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31.5

On Mr Middleton and Irony

At Central (Omaha High School), there was this study hall teacher. Actually, I don't know what he taught. He was just the person monitoring the study hall period that I was in. His name was Mr. Middleton. The thing about the study hall was that since there was really no studying to be done the first week of school or so, Mr. Middleton had just enough time to explain to us what his name was - and what it was not. Mr Middleton always wore some sort of military uniform. Other than my dad, Mr. Middleton was the only adult who I feared when I was in High School.

Mr Middleton's introduction of himself to the study hall went something like:

Hello. I'm Mr Middleton. My name is "Mr." - "Middleton". It is not "Hey Middleton". It is not "Middleton". It is "Mr Middleton, period".
< a faint chuckling can be heard from somewhere behind me >
Middleton looks in my direction. Sighs. Slowly descends the stairs of the stage he's standing on. Walks down the aisle to my left. Looking sternly at each student in the eye. Getting closer to me. I'm looking down at my desk. Mop of hair partially covering my eyes, cursing myself for not just saying "High and Tight" last time I was at the "Beauty shop" as my mom called the place we got haircuts. Here he comes. He thinks I'm the one who laughed at him. I mean, I was, but not out loud. Now he's stopped. Beside my desk. I feel him standing there. I look up slowly. He's staring at me. Looking for something. Thanks be to God he doesn't see what he's looking for. He continues to the back of the row and turns.

"If any one of you calls me anything other than Mr. Middleton, I will kill you while you sleep.

"One. Last. Time. It is Mr. Middleton Period.

"Any questions?"

It's at this point that my bff raises his hand. What he says makes me realize that no matter how much we seem like peers, he is my master ...

Brian (not Bryan) says. "I have a question, is it 'Mr. Middleton' or 'Mr. Middleton Period.'"

Oh my god. I couldn't believe Mr. Middleton didn't "skin that smoke wagon" as Wyatt Earp might say.

Note: The title suggests Irony. The Irony in this tale: The longer Mr. Middleton tries to ensure he is called "Mr. Middleton", the better the chance that he will be blogged about 27 years later.

He ain't heavy, Shim's my brother.

Non Sequitur

One time I was reading this story about the wit of Abraham Lincoln. It seems Honest Abe (The Socialist) had been quite pleased with himself for a joke he made in front of all the members of his cabinet I believe it was. A common farmer had asked for and been granted an audience with the president. When asked the matter, The farmer said that he wanted to know how long a man's legs should be. "Long enough to reach the ground." was President Lincoln's answer.

Well what pleased Lincoln so much was the uproar of laughter that followed. He hurried home to tell Mary Todd about it. She was not as happy about it as Abe. She argued with him about the proper punch line (She said it should be "Long enough to reach his torso", which is much funnier to her) and the reason a man would travel such a great distance to ask such a ridiculous question.

In the end, this got Abe thinking. "What did the farmer really want?"

Anyway, the term "Non Sequitur" was used in the story and that's the first time I saw it.

It was written by Woody Allen.

I must apologize

I have been in the process of not blogging for some time. That last thing I was going on about. It has an ending that I'll discuss at some point. Not now, though. I just wanted to get on and mention that I finally figured out what "spinning" is good for as far as cyclists go. It's a good way to spend an hour reflecting on what a big huge lazy pussy you are.

So yeah, I just got winterized. The thing is, the winter commute to work may be better than summer since I don't have a shower there at where I work and stuff. Besides, it's too cold to golf.

More About this (yesterday) Morning

Ok so where was I? Oh yeah, I was about to mention that as a perfectly able-bodied young adult couple, my ex-wife and I could have possibly made ends meet on our meager wages. Neither one of us had a marketable degree. I didn’t have one and she didn’t have a marketable one (biblical studies). However, it was my contention that ANY degree is good for getting a job paying more than mine was at the time.

With both of us working, there is no reason we could not have continued to build on my little nest egg. Then, tragedy struck. This is hard to talk about in the context of this blog because of the serious nature of it all. But just as we were getting on our feet as a new couple, my ex-wife was struck with a debilitating and profoundly severe case of laziness. She sincerely believed that the man should work and the woman should stay at home. Not that she was completely old fashioned though. She did not believe that a woman should solely be responsible for cooking and cleaning. She felt that the man should help out. Oh yeah - and by help out - she meant do all of it.

I felt that if she had this 50's sort of "Honey, I'm home!" attitude, she should get her June Cleaver ass in the kitchen and cook me up some damn meatloaf or something.

But I seem to have digressed ...

Back to 1992:

We had been “borrowing” a car from a friend of Wisa’s mother. His name was Wussell. It was a 1986 blood red Ford Tempo. Much more than we could afford. We borrowed it for about 3 years. Then one time, the headlight broke or something and I took it to my mechanic, let’s call him “Wandy”, who worked out of his home. He was the nicest guy ever (as far as mechanics I barely knew go). Very helpful and friendly. I had been having him fix my cars for years and had always been incredibly happy with the work and the price. It was a very casual arrangement.
“Hey Wandy, my car’s making a noise”
“bring ‘er down!”
“Thanks, man”

So yeah I took Wussell’s car to Wandy. Now here's the best part and it is absolutely true. I felt no need to include Wussell in any of this. I was just going to take the car to Wandy and pay to have him fix it. Wisa felt that Wussell should pay for it since it was his car.

A huge fight ensued which ended with me calling Wussell to tell him that I was getting his car fixed so he should pay for it. I was extremely embarrassed. I was also a big huge pussy. I still am, but I like to think it's by choice.

Well, Wussell paid for it alright. He also required a written estimate of the work done from my mechanic friend. He also took his car back after it got fixed. My mechanic didn't really care to deal with me anymore because of the whole thing. I never talked to Wussell again. I lost many friends during that time in my life. I got most of them back later. Did I mention I was in agony, by the way?

So yeah - now the car search was on. The car I ended up getting was the focal point of what I was reminded of yesterday morning. But really, I have to get up early tomorrow, so ...

This Morning Reminded Me of a Cold Winter Day in 1992 (part one)

Since Weezy and I are moving in a couple (3) weeks, there's a lot of stuff to be done at the current house. We have to get it ready to sell. One thing that needed to be done had to do with the bathtub. It was kind of stained and old looking. There was a little spot of rust or something in one corner. So instead of replacing it, we went with something called electro-something or other. It's some sort of super-duper coating that makes it look shiny and new for pennies less than replacing the tub.
One drawback, though. Nobody can use the tub for 5 days. Not a big deal. It works pretty good with my shower schedule.

So I was like "Hmm ... Where can I take a shower?" Then I was all "I know! I can just go to 24 hour fitness and shower." I've been meaning to get back into shape and this is as good an excuse as any to get started. So saturday morning I "worked out". Loved it. Endorphins, runner's high, all kinds of shit I don't usually get when I exercise. Or maybe I never noticed because I used to exercise intensely pretty much every day.

