island, and to do it in a scholarly way and with plenty of data and statistics to support my arguments. But I've already gone on too long, so I think I'll just reduce my hours of thoughtful and reasoned debate into a simple bullet list. Perhaps we'll take the academic approach at some later date. Or perhaps not. In any case, try not to burn out any brain cells pondering these imponderables, and have a great day!

• OK, it was a three-hour tour, right? Which means that their max distance from Key West is no more than 1.5 hours at full drive, which for the Minnow is probably about 30 knots. So even given some "mighty ship tossage" during the storm, they're still no more than 50 - 75 miles offshore, right in prime fishing waters, and directly between the mainland and Cuba. They were visited by all sorts of people during their stay on the island (including freakin' Hans Conreid, fergawshsakes), so my question is this: Why were there never any Cuban refugees washed up on shore? Huh? Where were the Cubans?


• It was probably obvious during the voyage, but completely impossible to ignore within 20 minutes of landfall -- Gilligan is an idiot, and is likely to get everyone killed! In any normal survival scenario, eliminating Gilligan would be the castaways' first priority. Even before finding water and food. They should've imprisoned him at the very least, and more likely taken the "long pig barbecue" approach. After all, the only thing you ever see them eat is fruit...some meat would start sounding pretty good before too long. Anyway, why did they allow Gilligan to roam the island freely?


• Why didn't they get malaria? There had to be buttloads of mosquitoes there.


• In the time it took to build those huts, they've could've patched the Minnow. Even if the engines were ruined (which seems unlikely given the relatively minor damage to the structure), wouldn't a repaired Minnow still be more seaworthy than the various palm-tree rafts they attempted to construct?
• And come to think of it, the Minnow seems a bit small to hold all the luggage that the Howells appear to have brought. And anyway, after a month or two, don't you think the Howell's insufferability would've made the Skipper think about putting them on the menu as well? Maybe draft up a will naming the survivors as equal beneficiaries, force Thurston to sign it, and then toss him in the cooking pot. (Although having a cooking pot as standard Caribbean cruise gear on a boat that size seems implausible, too, now that I think about it.)


• And the biggest mystery of all -- Who styled Ginger's hair?

Dining Rituals

Do you ever wonder what it is you do that might make other people look at you and comment upon your weirdness?

I don't, because I'm not weird at all. If you look in the dictionary under "Perfectly Normal: the example from which Society's standards are established", you'd find my picture. I'm quite certain that no one talks about me behind my back, or nudges their companions and points at me. But I'm sure that I'm an exception; I'm guessing that most people have some small idiosyncrasies that occasionally make them a topic of conversation when they're out of earshot.

As all normal people do, my son and I often go to Chipotle and spend hours there discussing world politics, business strategies, and whether or not aliens with technology to travel thousands of light years would prioritize cattle dissection as the primary goal of their interplanetary science missions. The other night we were engaged in a very typical father/son discussion about which President most closely resembled Hitler, when I happened to glance at the woman across the aisle from us.

Sometimes people listen in our conversations, and I wouldn't blame them for wanting to -- we do occasionally come up with ideas and conclusions that are of great benefit to Mankind. (A couple of weeks ago, for example, we delineated the theoretical model of space/time that would end all doubt and settle the Ginger vs. Mary Ann controversy once and for all. I have contacted Stephen Hawking about it, but he hasn't yet responded.) On this occasion, though, our topic wasn't controversial; we were merely discussing common knowledge, such as how one of Hitler's first moves upon assuming office was to begin putting the country's business infrastructure under government control. (Which makes sense, especially when you consider that the word "Nazi" was derived from the word "Nationalsozialist", which was the first word in the name of his movement. But everybody knows these things.)

I happened to glance at the table across the aisle from us and noticed that the woman sitting there wasn't paying the slightest attention to the handsome men across from her. She was completely engrossed in her own complex dining ritual.

Me, I just unwrap the burrito and go at it like a pit bull on a chihuahua. There are no style points to be awarded; the point is to transfer the big honkin' thing from its tinfoil wrapper into my stomach with minimal interference from any intermediate process (such as chewing). Depending on the skill of the person who wrapped the burrito, the process can range from the optimal "not-a-single-bean-spilled" scenario to a bloody awful splatter mess that must eventually be resolved through the use of napkins and spoons. I hate using utensils; it's such a slap in the face to the Go Green movement, since they either have to be thrown away or washed, both of which have the direct result of harming baby seals and endangered snail darters. But I digress.

