Gates vs. Jobs

After I wrote the headline for this entry, I realized that many readers will assume that I'm planning to comment on the relationship of our former Secretary of Defense to the country's employment situation. But no, I'm talking about Bill and Steve.

Here's the thing: I'm going to buy a Macintosh.

It kills me to say that. Having been a proud defender of the PC platform since the 80s, I have always argued that life was better on the Windows side of the world, and have cursed the arrogance of Apple and its "one fruit fits all" approach.

And if Windows 7 had solved the BSOD problem, I'd have remained loyal. But a monochrome screen full of text that's incomprehensible even to Laurence Fishburne does not argue well for a company that's supposed to be a couple of revisions beyond the millenium. Apple may operate under the same business model Satan himself uses, but gosh darn it, my PC just keeps crashing!

And then there's the compatibility issue. The video guys at my office all use Macs for movie editing. Our standard template for the American Patriots History Association is an Apple design. So if I hop on the anti-Microsoft bandwagon, I'll increase my video versatility and will fit in better with my business and charity coworkers.

I'm hoping that when it arrives, this spiffy new tool will improve my editing efficiency to the point where I can crank out my veterans' DVDs in a fraction of the current time, and then have some discretionary hours left over to apply my creativity to some more YouTube videos.

Of course, any dreams I have of personal producivity will be subject to the realities of the workaday world. I'm starting up a new proposal that will require me to commute to Louisville every day for the next several weeks. The drive alone adds a couple of extra hours to my day, and the potential overtime could leave me with very little spare time at all. I'll try to write a few blogs during this period, but can't promise anything.

For now, though, I'll just wish you all a Happy Independence Day! Have fun!

Pikes Peak!

If ever there was an American who had a name that sounds like an alien warlord, it was the feller for whom Pikes Peak is named. Zebulon. Zebulon the Conqueror -- Zebulon the Indefagitable. Zebulon, Master of the Seven Nebulae! Has a real ring to it, doesn't it.

(Yes, I know that "indefagitable" sounds politically incorrect, especially considering his fashion choices, but trust me, it's a perfectly cromulent word, and it wouldn't surprise me if the dude was the Charlie Sheen of his time.)

Anyway, the reason I mention Mr. Pike is that I hiked up his namesake mountain on Saturday. I had optimistically referred to my plans as an intention to "run" up the mountain, but since the government had neglected to install extra oxygen along the route, those confident predictions turned out to be somewhat exaggerated. Oh, I made it to the top, all right...and I did run parts of the trail. But I think most observers would classify my pace as "snail-like" or perhaps even "geological".

It took about 5 hours and 10 minutes, 2 Cliff bars and 4 handsful of gorp, 3 liters of water/Gatorade, and several momentary pauses of to ask WWCND (What Would Chuck Norris Do?). I dealt with steep grades, large rocks requiring sure footing, and diabolical tree roots sneaking across the trail to present sudden unseen tripping hazards. Above the treeline, the challenges multiplied; snow and ice covered parts of the trail, and the unhindered sun targeted those tender spots behind my knees where I forgot to spread sunscreen. But none of those dangers frightened me as much as the eerie death-threat chirping of the carnivorous pikas lurking among the alpine rocks. I never saw them, and was never attacked, but after the stories I'd heard of hikers being picked to the bone by these piranhas of the tundra, I was certainly wary.

I had come to the peak to support my friend Katie with her Leadville 100 training. She had run the 25-mile round trip to the top and back the previous day, so I expected her to be tired enough that I might be able to keep up for part of the journey. That turned out to be an unrealistic expectation; she's a total animal! But fortunately, Kimberly was able to stay with her; while I was huffing and puffing, they were carrying on a liesurely conversation as if they were at sea level. They made it to the top in time to have a nice lunch, browse the giftshop, and take a few photos before I finally hobbled up to the summit.

The good news is that I had pre-purchased a ticket on the cog railway, so I could ride down the mountain in comfort while those guys punished their quads, feet, and knees by pounding down the descent.


The train takes about an hour and a half to make the trip back to Manitou Springs, and the seats are made of church-pew wood. Not exactly the sort of comfort one would prefer for the time period immediately following a sprint up a 14er. I had to hold my hydration packs in my lap, and couldn't really stretch out into the aisle, so I was probably pretty squirmy.