Well anyways, I was hooked. I didn't go Sunday because I had to golf (90 on a par 68). Actually, I was thinking about how I might squeeze a workout in. This is like it was years ago when I was truly addicted to it.

I figure if I get up at 5 each day, I can get a good workout in and be at work before 8. Yesterday was great. I felt great all day. relaxed. cool. When I quit several months ago, it was pulling teeth to workout. I guess I needed a break. But that's not what reminded me of 1992.

In 1992, I had been married for almost 3 years. About 2.9999 years of that - absolute, unrelenting misery. Horrible. I'll talk about it someday, when I can laugh about it (like tomorrow or something).

Jolene (my daughter) was 2 years old. I was poor for the first time since 1986. I had slowly amassed a small nest egg from 86 to about 90. I had a policy of living debt free. I was saving to pay my way through college. I wanted to go to U.N.O. and Major in Computer Science. Everything was going pretty well. I worked part-time at Idelman Telemarketing. I had a nice little apartment. I had lots of Christian friends and we'd hang out at Village Inn drinking coffee, studying the bible, laughing at sinners and generally being assholes. I had heard about this very serious, devout, woman of Christ named Wisa Wike (Fake Name, to be discreet - or is it discrete?) She was sort of a self contained separate being, I guess. We'll I had heard about her many times as being no-nonsense. Several of my brothers in Jesus were pretty much in love with her. I had never met her, but I kind of liked her, too - from the way people talked about her.

Turns out, she had way more faith than I ever will. For instance, she believed that the bills would somehow miraculously get paid. Or that if someone offered us credit, it was God's way of saying we needed to consume more than we produced.

So by 1992, I was in more debt than ever before. A trend that would continue until I got away and dug my way out.

I have to stop there because I'm tired from all that working out and I have to get up at 5 tomorrow ...

About 400 pages to go ...

Well I found out who Yossarian is. That was at about page uh 1 or so. I am really enjoying this book, but ...

Much like "M*A*S*H", "Catch-22" could stand to put the hash pipe down, man.

I've read the first chapter of the book. I finished "the Longest book I'll ever read" last night. To get that taste out of my mouth, I grabbed the copy of Catch-22 that Brady stole from Starbuck's and loaned me. Deep in the middle of the book, was placed a little note from Brady. Some threat about returning the book. Oh, I'll return it, but first I have to decide how I want Irving Washington to censor it.

More later as things develop. So far (11 pages), the book is much better than the Movie.

I may as well summarize so far:

The texan killed the soldier in white.
Everybody was so sick of the texan they got well and left the hospital
Except the Agent put there to see if people were faking it. He caught a cold from a Pilot with Malaria or something.
Good stuff.

How to face paint farm animals

All (both) of those who read this blog, accurately consider my [writing] beyond reproach. I have worked very hard to gain your [trust], providing only [the utmost] in journalistic integrity. It is not by accident that the quality of every post on this blog is rivaled only by the great literary masterpieces. In fact, even some of those would not be able to keep pace for long with the archives of March 2007, let alone the sum of the great work that defines these hallowed electronic pages.

Like [anything worth doing], my decision to uphold a certain standard has made my task all the more difficult. The cost to me and my family has been more than I could have ever imagined. Maintaining [professional, honest commentary], complete with inexplicable brackets thrown in occasionally is [a challenge] that few will ever accept. Well I have accepted it and I have done so with great eagerness and humility. I have held close my values as my family has stood by me. Through the various attempts to bribe, blackmail, coerce or otherwise corrupt me, I have stood tall. I have never boasted about my greatness, I have just quietly achieved it with the sort of grace typically reserved for The Mother Goose fairy tales (more on that later).

Anytime one ascends to my level, there is the unavoidable perception amongst the masses that a hero exists in the midst. As soon as one’s greatness is apparent, the citizenry will understandably cling to this person for a moment's respite from an otherwise meaningless existence. Let me just say up front, I’m no hero (which I’m sure you realize are the words only a true hero could utter). It is because of the love and support of my family that I’m able to face and survive these daily trials. Without my wife and 2.5 kids, I’m nothing. I’m a hollow tin man that one might attach to a holiday conifer of some sort. Where the hell is my thesaurus?

Do I deserve their unquestioning loyalty? Yesterday I would have said “Hell[s] yes.”

Today? “No, [not] really.”

Allow me to explain …

It is with great pain that I give you the following post. I don’t take this decision lightly. I’ve been faithfully posting my heart out on this blog for upwards of (I have no idea how long) years, and have stuck to my guns with unwavering resolve. When others were fleeing for the hills, I turned to face the heavens and fearlessly cried “Bring it!” And as many (both) of you know, it was indeed “brought’n” on many occasions. Did I cower in submission to the seemingly imminent defeat? Did I ever once take the easy way? I don’t think so. Through all the rough patches, I have refused to lower my standard to go for the “cheap laugh.” I’d sooner poop my pants in a thunderstorm. Oops. Anyway …

I find the current temptation too great for even one as strong as me to resist. Unfortunately, my star rose in an age where heroes are routinely exposed as cheats, murderers, pit-bull owners, smokers, etc.

With each new revelation of another fallen hero comes a further hardening of the community heart, until all we’re left with is a four-chambered hunk of stone, mechanically pumping ice-cold liquid death through our apathetic veins (Oh, there’s my thesaurus) hoping to find someone we can believe again.

Then came this simple blog. Unassuming at first. A place where a working man could find refreshment after a long day at the salt mines or wherever the hell he’s been all day. A celebration of all that is good in the world. A symbol of that which cannot be owned by the big corporations or shaped by the whims of the insolent masses.

These days, a blog is about commercialization. It’s the stuff of cold calculative bean counters, number crunchers. Don’t give me your opinion, Cube! I want the bottom line! Artistic expression and personal opinion are old-fashioned. This is the age of surveys and polls. Tell us what you’d like to hear and that’s what we’ll say. It makes me sick.

This is what makes this so much harder for me. But I’m tired. Perhaps I’ve fought too long. Maybe the road was tougher than I imagined. Maybe it was foolhardy to think a small town kid like me, head full of clichés, could stand where so many others have faltered. Lance Armstrong is selling performance enhancing drugs on CNN’s web site for God’s sake! How am I, a naïve kid from Nebraska to come through unscathed? I’ll tell you. I’m not. Well, it has been quite a ride, n’est pas?


Hopefully, you can forgive this transgression. I can no longer resist the temptation to pander. The people have spoken. I can no longer ignore my readers’ demands. At the risk of losing the faithful, I now write to the googlers:

Hey Googlers ! Howzit goin! I know, right!? Sorry about all that Blah blah blah above. It’s for a contest I’m in. Don’t worry about it.
Now let’s get this party started! Whoop Whoop!

I just want to give a shout out to my people in the great city of Toronto! Yaay! Canada effin’ rocks!!

If I hadn’t checked my blogger statistics, I would not have seen that you were on google searching for “How to face paint farm animals” which naturally brought you to my site.