The woman across from us appeared to be quite normal. She didn't have the wide-eyed terrorist stare of a Raiders fan, nor the unwashed hair and sloping forehead of an Oklahoman...so I wasn't expecting her to do anything other than consume her meal and then leave. But instead she began a fascinating dining ritual that totally sidetracked our historical discussion and left Tanner and me engrossed in observation rather to the point where we completely stopped trying to solve the world's problems for the duration of the evening.

First, she folded her three napkins in a very precise and measured way. It wasn't origami, exactly, but apparently the arrangement of the folded napkins had to be perfect before the meal could begin. She had purchased a "naked" burrito, which sounds naughty...but is really just the regular ingredients thrown into a bowl rather than being wrapped in a tortilla. Saves a couple hundred calories over the traditional item, but also removes the adventure, if you ask me. (And creates the aforementioned snail darter problem.)

Once the napkins were properly arranged, she began to separate the ingredients from within the bowl, making a separate pile on the napkins for the green peppers, and then for the onions. She was very precise with each selection, and almost seemed to be inspecting each item to make sure it contained no residual taint from the food among which it had been intermingled.

I didn't think much of this, really. After all, when I was a kid, I totally hated it when I got mashed potatoes on my green beans, or when any kind of vegetable touched my bread. And if a lima bean touched anything, well, you might as well have used a firehose to spray me with liquid rat poison. So I didn't really think her veggie apartheid policy was any big deal. Still, it was fun to watch.

Tanner and I eventually resumed our conversation, but kept glancing over to see what she was doing next. We finished our meal and had moved the discussion on to the topic of software user testing, and why Microsoft doesn't seem to do any...when we noticed the slightly-more disturbing part of her ritual. On four separate occasions, the woman went to the supplies counter and filled up a small plastic dish with Tabasco sauce. Nothing wrong with that; many people enhance their meals with some additional spice. But she then proceeded to use a spoon to eat the sauce right from the little plastic bowl. She didn't sip it, either, it was full spoonfuls, gulped right down.

That's when I knew she was an alien.

We sat and chatted while these bizarre rituals continued a few mere feet away from us. Several times, I was tempted to ask her about the cattle mutilations and stuff, but my basic politeness (and fear of death rays) prevented it. But it did make me wonder how many otherwise normal-looking people have habits that would give away their true nature when dining at Chipotle. Instead of "always watch the skies", should we change our self-preservation mantra to "always watch the beans"? I don't know. Yet. But when Tanner and I come up with the answer, you'll be the first to know.

Enjoy your burritos, and have a great day!

Winter Olympics

When I heard that Shaun White was going to be in the Olympics, I said "Hey! I know that guy! I used to work with him making computer training videos!" Heck of a nice guy, and an excellent video director. A little old for the snowboard thing, I thought, but with such an obviously talented guy...hey, why not?

Turns out it's a different Shaun White. The Olympics dude isn't quite as tall as my friend, and seems a bit more, um, reckless. There's something about strapping yourself onto a hunk of wood, flinging yourself far above the planet's surface, and spinning like a Maytag rinse cycle that strikes me as beyond my range of risk tolerance. Heck, I can't even watch "Speed Racer" cartoons without hyperventilating; there's no way I'd try any of those chiropractor-enriching stunts.

Not that the Shaun White I know wasn't an exciting fellow himself. A fascinating guy: He had traveled the world as a journalist and had many hair raising stories of living on the edge. From what he told me about being searched at gunpoint in combat zones, and having to unspool videotape from cassettes and hide it inside smelly sweatsocks to keep from being thrown into a Gulag...well, I can't say I'd want to be a war journalist, either. But beyond that, this guy had been involved in world-record ballooning ventures, and had even met the fellow who had done the world-record height freefall parachute jump (from so high up he had to wear a spacesuit -- no kidding!)

Anyway, the point is that Shaun White is my favorite snowboarder for reasons that are totally unrelated to his performance, personality, or relationship with tomatoes.