I shared a row with nice family, and enjoyed listening to them discussing the gorgeous scenery out the window. You can really see a long ways from the top of this mountain, and on such a glorious day, it was spectacular! As you might expect from a tourist attraction ride like this, the conductor told jokes during the safety speech, and then walked up and down the aisles selling commemorative DVDs and glossy brochures. If I had purchased one, this is where I'd quote all sorts of statistics about the elevation gain, the technology behind cog-dependent transportation, and the motivation behind building a railroad whose sole destination sells t-shirts and french fries.




Oh yeah, there are some great views from the top. And all along the trail. If you're looking for some good exercise with the fringe benefit of glorious scenery, I can certainly recommend Pikes Peak as a place to find it.

When I reached the bottom, I had time to eat a high-calorie lunch at the cog railway snack bar. I watched their educational video, and even had a chance to examine the cogs themselves. It was a hot day, but once I had consumed some food and fluid, I realized that I was feeling pretty good. Perhaps I could've worked a bit harder on the run. Or maybe I'll look at this as a baseline workout...and come back later with a faster ascent goal time in mind.

I'll have to think about it. In the meantime, I was able to make it back to the trailhead by the time my friends finished. Their round trip was right around the 8 hour duration that the trailhead signs predict for the ascent alone. And, consistent with the way they started, both Kimberly and Katie finished the run with easy conversation and gigantic smiles. Inspirational!

It was a great day all around. I hope your weekend was excellent as well.

Brownie Points

In my last post, I used the phrase "earn Brownie points". After I typed that, I realized that I wasn't sure where that expression came from. Since I'm a chocoholic, I'm inclined to believe that the term has something to do with nature's most perfect food. (Of course, there are those who would disagree with my food hierarchy assessments, but we shall ignore them for the purposes of today's discussion.)

But wait a minute...if you wanted to reward someone for doing something good, and the term under discussion is about the kind of brownies you eat, well -- wouldn't you just award them ACTUAL brownies, rather than inventing some sort of point system? If you are forced to accrue a number of points before you receive an actual square of chocolaty goodness, wouldn't you be more inclined to just make your own brownies and say to heck with that stingy-ass guardian of points? I suspect so.

So perhaps the saying does have something to do with the junior branch of the Girl Scouts. After all, they form a large organization of slave laborers who toil to earn "badges", with rewards deferred until their sashes are heavy with embroidery. It's not inconceivable to think that their group might be responsible for the concept of a point system for minor accomplishments.

Hmm. I do enjoy the occasional Girl Scout cookie, and I have to admit that I dig chicks in uniforms. (Well, OK, I'm talking more about cheerleader outfits, but still...) But my real affection for the Brownies stems from the fact that for a brief period in my youth, I was one. Sorta.

You see, my older sister wanted to be a Girl Scout. This desire probably arose from the appeal of joining any organization that would get her out of the house and away from her unpleasant younger brothers. Anyway, she became a Brownie, obtained the outfit, and started doing whatever the Brownies do. I don't remember the circumstances, but for some reason my mom became the Den Mother (or whatever they're called) and began to hold the meetings at our house. Since my brother and I were still too young to remain unsupervised -- this was about the time my brother stuck the car keys into an electrical outlet -- we attended these Den Meetings.

Pat and I later became Cub Scouts ourselves, and attended meetings where we learned about Nature, Physics, Engineering, and other manly stuff. I don't remember the Brownies ever doing anything other than sewing and gossip, but my participation in their actual group activities was peripheral at best. What I do remember, though, was that they had snacks each week. Cookies, Kool-Aid, and yes, even brownies. Those were highly-coveted treats back then (as they are today), and made it worth the time I had to spend being nice to dumb ol' girls for the afternoon. If there were sweets on the line, I could even refrain from punching my sister for an hour or two.

Alas, these halcyon days didn't last long. I'm not sure if my sister matured quickly and accelerated her move to the the green uniform, or if my mom just got tired of it, or what. Perhaps my brother and I ate too many of their cookies and the girls got frustrated with having us around. I don't know. But I still remember my participation in the Brownies with fondness, even though I'm quite certain that all of the troop members were totally infested with cooties. Oh well.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I don't remember them using any point system that would lead to an idiomatic expression of such widespread usage. So perhaps Brownie Points aren't related to Girl Scouts at all -- but instead have something to do with mystical forest sprites, or Cleveland's football team. Or the microscoping jiggling motion of molecules in solution. Who knows?