Well let me tell you, friend … You came to the right place.

As you can well imagine, I know all about farm life being a Nebraskan. Nebraska is right next to a state called Iowa, where there are lots and lots of farms. I’m sure most big-city types would wonder why in the world anyone would want to put lipstick on a pig. Oh shit – sorry everyone in the world that I’m such a sexist. I meant to say – why anyone would want to face paint a farm animal. But if Canada is anything like Iowa (and I’m sure it is) you’re always looking for fresh new ways to make your farm animals look, uh, prettier. The first three things you have to know are foundation, foundation, foundation. Next, you’ll want to find a good … Ahh! A vampire! Help, shim, please.

and scene ...

Now that's what I call a good vampire movie.

What’s the opposite of “Jumping the Shark”?

I’m sure everyone knows where the phrase “Jumping the Shark” comes from. If not, you at least know the meaning. Basically, we’ve done everything we can. From this point on, we have no idea how to continue. We had a good run and we should quit. However we will not quit. We will do anything to survive for a little longer, including having the Fonz, wearing a leather Jacket, water ski over a shark pit.

To me the opposite of Jumping the shark is “Becoming a Vampire Movie”. It’s a much nobler form of the same idea. You have a fairly decent story going, but don’t really know where you’re taking it. All is not lost. There are plenty of ways to finish the story, but the easiest, best way is to completely change the subject and make it a vampire movie. I know it was an action/crime movie. I don’t care. It’s now a vampire movie. I have seen many movies since From Dusk ‘til Dawn that could have greatly benefitted from this approach.

Where “Jumping the shark” is a desperate last ditch attempt to salvage something that should just say goodbye. Becoming a vampire movie says, hey yeah, we know. We’ve got something here. We’re just getting started, but we may not handle the rest of it well. It’s almost impossible to screw up a vampire movie. Especially if you can sign Selma Hayek up for it.

The biggest difference between Jumping the shark and Becoming a Vampire movie is that to become a vampire movie you have to literally become a vampire movie. Jumping the shark is just some metaphor or homophone or onomatopoeia or some shit.

To me, one (three actually) of the great cinematic travesties is what George Lucas did to Star Wars. Just think though, if while Jar Jar Binks was slinking around annoying everyone, his throat was suddenly gashed open by some unseen force and there was a big huge vampire drawing his life as he hopelessly gurgled and rasped for salvation. The rest of the movie writes itself as all the remaining characters fight a horde of bloodsucking beasts, with young Anakin delivering the final death blow to whoever the galactic vampire leader is.

I’m willing to bet this would have been received much better.

One point, though. This will not make a bad movie good. It only makes a movie that starts out good into an excellent movie. Bad movies are bad Movies. Period. That’s why it didn’t work in From Dusk til Dawn 2 through 8 or however many they made.

Most Steve Martin, Kevin Costner, and Mel Gibson movies fit into this category.

Roxanne? Please. Good for a while, then it’s like wait … Darryl Hannah plays a smart person? Who cast this piece of shit? More Vampires, now.

My Blue Heaven. If you can get past the horrible accent, it’s good until Ric Moranis starts dancing.

Shop Girl? Just kidding. That sucked all the way through. No help there. Same with Spanish Prisoner.

Mystic River. Ooh, it was powerful! Nope. Vampires – before I have to watch Sean Penn bully Susan Sarandon’s husband for one more second.
Sean: Did you do it?
Tim: No.
Sean: Did you do it?
Tim: No.
Sean: I know it was you. Did you do it?
Tim: No. Holy Crap! A vampire!

Unbreakable (and most movies that start with ‘un’, by the way – and ALL M Night Shyamalan movies.):
Bruno: Hey son, put that paint can on this barbell - let’s see if I can’t lift it.
Son: Wow, you have superhuman strength. And something I never noticed before. Fangs!

JFK: hard hitting drama. Long, boring, heavily fictionalized. Make Joe Pesci and Donald Sutherland creatures of the night and now you got a gem.
Donald Sutherland: I’m sorry we had to meet at night, Mr. Ness, but the
clever hints I have for you are … Hey what’s that! ARGH!!
-- And yes it was too Elliot Ness in JFK.

Moulin Rouge. Yeah, it was kind of cool for a while. Hey look, they’re using modern songs.
You know what? All Nicole Kidman movies too.

Forrest Gump. After the third or fourth time he says ‘Lieutenant Dan’

Anyway, you get the idea. I’ll be thinking of more, but I’d be interested in what you think. What movie? Where should it turn?

Brady Mentioned Field of Dreams. That’s easy – “Is this heaven?” No, not quite, Throatless Joe!!! A hahahaha!

Also note:

It shouldn’t be limited to movies. Television could be greatly improved
Everybody Loves Raymond. Nobody would see that coming.
Ray: Ma, the reason my wife (can’t think of her name) can’t cook is because we exist only on human blood!

American Idol. Hell Yeah!

Simon: Absolutely dreadful. If you ever had any talent, it was not singing. But I don’t think you’ll ever be good at anyth … aaahhh. Please Paula!! Help, grghh this is horrib …snap, crunch, drain.

Randy: Holy shit, dog (fredcube: I just had to put “dog” in there. I know, I know …). It’s a frikkin’ vampire. And it’s shredding Simon’s throat. Nooooooo!!

Some commercials (like the new Bill Gates/ Jerry Seinfeld ones) need some help too. At first you’re like “Ok, Gates and Seinfeld. This should be good. Hey turn it up. Ok, they’re bending shoes. Something funny will happen soon. Still bending shoes, still bending …

Man, this post is getting long … Wait there’s a knock at my seventh story window. Be right back, shim.

About 400 pages to go ...

Well I found out who John Galt is. That was at about page uh 600 or so. I am really enjoying this book, but ...

Much like "Dances with Wolves", "Atlas Shrugged" could stand to go on a bit of a diet. A lot of times there are these, what I like to call "Beating Barbaro" segments. Page after page about how astonished Dangy was that she saw no sign of any emotion from Hank's face which, Hank in return, could sense that she saw and realized now that she was fully aware of the torture he was going through, and admired him even more for not showing it. Hank understood the utter lack of any sign of emotion on Dangy's beautiful, but professional face did not mean she had just slipped into a coma, as others might think, but that Dagny, Operating Vice President of Taggart Transcontinental was totally gaga over Hank. They both internally leapt for joy at how cool they were and how not cool everybody else was. They accomplished this through complete motionlessness without showing any blah blah blah. Get on with the train crashes and bankruptcies and shit, Ayn! Jeez.


Much of the book is commentary about the evils of socialism and how the only true good in the world are those Tall, thin, handsome, hard-working, smart forward thinkers who build big-huge monopolies, and are constantly harrassed by greedy lazy fat ugly slobs trying to get something for nothing.


If someone is fat in this book, they are evil. True story.



There's one part where a trainload of people gets crushed under a tunnel that collapses, killing everyone. Whew, everyone on board was a fat socialist! I'm not kidding. Before killing them, the author gives each person's name, how fat they are, and what great sin against capitalism they advocate.