Unfortunately, my work schedule won't permit me to watch much of the Olympics this winter, so I probably won't be able to converse intelligently about any of the sports. I will say that I like the idea of the snowboard-cross and ski-cross events being added; those certainly provide a more interesting viewing experience than bobsled. I mean, I'm sure it's an absolutely thrilling sport in which to participate (unless you're the dude in the back who had nothing to look at but the driver's backside), but when all we see is a series of microsecond-long shots of a colored tube zipping by, it's rather hard to get a feel for the "athletics" involved. It reminds me of those old pneumatic message cylinders they used to use in bank drive-throughs and Cary Grant movies. I can see why some people argue that it's tough to define as a "sport".

We shall discuss "Curling" at another time.

I'm not sure what I think about short-track speed skating, either. Seems kinda silly to have the oval so small that you have to push and shove to get around anyone. I guess that may be part of its attraction...like Roller Derby. And I suppose there is the redneck appeal of knowing how likely it is that you'll see crashes and blood and possible fisticuffs. But still, you have to wonder what's up with a sport whose most visible face is a dude named after a conceited fictional movie boxer, and who wears a "soul patch". C'mon, Mr. Ohno, that stuff went out about the same time as Billy Idol. Geez.

But I'll watch if I can. It's the Olympics, man. If I get a chance to absorb much of it, I may discuss my favorite events in a future post. I hope that you are enjoying it, too, and can implement the Olympian lessons learned into your own life. (Like "how to dress well" from the figure skating, and how to talk with a sexy Norweigian accent, etc.) Soak up all the inpiration you can, and have a great day!

Dreams

I suppose everyone has parts of their job that they love, and other parts they're not so fond of. I mean, cops probably enjoy helping people and shooting bad guys, but hate having to fill out reports and watch videos some jerk took while they were interrogating Rodney King. Dentists probably enjoy examining well-cared-for teeth when the person has minty-fresh breath, but hate to look into the pie-hole of somebody who had oreos and whiskey for breakfast. Congressmen probably enjoy dallying with pages and getting into restaurants without reservations, but hate looking at themselves in the mirror after raising taxes or voting for complicated mandates that hurt businesses, put people out of work, and mess up things that were working perfectly well until they intervened.

Or maybe not. It's conceivable that some government officials love ALL the aspects of their jobs...even the part where they go home and light candles in goat-blood pentagrams while they pray to their chosen deity. Which, come to think of it, would probably closely mirror the people who thought up the processes for producing proposals.

And it's those proposals that provide the negatives within my chosen profession. My work with the video folks can be hard, challenging, and demanding...but it is always enjoyable and rewarding. Proposal work, though, robs me of sleep, gives me rashes, and activates long-dormant thoughts of searching the globe for an active volcano to throw myself into.

I'll spare you the details of skin irritations and being drawn toward hot lava (a phenomenon known as "magma-tism". Ar ar.) But the disruption in my sleep patterns has me concerned enough to write about it.

It's not just that I get home late and can't get to bed at my normal hours. And it's not just that falling asleep is more difficult than usual due to ulcerous intestinal rumblings provoked by the day's events. It's also that I have really weird dreams.

When I'm working with the video group, I have dreams about swimming in crystal blue waters, petting fluffy kittens, and lounging on tropical islands where the margaritas are huge and the bikinis microscopic. When I'm on a proposal, though, the dreams I remember have a much darker side to them.

Last night I dreamed that I was called in to kick the winning field goal in the Super Bowl. The regular kicker had thrown up on Roone Arledge and was kicked out of the game, so it was up to me. For some reason, the field goal attempt was to be made in the high-school A/V closet, and the ball was sitting atop a Kodak Carousel slide projector containing a tray of autopsy photos that were somehow part of the girls' Home-Ec curriculum. The goal posts were painted on the closet wall, approximately three feet away, making it seem like a gimme kick. But I had trouble getting my kicking leg up high enough to reach the platform that held the projector and ball. There would be no rush to avoid...in fact, there were no football players in the closet at all -- only the stern Principal and for some reason, Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction. (I think he was the referree.)

Anyway, I missed the field goal, and was subsequently pelted with batteries and calculus textbooks. It was frightening and humiliating, and I woke up in a cold sweat. After some deep breathing and meditation, though, I was finally able to go back to sleep. I woke up a short while later with numb forearms after dreaming that I was swimming breaststroke while towing a boat that carried Jack LaLanne and Kurt Russell, who were both yelling at me to pull harder. (It turns out that my arms were tingling because I had wrapped them awkwardly under the pillow and had cut off the circulation, so it was probably a good thing I woke up.)