I think I'll give my sister a call to see if she knows. I'll let you know if I learn anything. Have a great day!

Lake Swimming

It's officially summer, and I have officially returned to the ranks of the lake swimmers. Yea!

That's right -- I jumped in the pond last night and did a lap and a half. It was warmer than I expected, so there was no threat of hypothermia at all. I didn't swim very fast, but I really had no aspirations to do so. Just wanted to get in and slog through a mile or two, and I was able to do that.

Standard complaints apply: Rookies in wetsuits who don't watch where they're going, slimy mud on the bottom, no lane stripes or pace clocks, etc. But perhaps the most discouraging news is that my sighting ability seems to have declined since last year...and it wasn't too rippy red hot then. Ugh.

What this means is that I really and truly need someone to follow. Of course, drafting is already my preferred method of swimming (regardless of venue), so I wouldn't blame you for suspecting that I'm fabricating my visual infirmity as an excuse to let someone else pull the load. But I swear it's not totally the case: I really can't see where I'm going.

Or more precisely, I can't distinguish features on shore well enough to line them up as navigational beacons. Everything on the shore seems to be the same blurry shape, the same greenish color, and the same sort of mobile target that won't stand still as I try to point myself at it. This last point puzzles me; throughout my public education, I was taught that most non-Tolkienian trees tend to remain in one spot (relativity aside...I know the earth is spinning and that stuff in the Milky Way is chugging about the Galactic Core, etc -- but let's not go there), and that they could be counted on to provide a visual reference for anyone trying to travel in a straight line. But I could swear these trees were playing games with me, shifting a few feet to the left every time I ducked my head to take a non-sighting stroke.

Either that, or I tend to drift to the right as I swim. I'm afraid my path across the lake last night described a giant arc. (Again, please spare me the Coriolis effect lectures. I wasn't that slow!)

But let's assume for a moment that the trees were NOT moving. In that case, visual acuity has nothing to do with my as-yet-unexplained drift. It wasn't the wind, and there are no currents to speak of in the pond. (There were some rather extreme variations in the water temperature as I swam across, but I'd really rather not think about what caused them.) My wandering wasn't due to boat wake, tides caused by black hole gravity, nor underwater activity by the CHUDs. Therefore, I am reluctantly forced to consider my own stroke as a possible cause of the circumferential nature of my supposedly straight-line swimming.

Here's my theory: It's the carpal tunnel syndrome. My right arm is constantly in a knot because of all the mousing and typing I do. The difference between my left side range of motion and that of my right side is positively Quasimodoic. It wouldn't surprise me if my right side is therefore weaker, which would logically lead to a slicing trajectory. If that's the case, then the solution becomes obvious: Stop using a computer until all my tendons and muscles revert to their feral state.

Sounds good to me. I'll see if there isn't some legislation somewhere that I could use to force my boss to give me a typist to whom I could dictate all my work. I'll also call Franklin D. Azar for advice on how to make my arm stronger. I'll be swimming straight before you know it!

Anyway, it was nice to be back in the pond, and to earn myself a few brownie points among my pals in the lake swimming world.

Tonight, it's track practice. My brother has a workout planned, as well as a social event for dinner following the workout. I'm hoping to resume educational blogging soon, because I know how much everyone appreciates Star Trek and 3 Stooges trivia. But with a Pikes Peak run coming this weekend, and the Triple Bypass bike ride only a couple of weeks away, I may get stuck on workout topics for a while yet. Tomorrow is Fun Friday at the pool, though, and who knows? That may involve both athletics and philosophy. I'll let you know. In the meantime, try to avoid tunnelling your carpals, and have a great day!

Names

When you have a giant brain and a sixth-grade edgycation, you just have to accept the fact that your gray matter will occasionally take minor road trips. Sometimes, due to work responsibilities and such, you have to act like a responsible adult and command it to sit back down and concentrate -- don't make me come back there!...and other times you just keep your mouth shut and tag along to see where the cerebral journey takes you.