That's pretty much the only gripe I have with an otherwise amazing story. After about page 200 or so, I was unable to put it down (except to wash for dinner and things).


I realize if you've got 1200 pages you need to put words on, you can't just say "Communists are bad, mmkay?"



You could maybe put some pictures of trains or some pop-up skyscrapers. Now that's what I call literature. Something that really jumps off the page at you!

So if I was to sum it up, I'd say "more pictures". Currently, there are none. I hope my suggestion does not fall on deaf ears whenever they get to the final draft of this thing.

In case you haven't heard ...

Note: This post was written on 9/12/2008. I never published it. I don't know why. I actually have a new post about the proudest moment of my life that I will publish in a couple of hours or so. But I've decided to post "The lost Blog posts" from time to time. There are a lot of them.

And now, the very first "Lost Blog Post", In case you haven't heard:

There's this one guy who's white (John McCain) and running for the office of the president of the United States. He's a racist, though. I know this because he publicly says bad things about a black man (Barry Obama) every day (except on 9/11 day). It sounds worse than it is though, because the black man that he says things about is a sexist again. He stopped being a sexist for a few days. He decided to be the bigger man and bury the hatchet, so to speak. He actually worked very hard to make amends to all of those he'd hurt with his disparaging comments toward a certain woman (Mrs. Bill Clinton, who was also a racist, by the way). And let's face it, his target was a human being worthy of great respect and honor. A great American. A woman who weathered an unbelievable battle against incredible odds, and who demonstrated the sort of grace and humility in defeat rarely witnessed in the political arena.

Well It seems like no sooner does Obama patch it up with Slick Willy's old ball and chain, than he starts picking on another woman (also white - and also a racist). But it's worse this time, because many people seem to think this new woman he's picking on is "hot". The great american from earlier (Hillary) gets no such accolades. In fact, when her husband (The Right Honorable William Jefferson Clinton, Esq.) was running around on her publicly, most people weren't saying "Oh that poor woman ". It was more like, "He's cheating with that heavy girl? He can do better."


Now maybe your method of foot massage differs from mine, but hot and Sarah Palin is not the same thing. [skip ahead] Ain't no ball park neither. Sorry for the brief S. Jackson moment.

Anyway, because you can't read, I'll list the reason that I will no longer look at the news until after November:
I know what the Republican Vice Presidential candidate's daughter's name and age (17) is.
I Know that the daughter is pregnant.
I know what the guy who got the daughter pregnant's name is.
I know that he is a hockey player.
I know that Lindsay Lohan had advise for Sarah Palin's daughter of some kind.
I know that the 17 year old is now engaged to the Hockey player.
I know that Sarah Palin has a child with Down Syndrome and that it was rumored for a while that that kid was actually the daughter's.
I know that if you put lipstick on a pig it is still a pig.

Funny thing about me knowing all of this is that I have not read even one article about any of these things. Just the headlines. So yeah, there's no reason to read the news. I might be tempted to read if the headlines started out with the word "Umm".
Not the word "Umm" like I'm trying to remember something. But the one that always preceded the words "I'm going to tell" when I was a little kid. It's like the news writer people are a bunch of tattle-tales. As readers, we should spank them for it and send them back outside to figure out a way to play nice with everyone. But we don't. We read the story and then we say "Umm, Hillary's aid called Obama a terrorist. Umm."

We're a movin' on up ...

Well, it's official. Jill (weezy) and I are moving. We're taking the kids with us too. I thought I'd never move again because this is a great neighborhood. But with the 2.5 kids, we just don't have enough room.

We're moving 2 houses north and across the street to the west. Here is a video of our new driveway.

I wish shim were here.

I saw Johnny Rodgers limping around work today.

I was not limping, he was. Limping Jet? I'm not sure what he was doing here. I think he's planning on making a comeback. He's shorter than I thought he would be.

Wouldn't it be weird if you were a really good college football player and you returned a kickoff (I think it was a kickoff - which means the other team scored - rats) all the way to the end zone and you won the Heisman Trophy and you went to Canada instead of going to the NFL and then you did not brutally kill your ex-wife and her boyfriend's Dad's son and you lived for 40 more years or so and you walked around Omaha and people everywhere still recognized you? I think it would be weird.


Ok, so I'm back in school again. [obligatory comment] But this time, it's personal. The class, I'm only taking 1 class, is called "Advanced Operating Systems" which means that it is an advanced class on operating systems, not a class on advanced operating systems. Boy was my face red when I found that out. Now that I'm taking Master's level classes, I have a really really really big ego about it. I'm like, "Who put all these underclasspersons in this building?"
And they're like, "We did."
And I'm like, "Bastards."

Surely you've all heard the news: Lance Armstrong figured out a new way to get by the testers. Yeah! He's coming back! I was so sad when he quit last time. I understood it. The testing was getting too good and he could not risk getting caught. Did his old teammates learn? No - they all got busted. Except for Hincapie who hides the drugs in that gross vein.

Anyway, it will be cool. He should be able to last for a week or so before he fakes a tour ending accident.

Jeez, it kind of sounds like I don't like the guy. It's not true. He's easily my favorite cyclist and I hope he actually does compete in the tour. Then people will know about cancer - because whatever Lance says he's going to do, he does. Except stay with his wife forever.

Jeez, there I go again. Seriously, I like Lance. He's just full of shit. Nothing wrong with that.

He is not doing the tour again for his own personal glory. It is to raise cancer awareness. After the 2009 TDF, people will be like, "Oh, cancer. Man I can't believe my new awareness level. Sweet."

He's doing this so people will know that a cancer survivor can win the tour 8 times. Right now, they think a cancer survivor can only win it 7 times. Silly people. I might have to get me one of these, now:



Good Luck Lance.

See I put that there so that when Lance Armstrong google's "Lance Armstrong" later today and sees the count has gone up again and reads this post, he will realize that I'm just having a little fun at absolutely no expense to him and hopefully drop the lawsuit because not only is Lance Armstrong completely innocent of all doping offenses past and future, he also likes to sue anyone who says otherwise just to, you know, further prove his innocence.

Uh ... Will Landis be eligible by next year?




Edit:
Mike (hugenerd, not Munson) has a comment for me that is visual in nature, so since I'm on blogger and not "MyTeenSpace", I have to post the photo for him. This is apparently regarding my Lance Armstrong take:

This morning reminded me of a satirical look at 1986.

Yesterday I was sitting at work (not UP) minding my own business when Oliver Sutton, my boss walks up and says, "Hey Fred."
So I'm like "Yes, Mr. Sutton? How may I help you sir?"
And he's like "A bunch of us are knocking off early Friday to go over to the Cox Challenge, Wanna go?"
"Hell yeah," I argued.

So that's how my casual Friday is shaping up. I should steal a potato just for old time sake.

Ahhhh.