That reminds me of the very first Rich Little gag I saw. In a John Wayne voice, he said "I dreamed I was eating a giant marshmallow. When I woke up, my pillow was gone."

What does that have to do with anything? I have no idea. I just need a good night's sleep. Wish me luck.

Thanks, and have a great day! I leave you with this to ponder. Absorb the lessons well, my friends.

Hall and Oates

One of the nice things about having a long drive to work is that I get to listen to a lot of music during the commute. The bad things include the sadness I feel when I see vehicle owners who have been so badly hurt by the recession that they can't afford to have their turn indicator lights fixed...and have to drive their Lexuses (Lexii??) down the highway without functional signals. I'd donate to the cause, if I only knew which charity it was that provides assistance to these poor, underpriviledged souls. Perhaps when Congress gets done saving the automakers, banks, and pog manufacturers, they can fund a bailout for the blinker-impaired.

Anyway, in the 1-hour commute I'm doing while on my current proposal, I can flip stations to listen to a wide variety of tunes, from Channel 93.3's ultra-modern scream rock to KEZW's rare recordings of tunes from before the banjo was invented. Being a lover of diversity and cross-cultural interchange, I usually search for foreign music (Led Zeppelin, the Guess Who, Men at Work, etc.) But occasionally I'll pause on stuff by more local artists.

Yesterday, I heard Hall and Oates' "Maneater", and was actually surprised to find my toes tapping to the tune. It made me think about how many bands from the past I disliked intensely when they were popular, but have come to tolerate (or even admire) with the passage of years. Bands like Fleetwood Mac, the Bee Gees, and Tom Petty provided motivation for instant station changes in the old days, but now...

Aw, I can't lie -- I still think Tom Petty sucks. And while there are a few Bee Gee songs I can listen to without reaching for the Pepto Bismol, they still deserve derision for their role in the Disco movement. John Travolta was able to overcome the stigma of being associated with that abomination (thanks to movies like "Battlefield Earth"), but the Gibbs will just have to hope their billions of dollars can mollify the sting they must feel from being laughed at as the poster boys for the most shameful period in American history.

And on a not-completely-unrelated subject, I have found that I like Peter Frampton a WHOLE lot better now that he's bald.

Anyway, the point is that the Hall and Oates song made me wonder why most Americans pronounce the same word in two different ways depending on its context. In "Maneater" there's a line that I always thought contained the words "pearly jaguar". A little research among the internets revealed that it's really "the purr of a jaguar", which I suppose makes a little more sense. In the song, you know they're talking about the brand of vehicle rather than the cat (even though the lyrics are heavily oriented around the carnivore metaphor). But whenever the word is pronounced with 3 syllables, you know they're talking about the car -- jag-you-are. If you're talking about a jungle predator, it's pronounced more like jag-wire.

When I started to write this, I had a couple of other such words in mind to discuss, but that picture of Hall and Oates disturbed me so much that I've lost my train of thought. They just look a little too friendly with each other, if you know what I mean. And Oates, for some reason, conjures up images of both Tony Orlando and Erik Estrada...both of whom totally creep me out. So I think I'll create my own mental image of Hall and Oates (using Anthony Michael and Warren), just so I can sleep easily at night while I ponder the depth and meaning of their thought-provoking lyrics.

If I think of the other words that were supposed to be part of this discussion, I might expand on this topic in future entries. Or not...with my particular brand of A.D.D., I'll probably forget about all of this on the way to work this morning. Especially if they play songs with lyrics like "hornswoop me bungo pony dogsled on ice". We can hope so anyway; let's all enjoy the music, and have a great day!

Psychoanalysis

Do you ever have those moments where you're fully engaged in some non-standard behavior and find yourself suddenly wondering what psychological impetus led you to perform that particular action? Do you ever wish you had your own personal psychiatrist to hang out with you and spit out instant diagnoses whenever you needed it?