Today's totally unnecessary mental excursion takes us down a path that ends with the photo posted above. Any guesses as to what these 4 fine performers have in common?

While you're thinking about that, I'm going to publicly declare my intentions to swim at the lake tonight. Yes, you can hold me to it, and can feel free to give me a boatload of grief if I don't show up. Unless it rains. (I hate to swim when it's wet outside.)

OK, here's your hint: A couple of businesses we could've included are LL Bean and Cici's Pizza. That should make it obvious.

Yes, that's right—For some reason, I've just been thinking about all the names that consist of a single syllable, repeated. If you want to get all alphabetic about it, you could start off with "aa", which is the scientific term for basaltic lava characterized by a rough or rubbly surface composed of broken lava blocks called clinker. (According to Wikipedia, "The clinkery surface actually covers a massive dense core, which is the most active part of the flow." So your secondary challenge for the day is to use "clinkery" in a sentence at some point during today's conversations. Good luck.) Then you follow with guitar legend BB King, Cici's, Didi Conn (the one with the pink hair), and so on through the alphabet until you hit ZZ Topp. (Oh, by the way, our other featured celebrities above are TV sensation JJ Walker (Dyn-o-mite!), and LL Cool J, who I gather is the hiphop version of David Soul or something).

It's rather startling how many names consist of repeated syllables: Gigi, Mimi, Boo Boo, Zsa Zsa, etc. Of course, some are geographical (Pago Pago), and some are ornithological (caracara). And then there are the ones that are generally reserved for monkeys and the like: Bobo, Bam Bam, Koko, Toto, JarJar, etc.

I suppose you have to give honorable mention to names like "Barbara", who manage to do the repeated syllable thing, but stay away from cutesyville by adding that extra letter at the end to provide a modicum of legitimacy.

Of course, our journey wouldn't be complete without also thinking about other, non-poetic names. And that led me to speculate about which unique names I like the best. What are the names that belong to only one person that just sound really cool?

Spock, obviously. But James Tiberius Kirk doesn't count, because there are lots of people named James. Worf? Sure. But that just about does it for Star Trek, I think.

But most of our other candidates will probably come from science fiction, as well. Optimus Prime, Klaatu, Gort, Cylons, SeeThreePeeOh, etc.

OK, I just threw C3P0 in there to see if you were paying attention. He's totally lame, and not worthy to polish a Cylon's butt-chrome.

I am tempted to talk about the ultra-clever names from the James Bond/Austin Powers franchises...but everybody know what those are. Definitely classics.

Anyway, my brain seems to be returning to its normal duties of wondering what I'm going to eat, whether I have enough clean socks, and which supermodel I'm supposed to be escorting this weekend...so I'll just leave you with a few of my other favorite made-up names. Feel free to send me your suggestions for the Cool Name Hall of Fame (should one ever come into existence). In the meantime, please enjoy remembering the way you felt when you first heard the melodious monikers of these famous folks: Hoss, Snuffleupagus, Bullwinkle, and of course, Beetlebaum. Have a great day!

Conspiracy

Mother Nature is plotting against me. To achieve my fitness goals for the summer, I really should be swimming in the lake already, but it hasn't been warm enough yet.

What? You say that lots of people have been swimming at Chatfield? Even some who appear to be relatively sane? Well, OK, I'll concede that, I guess. I suppose I could be swimming out there already; I'd just need a little bit of mental toughness. Or a wetsuit.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to drag either one of those items out of the closet. All it takes is a cloud or two (or a mercury reading below 80°), and you'll see me driving right past the park entrance, on my way home for my evening nachos and ice cream. Sigh.

Yes, it is a lack of discipline. A character flaw. Another symptom of the decline in American values. An absence of backbone, a manifestation of worldwide malaise, and (in all likelihood) a result of watching too much TV as a kid. Why, it was just a few years back when you'd see me swimming in snowstorms, uphill, 17 miles each way to school and back. I didn't mind turning blue, having to stop to knock ice crystals off my goggles, or losing a few toes to frostbite -- it used to be about the goals, man. What in the world went wrong?