This morning reminded me of 1986

I used to commute to work by bicycle then, too. It was an old Schwinn continental '10 speed'. Brown. Rusty. The commute was 8 miles (one way). Now I have 15 miles (one way). Of course, I have two pedals now. I only had one then. Really. The right one was gone. Not the crank arm, just the pedal. It had completely broken off a few weeks before. It was either ride that bike or walk 4 miles to take a bus the other 4 (which I did sometimes). Sometimes I went by skateboard. Really.


It was in Ft. Collins Colorado. I lived in the southwest part of town and worked 4 miles north and 4 miles east of there. At Wendy's. Getting there was mostly downhill so that was no problem.



The way back required a little more effort. I would pedal with my left foot and push down on the right crank with my right. It wasn't bad after I got the hang of it. I was pretty poor back then, so I used to steal potatoes from Wendy's and cook them at home. I once tried to make spaghetti with a handful of ketchup packets and some Ramen noodles. It came out tasting surprisingly like I had just dumped a bunch of ketchup onto my Ramen. It was terrible. Maybe I should have used Catsup. Or even spaghetti sauce (yeah, whatever, Howard Hughes!) People used to call spendthrifts 'Howard Hughes' back then. Now they say 'Bill Gates'. Oh, they also used to call people spendthrifts. Did I mention that this was the 1940's?




That's the only time in my life that I stole stuff on a regular basis. It's interesting to me. I never had any guilt about stealing stuff that I felt I needed. I was just happy I didn't spend money on whatever it was I stole. I've never been that poor since then (I've been close), so my sense of right and wrong has improved dramatically.



I had no furniture. I had no bed. I didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. All I had was Floyd. Just kidding, I didn't have Floyd. I did buy a color TV at a garage sale for 25 dollars. The brand was 'Ford'. Yeah, it had the blue oval car logo on it. Good TV.



But that's not why this morning reminded me of 1986. Unfortunately, my ride took me right by the Colorado State Campus. I was 21 at the time, so it was particularly humiliating to be pedaling this old rusty Schwinn up a hill in my Wendy's uniform (nametag and all), pushing the right side crank arm with my greasy brown "all man made materials" work shoe, next to a bunch of extreme college hotties, sitting in the grass socializing with clean, non-greasy, good looking people (stay in school kids).

The bike had been borrowed from a next door neighbor, Lorna. It had been leaning against the back of the house for a while and was in a certain amount of disrepair. I asked if I could use it and she said no because it didn't work (flat tires, problem with one of the pedals). I asked if she would mind if I took a look at it. So I got some inner tubes and cleaned/oiled the chain. At that point, the spindle part of the right pedal was still there. The platform part was gone though. The shifting and (center-pull) brakes worked fine. It was really hard to pedal on just the spindle. When it broke off, I thought that was the end of it. It actually turned out to be easier without that spindle in the way. My left leg got a really good workout.

Lorna's husband was Dave. Dave was a Vietnam Navy veteran. He identified strongly with Nam. He and I used to go up into the mountains sometimes and he taught me how to shoot a 12 gauge and his M1-A rifle (or maybe not, I can't remember if anyone was allowed to touch the M1-A, but I think so). That was pretty cool. He also had a Springfield 1911 45, but I don't remember shooting it. Sometimes we went hiking into the mountains and he'd show me where he and his family would be living when "Ivan" comes. "Ivan" meant the Soviets (they were not called Russians again yet) and Dave was prepared to live in the mountains if worse came to worse.

Once I said to Dave, "You're a regular Jeremiah Johnson, aren't you?"

"Jeremiah Johnson forgot more than I'll ever know", Dave assured me. My first reaction was to laugh because I thought Dave was brilliantly pretending that Jeremiah Johnson was an actual person and not a character that Robert Redford played in a movie by the same name. Then I realized that Dave believed there actually was a Jeremiah Johnson. Then I realized that I don't know if there ever was a Jeremiah Johnson or not, I had just assumed it was fiction. Well there was nothing for me to say but "Some say he's up there still."

"Indeed", came Dave's satisfied response, and we nodded at each other, affirming our mutual respect for Mountains and cinema.



But that's not why this morning reminded me of 1986. In the spring time in Ft. Collins, there is a weird thing that happens. I think I've talked about it before, but it gets real windy. The wind comes off the Rockies at up to about 100 MPH (100/.625 KPH) blowing straight to the east. They call it the Chinook winds. I don't know why. Maybe Chinook is Jeremiah Johnson's friend. It lasts for a couple of weeks or so. Maybe one week, I don't remember. But it's real windy. It was pretty fun riding east with this stuff going on. I actually tried riding into it once. Even with 2 good pedals, there was no way. But I only had one pedal anyway, so … All I could do was lean forward hard against my (Lorna's) bike and push it the 4 miles to the west. Yeah, there seemed to be a lot of sand too. Going south, north or east was no problem. You could actually get the wind to push you up hills going south by leaning into it right. It still didn't impress the CSU girls. Not that they were lounging around during the Chinook winds or anything. But if they had been, I'm sure they would not have been impressed.

And that’s what reminded me of 1986. It was windy this morning.

I saw Zeus throwing shit at me on my ride home last night

Usually, I don’t mind riding around in thunderstorms. As long as I’m kind of in town. I feel safe huddled in amongst the buildings and trees and stuff. Maybe it’s still dangerous, but it doesn’t feel that way.

What I don’t like is that little stretch of trail between Culver’s and Harrison, which is part of my ride home route. Out in the open, no trees, no buildings, just my helmet and big, huge power line pole structure things.

There was a bunch of lightning to the west. It was weird to watch. There would be like a certain path a bolt would take repeatedly. Like 5 or 6 times. It would stop for a few seconds, then 5 more. As I was riding, it was getting more to the north, and coming closer to me (east).

I was saying things like “I don’t suppose you could get me home safe, what with all the atheism and everything, could you?”

Then I realized the saying about no atheists in foxholes doesn’t apply in thunderstorms. If you’re not right with “The lord god almighty, hallowed be s/his name”, the last thing you want to do is strike up a conversation when the lightning starts getting thrown around. Low profile. That’s what you’re looking for. Don’t mind me pops, I’m probably some sort of optical illusion that looks like a cyclist foolish enough to be taking a spin on a remote trail in the middle of an f’in t-storm.

I was actually thinking how glad I was that I hadn’t boasted to anyone about the 4 dollars I saved that day in gas. I guess I was thinking if I died, I’d hate to think of people laughing, going “Ooh 4 dollars!” “Well you’re dead now, aren’t you miser boy! Maybe you can use that 4 bucks to get across the Styx.”

So yeah I made it home OK. When I got to the door of my house, however, Jack was waiting for me. “You’re wet,” he said.


“Yes, it’s raining”
“yes”
“yes I think perhaps you should come inside.”
“yes”

Oh, did I mention we live in some kind of a hunting lodge for rich weirdos.

Anyway we did the time warp and ate meatloaf. All in all a good night.

Thanks god.