I don't. I am totally sane and normal, and always have good rationale for my actions, even when other folks look at me and make that "index finger circling the ear" cuckoo-bananas motion when they see me. For example, the time in college when I walked to class barefoot in the snow, there was a fellow who asked (quite sincerely and with sympathetic concern) if I was on Acid. I simply said "No," thanked him for his concern and walked on to class. I didn't think it was worth the effort to explain to him that I was incorporating a philosophy I learned on the previous night's episode of "Kung Fu" -- where Kwai Chang Caine explained that mental powers can help overcome physical challenges. When asked how he managed to survive a cold night tied up in the desert, he replied "The cold...is within...yourself."

I decided to try my own version of Shaolin discipline and walked to class barefoot. And I'll be darned if Caine wasn't right. By flooding my mind with warm thoughts and visions of Master Po, I was able to survive the experiment and attend class successfully. And since I had validated this TV truth, I saw no reason to attempt the feat again. (But to this day, I continue to take behavioral and motivational advice from fictional characters.)

Anyway, I was reminded of that situation when I was brushing the snow off my car last night. I had worn a light fleece jacket to work, and even though (being a former Boy Scout) I had a heavy coat and gloves in the back of my car, it seemed simpler to clean my windows without going to the trouble of donning the additional garment. Sure, it was cold, and all the fluffy snow I got on my jacket would soak through and make me completely wet in short order...but I had worked late and really wanted to get home. What was a little soakage compared to the precious extra 12 seconds it would take me to put on a real coat?

A couple of other folks in the parking lot gave me the look, but kindly refrained from the cuckoo gesture. I didn't mind, though, because I knew that they were just unfortunate souls who hadn't been lucky enough to attain monk-like discipline via network television. Those are the folks who need the companion psychiatrist...am I right?

I think I'll wear a coat today, though. I don't need to, but some days you just feel like making a fashion statement rather than a philosophical one. But whether you wrap yourself in layers today or take off your shoes and savor the snowflakes between your toes, please enjoy your moments outdoors. Have a great day!

Swim Meet at the Ridge

People said we were daft to hold a swim meet on the same day as the Super Bowl. After all, one is the Greatest Sports Event of the Year, and the other is just a football game. Har har. But seriously, we weren't sure anyone would take time away from preparing their Indy-themed nacho plates and setting up the Tivo to record the beer commercials long enough to come to the pool for a little friendly competition.

Maybe it was the prospect of a good lunch that brought them out, but they did indeed come. We had the highest turnout ever for a Masters Meet at the Ridge, and as far as I could tell, everyone had a great time. (Of course, I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't really see very much.)

Steve Bernard took a bunch of photos with his fancy camera, so when he gets the files to me, I'll post some of them...which will amaze you and motivate you to attend the next one of our meets. In the meantime, I'll just have to give you a verbal description.

But come to think of it, I can't really do that very well, either. I swam almost every event, and since there were only one or two heats of each, I spent most of my time in the water. I actually got a very good workout, even though didn't swim any race with any particular speed. My legs were a little stiff from running steps the day before, and my enthusiasm for sprinting is minimal even on the days my legs are fully springy and bouncy. Plus, the first event was the 200 butterfly...and surviving that ordeal is a universally accepted valid excuse for stinking up the joint in any events that follow. But I was exhausted by the end of the meet, so I guess I must've worked something hard.

There were some excellent swims by other folks, though, and I was impressed and pleased with the level of effort I saw from both our team and the visiting Dawgs. I even saw a few smiles and high fives, and the family members in attendance were cheering with good enthusiasm. It was an enjoyable meet; in fact, one woman commented that it was the most fun she had EVER had at a swim meet!

In keeping with tradition, we went down the waterslide afterwards, and then adjourned to the party room for a delicious pot luck lunch. There was a lot of laughter, an abundance of food, and even some entertainment from the younger participants. There's no doubt in my mind: Swimmers are more fun to hang out with than any other kinds of people -- even politicians and druids. (And please spare me your letters of protest. I'll gladly grant you the right to include Swedish Bikini Teams among the definition of "swimmers", OK? OK.)

As for the Super Bowl, well, I really don't care one way or the other. And Monday, it's back to work, where I'll be pulled off my enjoyable video work and assigned to another soul-crushing proposal. I'll apologize in advance for the possibility that proposal agony may keep me from writing for a while. But the fact is that such work drains me of any excess energy that would allow me to populate these pages. I've often thought that I should hire Sally Struthers to make some commercials about my indenture to these blighted assignments so that people would donate to my financial independence fund and free me from the requirements of drudgery and overtime. After all, I'm a modern kind of a guy -- I'm sure as heck not going to take any personal responsibility for my own situation. Anyway, the point is that my blogging may suffer for the next couple of weeks. (As opposed to YOU suffering from reading it. Ha! I crack myself up.) Thank you for your patience and continued patronage. I really do appreciate it. For now, please consider attending our next swim meet...and in the meantime, have a great week!