I suppose it would be easy to blame the standard scapegoats: hippies, evil oil companies, and corn farmers. But even if you did remove all petroleum products, high-fructose corn syrup, and B.O. from the world, I suspect I'd find some deeper psychological issues that are preventing me from plunging into the lake. But seriously, people...we've already passed the stinkin' Solstice fergawshsakes! Days are getting shorter from here on out. And yet the cold rain came down most of the day yesterday, and the temperature never got above the shirt-shedding point. Global warming is making this planet cold, dadgummit, and I'm just getting too old to deal with it.

There, I said it. I'm old. No, no, don't argue -- I know that I still appear incredibly youthful and handsome, and that my mind is still as sharp as a 2-year-old's, and that I'm often mistaken for a Harvard undergrad...but the fact is that I've come to cherish my comfort more and more as I've matured. There used to be a certain appeal to engaging in severe behaviors simply for the "build our bodies in the fire of our wills" brownie points, but there comes a time when you realize that those points have no cash value and are not redeemable at any store. I could swim in a cold lake...or I could swim the same distance at the pool and not smell like goose poop afterwards. Hmm.

Still, I'm not giving up. I am planning to swim in the lake -- as soon as it warms up just a tiny bit more. Tomorrow, probably. In the meantime, I'll continue to rant against the conspiracy among meteorologists, SUV owners, and plate tectonicsists that has mired us in this infernal eternal winter. Fight the power, man. Fight the power.

And not that this has anything to do with any of that, but I have decided to enter the Triple Bypass bike ride. It's a 120-mile trek over several mountain passes, which obviously incorporates some pretty serious climbs. And speaking of climbs, I'm considering a hike/jog up to the top of Pike's Peak for this weekend. I'll be running a track practice with my brother on Thursday, and will probably play some tennis in there someplace. I'm thinking of a pretty tough swim practice to throw at the team tomorrow morning, too. So I guess the conspiracy against me hasn't been 100% effective. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, let me know if you have any good ideas for ways to torture the swimmers who are still practicing in the pool with me. And have a great day!

Father's Day Weekend

I'm bummed that I didn't remember to get Tanner to pose for a photo with me yesterday. It would've provided visual evidence that my son does indeed hold me in high regard, and was proud to celebrate Father's Day by treating me to lunch.

Well, OK -- it's more accurate to say that it would've provided evidence that he agreed to be photographed with me. The other points would be mere speculation (except for the "treating me to lunch" part, which is 100% fiction). Come to think of it, I'm not sure he even knew it was Father's Day...he certainly didn't make note of the fact during our conversation.

Still, it was a good conversation. As I've noted before, I really enjoy chatting with my son; he's a sharp kid who can express himself well. Although he is well aware that anyone who disagrees with me is inevitably proven to be horribly wrong, he's still willing to offer alternative opinions. This leads to stimulating debate and gives us each the opportunity to sharpen our rhetorical skills. It's always interesting for me to hear the viewpoint of naive youth, and it's instructive for him to hear the voice of wisdom and reason (even though he usually chooses to ignore it.)

Yesterday's topic was "hippies".

Not long ago, I had wondered aloud as to whether there were any true hippies left. Oh sure, I know there are still drugged-out smelly people, and even men with long hair who wear tie-dyed t-shirts. And heck, I even use the word "groovy" sometimes, myself. But I wasn't sure there were any remaining truly pure examples of the breed, driving VW microbuses and listening to sitar music while sticking flowers into gunbarrels, etc. Well, Tanner assures me that there are. The hippie movement may be small, but it is apparently alive and well.

How does he know this? Well, on Saturday his band had played at an event at Bishop's Castle, which is southwest of Pueblo, Colorado. And according to Tanner, this event was a bona-fide hippie-fest that attracted dozens of 60s holdovers who were never able to make the transition into the disco era and beyond. He said that for most of them, this festival was a stop-over on their way to Burning Man.

Obviously, Tanner's rap band didn't go over real big with the audience. But, being hippies, they remained mellow and said things like "Wow, man, like, it's your thing, man, and that's cool. Not my bag, you know, but like, power to the people, man. Peace."

You may have heard of Bishop's Castle. It's a one-man construction project, hand built by a crazy dude from whatever materials he can scrounge up through donations. It's open to the public, and will probably continue to grow until Mr. Bishop is too old to cart his rocks up the scaffolding. Tanner said that he had never been in a place that felt quite so dangerous.