The next big deal

Many years ago, High Gear held a Tuesday night crit training series. These were great. Criteriums can be very scary. This was a chance to get a feel for the way the races go with little pressure. You could drop out and jump in whenever you wanted. The idea was that you could work on crit skills that you can't work on in a real crit once you get dropped. I went to these every Tuesday that summer and was in the best crit racing condition I've ever been in. My weakness has always been fear. Gaining confidence going through corners at 30 MPH was invaluable, blah blah blah.

The Tuesday night crit used to kind of divide into 2 groups. A (cat 1/2/3) and B (4/5). Sometimes we'd do this very cool thing. Work on team tactics. There would be 2 teams comprised of a mix of talents. One 4 or 5 rider was designated as the team leader and everyone else would work to help that person win. If that person got dropped - another 4 or 5 would be the one to win. the 1-2-3s just had to pull and help or break away to get the other team to chase, but they could not win.

I bring it up to talk about Munson, Shim, a lady’s seat and why Munson will rule local cycling next year!

The thing I like best about Shim is he has a personality kind of like Steven Jobs (co-founder of Apple computers). If you take him seriously, you will get mad. If you think he's joking, he's hilarious. Problem is -- he’s not joking. The reason you get mad is because what he is saying is true and usually has something to do with how you suck (in a funny way). So really – it’s about not taking yourself too seriously.

Example: One U.P. Lunch ride during the winter, it was about 50 degrees out. I could not find my fifty degree gloves that morning, so I was wearing the 30 degree gloves. Shim said something like "Too bad it's not snowing. You'd have great gloves for a snowball fight." Great stuff. But some people aren't laughing. Strangely, he said nothing to Wesley, who was wearing Pleather driving gloves that he had no doubt received from his grandparents the previous Christmas.

Back to the Tuesday night crits. Munson had a bike seat that had a split in the middle (on purpose). I think the idea is that if your vagina (hoo-ha) needs a good airing out, you can still go for a ride. I'm not sure if there was a sale on "prostate buddy" saddles or what, but if there's ever a cycling fashion faux pas and Shim is in the vicinity, he'll point it out. On this Tuesday night crit Shim asked, “Munson, why do you have a lady’s seat?”



The thing I like about Munson is he’s the angriest person I’ve ever met. No one knows this of course, because he hides it like Dexter (an all new season begins this fall on Showtime!). He’s the friendliest helpfullest calmest person you’ve ever met. But believe me, There’s a monster brewing under the surface. How can I be so sure? My mom was the same way (before she tossed a hamburger at my dad and became hill training for local riders – (another Shim original)). Most postal workers are this way. I used to be this way. Figuratively speaking – I used to have a little Munson in me. I gave it up for outbursts of anger and alcoholism. Big improvement, but no way to win races.

Even writing this, I’m a little nervous. I hope the “friendly” Munson reads this.

Why is Munson always all smiles? Why does he wave with a big ol’ grin when he flies by you in a crit? Because he figures it’s slightly better than hacking you to delicious little crimson bits with an X-acto (for now anyway).



So on this fateful Tuesday night, Shim’s words pierced through Munson’s soul like light through the middle of his bike seat. A tiny little crack (I wanted to say fissure here, but I thought it was a bit much) formed on the surface of Munson’s otherwise flawless armor of gentleness. A tiny little bit of the true Munson escaped through that crack. A slight whiff of sulfur could be detected. People’s eyes were burning. Munson blamed it on a huge burrito he had supposedly eaten the night before.

At this time (a few years ago), Randell and Shim were at about the same level. Munson was somewhat below that. No way could “nice” Munson challenge Randell or Shim. And though nice Munson probably happily pedaled his happy sandals down to lovely Bellevue, whistling “I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener”, Shim’s comment summoned alternate universe, evil, goatee toting Munson. It was really scary. We were having the crit in a church parking lot and as the gun went off signifying the race start, the skies began to darken and a voice from below could be heard growling “This is my wretched son, Fear him with all that is within you, son of man!”

I’m not saying it was Satan, I’m just saying that’s what the voice said.

So anyway – Munson won the crit that night, beating Shim (Randell was not there).

Once again, Munson was happy, vindicated. The skies cleared. His eyes turned from black to their normal golden color. The goatee vanished.

Talking about it later, Munson was saying something about Shim’s comment getting him fired up. I was agreeing with him (I thought) when I said I had realized what “turning a pedal in anger” means.

Munson (the crack in his gentleness armor haphazardly patched - for now) disagreed. “My best results have come when I was not angry.”

Yeah whatever, Lady’s seat boy.

ff>

Well I haven’t thought about that much (not more than 3 or 4 times a day) since then, but some of Munson’s recent blog comments make me realize the shield that has protected us all through the years is finally wearing away. Starting to rust a bit maybe …

The title of his last post:
“Rough couple of weeks”

What?!? That doesn’t sound like Munson.
Good Munson would have said, “Diarrhea is a great way to get down to that target weight!”

Crack!

I am toying with the idea of racing again, to which Munson says:
“Um, sorry to remind you, but one other guy just hit his 45 candle-on-the-cake year....Mark Brackenbury. And he's strong as ever. And Dave Rogers is also Spence like in his strength.”

Not “Just think of Bunnies and lollipops, and you’ll do fine. Even if you don’t win (you will), you’re still a winner in my book, slugger!”

Crack!

Brady says “hey, let’s put the drive train on the other side”

Does Munson say, “You could do it with enough duct tape!”

Nope, here comes evil Munson. The real Munson:

“I'm sorry to rain on your left parade brady, but the only way a left drive bike will work is with either a fixed gear or single speed. There's no derailleur hanger on the left side.”

Crumble!

Oh it’s on. Beating Shim was nothing. I predict evil Munson will be in complete control by November. Next Summer, no mortal on 2 wheels will stand a chance.

I’m just kidding. Munson’s really nice.

Update: Told ya.

Don't lose hope Bryan

All is not lost. I know you struggle to keep weight on. I used to be the same way.
Read my story below for some inspiration!

Worst Wednesday night ride ever

So in my renewed bike mode, I rode to work today. I will tomorrow as well. The route I take is 31 miles round trip. Today I was on the way home when I realized I need another pair of bib shorts. I thought I'd stop at the Trek store where, since I think today is Tuesday (It's Wednesday) since I took Monday off, the Wednesday night ride was getting ready to go off. Now even completely fresh, I'm in no shape to do the Trek store ride. So after about 15 miles, I'm worthless. No way I could hang with those guys for even the ride down the trail. Forget it.

Yeah I could do The wussy Bike Master's ride, but that's not really on my way home from work is it? - I'm just kidding - The Bike master's ride is easily my favorite. It's just far, far away. And I couldn't currently handle either one.

I had to get home anyway. I had a commitment (watching the kids). Shim and Mod were willing to recommend good divorce lawyers so I could ride the ride - good guys, Shim and Mod. The craziest thing is ... I was actually tempted.

I barely made it home as it was so ...