Fog on the Rocks

Instead of going out to Waterton for a long run on Saturday, I decided I'd better start training for the Run the Republic stair climb. It's only a few weeks away, and I haven't been training vertically at all. So, I figured it was time to head to Red Rocks. I hoped that most of the ice would be melted off the steps, and if I got there early enough, I could lumber up the stairs without getting in the way of the nut-cases who go out there all the time and sprint up the entire thing while carrying backpacks full of rocks, etc.

It was a foggy drive to Morrison, but I didn't think much about it. I parked at the foot of the stairs, snugged up my shoelaces, and began the climb. I'm not sure why, but I seem to make more noise than most exercisers, gasping for the thin air as I ascend. I've been told that I need to breathe through my nose, but I just don't think I have the nostril capacity to provide all the oxygen my poor little legs need for something like this. If I have to open my mouth and make giant sucking sounds to gather enough air for the task at hand, well, so be it. I apologize to the folks who are sitting in the seats with their iPods reliving their U2 concert experiences, but I gots to breathe, man.

Anyway, upon my arrival at the top of the amphitheater, I took a short walk around the upper deck area to catch my breath. And...WOW! The view toward the city was spectacular! There were clouds sitting low atop the city, behind the hogback, and all across the plains. I was above it all, and could look down on the sunrise lighting the tops of the fluffy white fogbanks.

Everyone there was just standing around gawking. Such things spark cameraderie; one fellow I didn't know approached me like an old friend and said "I've been coming up here for 20 years, and I've never seen it like this."


Did I get my workout done? Yes, I did. I ran five sets of steps, which should be enough to make me sore for a couple of days. But really...who cares? Some days the exercise is the central focus; but some days, you just gotta say...Wow!


That's why it pays to get up and get outside in the mornings around here. It's the easiest way to have a great day. Go for it, my friends, and enjoy!

Interior Design

I know that everyone blames Al Gore for Global Warming, and I can't fault them for that. I'm sure that his behaviors will earn him a stern sentence on Judgment Day, and who am I to question such things? At the same time, though, I don't think we should forget about the person who actually brought the idea of manmade eco-damage into the public consciousness...Dustin Hoffman.

Well, OK, maybe it wasn't really Hoffman who uttered the famous line in The Graduate. But if it wasn't for his implied endorsement of the plastics industry, I'm sure that we'd all be living in renewable log cabins, eating renewable vegetables while we sit in our renewable wicker chairs...and both Gaia and Gore would be happy. Nobody would be watching the Super Bowl on those hell-spawned big-screen HD TVs, and milk would still be available in glass bottles as God intended.

But at the risk of being stoned as a heretic, I have to admit that I rather have a fondness for the petrochemical industry. Why just last week, I enjoyed a lovely day on the mountain slopes, using both boots and skis that contained large percentages of plastics. Don't get me wrong, I like wood and ceramics and adobe and stuff...but sometimes there are advantages to using plastic and/or metal materials.

What sparked this particular train of thought? Well, during my visit to the mountains last week, not only was I fortunate enough to enjoy the unmatched majesty of the Colorado mountains, but I was also able to spend some time with my brother at his lovely home in Tabernash. He and his wife put a lot of effort into the design and construction of their dream home up there, and the results are spectacular. Not only are the views from the deck and windows positively breathtaking, but the interior of the home is gorgeous as well. I'm not usually one who comments much about interior design, but these folks did it right; it's a fabulous home.

In previous visits, I had taken the time to notice the woodwork, the tile, the fixtures, and the well-planned layout. But this time was the first opportunity I've had to just hang out and watch TV. And during that relaxing period, I happened to glance at the walls.

So here's my question: At what point in history did wicker baskets become a wall-hanging design element? Did some ancient Roman housewife sitting around in the kitchen happen to notice that she had one more basket than she had fruit for, and suddenly decided to nail it to the wall above the fireplace? "Oh wow," she must've said, "that looks WAY better than a painting. In fact, I think I'll buy more baskets and hang them all over the place. The neighbors will be SO jealous!"