Anyway, I have no reason to doubt the boy's assessment of the health of hippiedom. I'm kinda sorry I didn't attend; I haven't been able to yell "Get a haircut, ya freak!" at anyone for a long time. Ah, that brings back some memories!

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I enjoyed Father's Day, and am very thankful that my son is still willing to hang out with me on occasion. The "Cat's in the Cradle" days will come, I'm sure...so I plan to cherish every one of these engaging discussions.

As for the rest of the weekend, it was all about exercise. It appears that my shin splints really are a thing of the past, so I'm trying to stay consistent with my incremental running progress. I did a track workout last Wednesday, ran 5 miles on Thursday morning, and even put in a couple of miles on a treadmill on Sunday. I did several hard swim practices in there, too. But the BIG workout of the weekend came on Saturday morning, when my buddy Kim and I put in a long training ride on the bicycles.

We met on the 470 bike path, and headed down into Bear Creek Lake Park. We started at 5:15am, so we startled at least one coyote who was surprised to see crazy humans out at that time of day. From the park, we rode up Rooney Road and across Colfax into Golden, where we caught the bike path that took us up to 19th St, and to the foot of Lookout Mountain.

We pushed hard going up Lookout. As we passed the entrance pillars, I saw another rider a few hundred yards ahead, and decided I would try to catch up. That idea lasted about halfway up the mountain, where I finally lost sight of my target for good. I was going as fast as I could, but the other rider just steadily pulled away. And if that wasn't humiliating enough, at about that time, a couple of other cyclists went by me like I was standing still. I'm pounding the cranks, huffing and puffing and gasping for every molecule of the thin air I can grasp, and these guys are zipping past me while holding a leisurely conversation -- almost as if they were sitting in easy chairs at Starbucks.

Hmm. They must have more expensive bicycles. That's the only possible answer. Right?

Anyway, Kim and I made it to the top, and then enjoyed the rocket ride downhill, coasting past the Mother Cabrini shrine and back down toward Dinosaur Ridge. For some reason I can't begin to explain, we decided it would be a good idea to ride into Red Rocks and crank up the hill to the top of the amphitheater. Ugh. I had thought I was tired when we got to the top of Lookout -- but now I was positively spent.

We made it home, though, and felt pretty good about the day's efforts. I'm not sure we're quite where we need to be to do the Triple Bypass on July 9th, but at least we're getting more comfortable with saddle time on steep hills. And a ride like that really does make the rest of the day more enjoyable.

Too bad there aren't a couple more days included in the weekend. It's back to work on Monday. And that's what makes me start thinking that maybe the hippies have the right idea after all. Having to work for a living is totally, like, a downer, man.

Oh well, at least there's another weekend coming up soon. Far out.

Peace, my friends. And have a great day!

Ventilation

Do you remember Clippy, the MS Office version of Gladys Kravitz? Everybody hated him. He was more reviled than Idi Amin, Pol Pot, and Joe Biden combined. There was great rejoicing when Microsoft put him on the guillotine and then placed his severed head on a spike in front of the original Starbucks store in Seattle. But with all the computer problems I've been having lately, I'm wondering if he couldn't be of some service...if he were still with us.

Here's the thing: Pretty much every problem you could have with your computer is accompanied by informational popup messages. Your virus checker is out of date! A new version of Acrobat is about to be installed! Windows demands that you stop what you're doing so that Internet Explorer can be updated with additional search buttons you don't want! And when applications do crash, they generally seem to cheerfully restart themselves and recover your data.

But not Windows itself. When the Blue Screen of Death occurs, all you get is incomprehensible gobbledygook (IRQL is not less than or equal 08x000016, etc) and a bunch of scary text that makes you think fondly of Chernobyl. Once the machine reboots, you might also see a dialog box that says "Windows experienced an unexpected problem and is clueless what to do about it. Al Capone's vault will be searched and Geraldo will notify you if a solution is found there."