Here's the deal - I'm a bit out of shape. I need to lose 25 pounds. I can lose up to 5 a week riding and drinking right. I might be able to do Wednesday in 2 or 3 weeks. Of course I'll get severely dropped, but I'll finish. I couldn't have done that today.

Log of the last couple weeks (Miles):

0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, .5, 0, 25, 25, 27, 25, 32

This morning weigh in: 215.6! Man, I'm glad I didn't weigh myself last week.

Oh it's on like Tron (I hated Donky Kong).

We are decided

Ok, I don't know how long this new motivation will last, but I realized today that if I get back down to cruiserweight, and get a few thousand miles in, I could race in the 45+ category next year. Not that that would be any easier or anything (especially since I'll be 45), but I'd like to give it a whirl.

The funniest thing I read today

" ... it is not against the law to drink someone's urine without their permission."

The best hamburger in the world (or within driving distance)

My dad talks about the best hamburger that ever existed. According to him it was the number 7 from the Blue Ox fast food restaurant on 30th and Cass St. It’s not there anymore. It closed down before I was old enough to get a number 7. For years we all heard stories about the near divorce over one of these prized dandies. My dad was going to get hisself a dear old Number 7 and asked my mom if she wanted one. She said no. When he got back …

Mom: Do you think I could have a little bite of that sandwich.

Dad: I asked you if you wanted one before I left. I want a whole one. Not a portion of one. I didn’t go down to the Blue Ox and ask for a sandwich with a bite out of it. They’ve done careful studies on the proper sandwich size for a man of my general build, etc. etc.

Mom: I can’t believe you! You won’t even give me one bite of your precious little …

Dad: I asked you if you wanted one. You said you weren’t hungry.

Mom: I wasn’t. But it’s just that when I smelled it – it smells so good. I know I should have gotten one now, but I …

Dad: Damn right you should have gotten one. Cause you ain’t getting a fuckin’ speck of mine, bitch!

Mom: Don’t call me bitch, you asshole!

Dad: Go see why Freddie’s crying!

Mom: I know why he’s crying. Cause his dad’s a dick.

Dad: That’s it. You want the sandwich? You can have it. I’m outta here.

Mom: Fine, leave!! But don’t forget your new girlfriend! (picks up sandwich, throws it in dad’s face).

Dad: Arg. (Leaves house for something like 3 days).

Then there was the Tropic’s burger. My personal favorite hamburger in the world. It was from the Tropic’s bar on Saddle creek and California. Tropic’s is gone now, too.

Since then, there hasn’t really been any burger that gets me crazy. I guess it’s a very personal thing. My dad loved Tropic’s burgers as well, but to him, there will never be another number 7. If there was, I bet he’d drive over a median and cut through traffic in a very dangerous way to get to it.

I should try Don and Millie’s some time.

I saw mod riding home from work today

I was riding home from work. Mod was riding home from work.

I have a question. Did helmets go out of style recently? Several times yesterday, I saw people riding on the trail without helmets. Not just recreational cyclists either. Some serious looking leg-shorn lycra guys out there. I started wearing a helmet about 25 years ago because people (other cyclists) started applying pressure. Back then, a 14 oz helmet was supposed to be ultra light. So yeah, lots of neck strain. I've never really liked wearing one, even now that they're so light, the only way you can tell you have one on is by all the sweat pouring into your eyes. But I wear one because it's generally perceived as the right thing to do. I have never worn a helmet for safety.

If this helmet fad has passed - let me know.

Thanks.

I didn’t see Brady riding this morning

See how I tried to make it sound like I expected to see Brady riding his bike this morning? What actually happened was as follows:

I rode my bike to work this morning and I didn’t see Brady.

I work at infoUSA in Papillion.

I left my house at about 6:30.

I took the keystone south down to the Big Papio or whatever it’s called. The right turn at Culver’s.

Then, with great courage, I rode the few kilometers ( ~ .62 mileses) down the big Papio to 72nd and South of Cornhusker.

Still determined to make it all the way to work on my bicycle, I got onto 72nd street and headed north to 1st street in Papillion. At this point, I almost gave up and turned around but since it was only about 500 more meters (metres) to the shiny new bike rack that infoUSA has installed recently (huzzah!), I gutted it out. Then I realized I left my car at home. Poor planning on my part I’m afraid. Looks like I’ll have to call a cab or something to get home.

Not sure how I’ll get any driving range practice in today either.

Something's wrong with gmail's spam filter

from 10:30 to 1:30, GMail says I got 8 spam messages, so I go look. Apparently, they've got the filtering turned way up, because I'm missing important e-mails. Like the one my good friend Norwood Tobias sent to me about my favorite beer (Kock Spotwiser). Or the one I almost missed from "A Friend" with a Wal-mart gift card.

Also, a person is searching for me. It is very important that I know about this. I must say, I'm a little disappointed with gmail.

ok, I can continue now.

104 on a par 68 (elmwood)

So yeah that's about 36 over.

It is the first time I kept score. Good thing you can only go to 8 or it would have been a lot higher. I did have 2 holes that I "parred" a par 3 and a par 4, but I had several opportunities to par that I promptly turned into double or triple bogeys.

This is the finest thing I've ever done. Golf. Yeah.

Party at my house May ninth (I graduate that day).

Whoop, there it is.

Every once a decade or so. People in Omaha start saying something that completely confuses me. Then they say it over and over again only adding to my confusion. Part of it is the fact that I'm old, but most of it is the fact that they're young.

So, in about 1994 or so I was working my way through college at the Wendy's at 72nd and south of Dodge. I held the coveted title of "Assistant Manager". Most of the employees were high school students. There were many times when one student would say "Whoop" only to get the extremely gratifying response "There it is". And then most likely the even more gratifying response from me along the lines of "There what is? What the hell are you talking about?" Eventually I found out they were actually talking about nothing. They were just making sounds come out of their mouths that approximated talking. It's what parrots do. Entertaining? You bet. I would often give the students treats to say it some more.

Sometimes they would also inform me that I was quite unable to "touch this."
Which works for me because I'm kind of a germ-o-phobe anyway.

ff>

13 or 14 years later. I'm still working my way through college, but I no longer work among teenagers. I do, however go to school with teenagers. I wish I knew then what I know now. Because the coolest hippest thing going on in Omaha was popularized by an alcoholic in a Tina Fey Movie several years ago. All the parrots are saying it. And from my understanding of it's usage, it would have been a great response to "Whoop, there it is". It's the charming, oft used term "I know, right?"

But be advised, don't try to impress high schoolers with this one. I asked my daughter (a very cool junior in High school) and she says it's rarely used there.

At the U.N.O. library, however. Throw it out there with reckless abandon. You can do anything with it. Just sit there studying and occasionally shout "I know, right?" and passersby will say:
passerby 1: what's with that guy?
passerby 2: I know, right?

I used to marvel at the versatility of the "F" word. I still do, actually. However, this "I know, right?" thing threatens to (at least temporarily) give "F" a run for it's f'in money.