I bet that's exactly what happened. And for the last 2000 years, every female in civilization has shared that vision of wickered-up wall space.

I obviously don't understand women. The ideas of "decorative fruit", "Matthew McConaughey", and "potpourri" just don't sense to me. But like most men, I happily concede to women's desires for such things, just as I expect them to allow me my indulgence in Larry, Moe, and Curly. But while we're on the topic of wicker, can someone tell me why anyone would make furniture out of the stuff? Sure, I can see it if you live in a pre-industrial society, or in a remote area where yucca or bamboo are the only construction materials. But this is America, people! We can make stuff out of all sorts of comfortable materials. And if comes down to a choice between my personal comfort and the loss of a few ozone molecules, well, I say let's fire up the ol' Vac-U-Form.

Hey, don't look at me that way. Blame it on Rainman.

And my friends, feel free to hang whatever you want on your walls, no matter how silly -- whether it was originally designed to hold food or not. And have a great day!

I am not Klammer

I used to imagine myself as the next Franz Klammer, only without the Schwarzeneggerian accent. In my college skiing days, I'd pound the slopes like Rocky pounded beef -- without mercy and without the proper equipment. I'd zip through trees, bound off moguls, and laugh at both double-diamonds and snowplowing amateurs. On the rare occasions I fell, the crashes were spectacular!

It's possible that those days are behind me now. My skiing performance on Tuesday did not quite measure up to my glory days of blazing speed, flawless execution, and humongous air. (Hey, that's the way I remember it; if you want to write history in another, perhaps more accurate way...go get your own blog!) In fact, it was downright embarrasing. I spent more time on the ground than Gary the Actor.

In contrast, my brother skiied very well. Of course, since I am the older and far superior sibling, this does not make me happy. But he does ski much more frequently than I do, so I guess I'll have to concede the point...at least until I win Lotto and can retrain myself to a more Klammerian level.

On the plus side, I did not get sunburned, didn't get too sore, and didn't blow out my knees. Yes, I did eat too much pizza and ice cream after the day's efforts, but a person deserves to overindulge after a day with boards bolted to his feet; I shall not apologize. And though I wasn't exactly crisp at the office on Wednesday, I didn't fall asleep at my desk or anything, so all in all, I'd have to say that the ski trip was a success. Especially since I did get better as the day went on. (Though my brother may have surpassed me, I'm pretty sure I'm still better than my college roommate.)

Anyway, I leave you with a short video demonstrating what a lovely day it was, and perhaps...just perhaps, giving you a flavor of the joy and enthusiasm our activities brought us. Despite the decline in my skillset, I had fun, and just might do it again soon. Enjoy the movie, and have a great day!

Brief Getaway

So my brother calls me up on Monday and says "You don't look like Brent Farv - you look like Jeebs. Plus, you suck."

Ah, the good-natured banter among loving siblings; don't ya just love it?

Anyway, then he says "Dude, you gots to come skiing with me tomorrow. We both could use an opportunity to get out of town, and it won't be crowded. C'mon, man."

I quickly explained that with my position as the most indispensable employee at the entire company, I could not take a day off without seriously jeopardizing National Security and putting my fellow employees in dire straights, crippling the business and causing untold stress and hardship among my coworkers.

"Dude," he says, "You suck."

"You may have a point," I reply. "Perhaps they would be able to survive without me for one day. Let me check my calendar." It was blank. Hmm. "OK, perhaps the Free World will survive one day without my services. But skiing is expensive and I still have a sore throat."

"I have a discount coupon, and shan't tolerate wimpiness from you, you maggot. You ARE going skiing." (He used to be an officer in the Marine Corps, so he possesses high-level training in the effective use of implied maggotry.)

"OK," says I, and thus began a grand adventure. I'm sure you are wondering: Did I survive the athletic ordeal without sunburn, frostbite, or sore quads? Did the company survive my workday absence? Did riding the lifts with my brother spark amusing memories of college skiing days when we all sang the Meow Mix song at the top of our lungs to the chagrin of other resort patrons? Did I eat far too much pizza and ice cream, get far too little sleep, and resemble a zombie at the office on Wednesday? Tune in tomorrow for the answers to these questions, as well as a detailed snow-depth report. Until then, have a great day!