My question is this: Why can't we resurrect Clippy to explain these problems? Wouldn't it be cool if he said "Gee, Pal, It looks like you need a bit more RAM, and Best Buy has it on sale at the Bowles and Wadsworth store," or "Dude, the fact that you put your computer's air intake vent right by the fireplace is causing your CPU to overheat and shut down. Why don't you move the unit over by the hamster cage, where the wind from his wheel will solve your airflow problems?"

But no. Instead, we're basically left with the options of buying a new computer, fiddling with every conceivable setting and hardware connection in a vain hope of randomly achieved success, or accepting that the only word processing you're ever going to do will be with a pen, a notepad, and a fifth of Scotch. After all, Hemingway never had a BSOD, did he?

Anyway, when I mentioned my BSOD plague to my son, he suggested that I investigate the airflow issue. And sure enough, the case fan was a bit dusty and the temperature inside the box was approaching the egg-fry zone. So I opened the side panel and pointed my little desk fan at the motherboard and let 'er rip. The bad news is that my computer has crashed once since then...but the good news is that it was able to complete my latest video render project without dying, and it survived an entire night while performing background backup tasks—A vast improvement over the previous few days. I doubt that a fan-based solution is a valid permanent fix, but I'm going to go with it for now.

Since I fully intend to win the Lotto jackpot this weekend, I suppose I can just replace the hunk of junk with an allocation from my newfound millions. But on the off chance the Lotto board conspires to deprive me once again, I may have to look into other solutions.

In the meantime, if you have any good suggestions, let me know. And have a great day!

Great Weekend!

Every now and then I get a glimpse into what normal people's lives are like. I now understand why everyone gets so excited about Saturdays and Sundays; you can actually have a lot of fun if you're not spending those days at a desk with your hands manacled to a keyboard.

I'm not sure what went wrong within our management ranks, but somebody goofed up and authorized me to take the weekend off. Though puzzled and suspicious, I decided to go with it—so I actually made some plans to do stuff. It's an odd sensation to experience freedom and a budding sense of self-direction, but I decided to take the reins of this challenge, and see where it would take me.

Step one was accepting Kim's invitation to ride bikes up to CityView. Though I had failed to finish it in an earlier attempt, I figured that riding with a buddy would provide the navigation and motivation to keep me on track to make it. I met up with him on the trail at 5:45am, and was surprised that it was already completely light outside.

We went up the Highgrade side (a LONG climb), stopped for a Gatorade at the schoolhouse, and then cruised through CityView and down Turkey Creek. We took turns drafting (though I'm not sure how much advantage you get when the hill is so steep you're only doing about 3mph), and we pushed each other to keep a good pace. It was a gorgeous morning, and the only scary parts were being passed by Canyonero trucks and seeing deer lurking in the bushes. (You never know when those little buggers will leap out in front of you when you're flying down the hill at 40mph!)

It was a fabulous ride. I even felt so good at the bottom of the canyon that I tacked on a few extra miles, bringing my distance to 48 miles total -- the longest ride I've done in quite some time. I wasn't much good for anything else the rest of the day, but what a grand way to start the morning.

Actually, the rest of the day was pretty good, too. Despite an ever-more-frequent BSOD problem on my computer, I actually got a bit of editing done on a veteran's interview, paid my bills, and balanced my checkbook. Since the BSOD was happening at least once an hour, I got into the habit of saving my files after every keystroke. Hey, it takes a lot longer to get anything done, but at least you don't lose anything when Windows commits repeated seppuku.

Sunday was a good day, too. It started with a homemade egg sandwich with syrup (thanks for the idea, Ronald McDonald!), and segued neatly into an invigorating trail run. Since I'm still cautious about my shin splint recovery, I vowed to minimize footfall impact and was willing to walk whenever it made sense. I was prepared to spend 3 hours or more doing the seven-mile loop, but completed it in less than two. I was very pleased, and as far as I can tell, no worse for the wear.

Later in the day, I took Tanner to Chipotle for dinner, and then soundly whupped his hide in a tennis match. I try to let him think he's almost as good as me, but it's simply impossible to completely supress my dominance. I know that it's inevitable for children to eventually surpass their parents...but I also know how intimidating it must be to have a father as totally awesome as I am. I probably have another 20 or 30 years of superiority before he beats me in anything (other than running, which doesn't really count because his legs are longer).