I admit that I'm exaggerating a little bit. You should only say "I know, right?"
if it makes sense to do so. But guess what? It always makes sense!

To use a classic that refuses to die: "It's awesome!"

--

This post brought to you by spring break.

You learn something every day

Like this morning I learned that my Boss' boss doesn't read my blog.

Now to decide on what mail from this week to read first

Hmm...

I'm leaving The U.P.

I'm going to go write programs somewhere else now. Oh yeah, and Mike? Erik Estrada says to remember what he told you.

I have an announcement to make

Later.

Emergency Post

I saw this photo and realized it needed to be posted right away. It is from October 30, 2004 (my 40th Birthday). We were briefly at The Homy Inn.

I saw Brady while biking today

See how I made it sound like I was riding? I was driving. Brady was most likely heading to his Shabbos ride with presumably Mitmon, Algomaha et al. I was driving home. I thought I was driving home to get on my gear and go do the anti-shabbos (ride alone somewhere). Why join a group ride to ride alone. I'm in Golf shape, not bike shape. Actually, I've never really golfed, but I'm sure I'm pretty good.


I wasn't going home to ride though. I was going home to change the wax ring thing under the toilet. It's kind of ironic that what's under the toilet is enough to make you puke, but you can't because the toilet is all taken apart and everything. Yuck.

I didn't know I was changing the wax ring thing. I thought I was just taking the toilet off and replacing a broken bolt. That's how it was advertised by Jill. Thing is ...you can't really replace the bolt without moving the wax ring thing. And you can't really move the wax ring thing without it just tearing all up and sticking to everything. Well, maybe you can. That was not my experience.

So I'm at Lowe's - trying to decide which wax ring thing will best fit the needs of me and my family. I'm getting pretty excited about this whole project because Gene Hackman's voice is in my head gently helping me find everything I need to "Get it done right". I find the Wax ring things in the 'plumbing' aisle. They range in price from around $1.16 to about $7.32. You'd think with the important function (keeping shitty water off the floor) that the wax ring thing performs, I'd settle for nothing less than the best. But I asked myself "What would Munson do?"


It might seem like a weird question, but anytime I have to "do-it-myself", I think of Munson. So I did what Munson would do. I didn't buy any wax ring thing. I just went home and wrapped a crapload of duct tape around the hole.

Then I went for a bike ride.

I too dabbled in pacifism once ...

Not in Nam, of course.

si.com

Sabbath conflict may end playoff run

Jewish boys hoops team won't play on Saturday

Posted: Wednesday February 27, 2008 6:48PM; Updated: Wednesday February 27, 2008 6:48PM

DENVER (AP) -- State senators have taken up the cause of a Jewish boys basketball team whose playoff run may be halted because its players can't play on the Jewish Sabbath.
The Herzl/Rocky Mountain Hebrew Academy team could be headed for a regional championship on Saturday, March 8, if it wins one more game. But the Denver team's religious beliefs prohibit students from playing on the Jewish Sabbath between sundown Friday and sundown Saturday.

If Herzl/RMHA makes it to the regional championship and refuses to play a Saturday game, another school would be "chosen" to take its place, CHSAA commissioner Bill Reader said.
Earlier this month, the Colorado High School Activities Association, which governs sports and other high school activities, rejected the team's request for a schedule change.

At the end of morning debate in the state Senate on Wednesday, Majority Leader Ken Gordon, D-Denver, called on the CHSAA to be more flexible.
Senate President Peter Groff, D-Denver, said the CHSAA's decision was ironic because it has a rule barring games from being played on Sunday for religious reasons.
Sen. Tom Wiens, R-Sedalia, said there must be a way for the CHSAA to accommodate the team.

"It just seems like the bureaucracy has run amok here," Wiens said.
Bruce H. DeBoskey, mountain states regional director for the Anti-Defamation League, said the group was disappointed by CHSAA's decision.

Copyright 2008 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

Oops.

I'm in

Not that anyone reads this anymore. Not that there's anything to read here. However, I'm in. I have officially been accepted into the Master's program for Computer Science at Universitas Nebraskansas Omahanasas. I'm pretty sure I still have to pay for it and everything, but I'm kind of excited about it anyway. That, and I have only 3 more payments on my car. Woohoo!

Renewed faith in humanity

It seems the older I get, The more stupidity I see. I think it's just me getting older, I don't really think that people are getting stupider as quickly as it appears. I did expect reality TV to tank at some point. We all know that it's here to stay now. Oh shit, I forgot to record "Idol" this week. <-- See, I don't even call it "American Idol" 'cause it's like my buddy now.

Anyway, I saw this story and I realized that all is not lost. There may indeed be hope for humanity. I do not think Jordan is exaggerating either. If anything, he understates the significance.

---------------

Fans Line Up In Atlanta For New Air Jordans
POSTED: 8:30 am EST January 25, 2008
UPDATED: 10:18 am EST January 25, 2008


ATLANTA -- People began lining up Wednesday outside Walter's clothing store in downtown Atlanta for Nike's new Air Jordans that go on sale Friday.

"It's cold out here, really cold," Reggie Roberts told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution as he waited to plunk down $230 for the shoes. "But I want these shoes. I gotta have these shoes."
fred notes: 230 is 10 * 23!

This is the 23rd edition of shoes names for Michael Jordan, who wore the Number 23 jersey. Only 23 pairs will be sold at 23 stores nationwide, with Atlanta and Miami being the only cities in the Southeast.

"The AIR JORDAN XX3 is deeply meaningful to me, as a celebration of both my life and career. The number 23 is obviously of great significance to me and the release of the XX3 is a pinnacle moment in the Brand’s history,” said Michael Jordan in a release from Nike. “I’m honored and humbled by the AIR JORDAN franchise’s loyal following after all these years. The release of this shoe is exciting and a dream come true for me.”

The first Air Jordan was released in 1985.
fred notes: 1 + 9 + 8 + 5 = 23!

The owner of Walter's, Jeff Steinbook, says his is the only Georgia store selling the shoes.

The group lined up outside his store was a mix of 20-something Michael Jordan fans and middle-aged professionals.

A financial analyst from Stone Mountain, 45-year-old Vince Shields, took off two days from work. He says he plans to add the new Air Jordans to his collection of 75 pairs of sneakers.

One man drove from Tallahassee to wait snag a pair.

Thanks Bryan.

I forgot all about this blog. Well, uh, yeah. I'm doing some studying right now. I saw my email thingy, indicating a comment on fredcube. Oops.

So this semester it's Theory of Computation and Biology II. Something about how Darwin is so wonderful and people need to stop being mean to him or something. But it's early in the semester yet.

It's kind of strange to think that one of the things between me and a promotion at work is my lack of knowledge about clam anatomy. Yeah, I don't see how any self-respecting I.T. department could look past something like that.

Have no fear though "The Union Pacific", I'll soon know the clam parts like the back of my hand. I'll be expecting a bunch more money at that time.