And that reminds me: I wonder what sorts of fabulous things he's thinking about doing for me on Father's Day next weekend? I'm sure he's given it a ton of thought and has made all sorts of detailed arrangements. Well...I'm pretty sure.

Anyway, this entire weekend was a real treat, and I'm looking forward to having another one some day. Keep your fingers crossed in the hopes that my bosses will once again forget to chain me to the desk at close of business on Friday. I appreciate the support, and would love the opportunity to tell you all about the fabulous gifts and loving attention I receive from my son next Sunday. Stay tuned, and enjoy the rest of your week!

Birds

Birds are waking me up in the mornings. Wouldn't be so bad if I got to bed at a decent hour, but I've been staying up too late. And that wouldn't be so bad if I were staying up late to play Twister with the Swedish Bikini Team or argue about Kirk vs. Picard with Stephen Hawking or something. But no, I'm just dealing with too many computer crashes, too many chores, and a plague of inexplicable insomnia. Ugh.

So what's up with these birds? They start their cheerful chirping nearly a full hour before the sun comes up. What's that about? I could understand it if they were singing the praises of a glorious orange sky on a brand new day, or celebrating a bounteous worm harvest -- but instead they seem to be making this racket for the sole purpose of annoying human beings. I can only conclude that they are the avian equivalent of rap musicians.

Oh sure, I know there are people who enjoy this manic cacophony. There are also people who enjoy wind chimes, Rosie O'Donnell, and Yoko Ono. But that doesn't mean that decent folk should be subjected to such abuses. I'm not suggesting that we ban birds entirely -- just that we figure out a way to ship them off to somewhere where their pre-dawn shrieking won't wake up decent citizens and deprive them of the rest they need to be productive throughout the day. Send them to some forsaken wasteland like Siberia, or perhaps Oklahoma.

If we can figure out a way to do that, we'll all be able to have a great day!

The Price of Sloth

You may recall that my automobile was recently attacked by malevolent flying plywood, bent on destruction. It smashed my front grill and partially mangled my bumper. Fortunately, the damage was mostly superficial, so the car continued to run. And since I was swamped at work and couldn't find time to get away, I continued to drive it, dents and all.

Yes, Jethro Bodine is one of my role models. Why do you ask?

Anyway, my workload at the office finally let up to the point where I felt I could spend the time to get an insurance estimate and schedule the repair. Once these tasks were completed, all that remained was arranging transportation.

Weather forecast? Good. Bike tires inflated? Sí. Backpack sufficiently large to hold workclothes and sack lunch? Well...not quite. But if I could wear my work shoes for the ride (and not carry spares), I might just be able to transport everything I need, and not need to beg anyone to give me a lift. So be it, then. I shall drop off the car, ride down Santa Fe and across Titan Road, and arrive at the office well stimulated from a brisk ride -- and ready to tackle my assigned duties.

And thusly did events transpire. My only miscalculation was forgetting how dangerous and scary this route's traffic was on a workday. And how many steep hills there are. And how windy it always is at this time of year. And how my tender buttocks were totally unprepared for a grueling grind in the saddle.

I'd also failed to factor in a hard morning's workout at 24-Hr Fitness, which I had completed mere minutes before handing the keys to the bodyshop technician. In short, I had thought that my ride to work would be a pleasant and welcome change from the normal driving routine. After all, I'd experience open air instead of being confined to the car, and could listen to the sounds of nature as opposed to inane drivetime radio hosts...and it was only a couple of miles to ride.

Uh, right.

The good news is that I eventually made it safely to work. I was exhausted, smelly, partially deafened by traffic noise, and moving like a zombie... but I made it. It took an effort, though -- these last few months of confinement to the office have left me soft and weak. The few bike rides I've been doing have not yet created the buttockular imperviousness nor the hamstringian diesel power I need to develop before a ride like this once again becomes routine and carefree. I'll get there, though. My plan for the summer includes lots of ridin' and runnin'...so stay tuned. I hope to have tales of mighty athletic accomplishments and Herculean endeavors -- and far fewer of these "Don Knotts is tougher than me" blog entries.

Oh, and when I hopped into the workplace shower, I discovered that I had also forgotten my towel—But that's a different story entirely. For now, I'll sign off and wish you a fabulous day!