fredcube

Update on a post from a couple of years ago

2012-01-29T20:34:00.004-06:00

A couple of years ago, in this post, I suggested that the baristas at Scooter's should change the tip jar that reads, "College Fund" to something like "Kolledge Phunde". Last week, I told them they should do it. This week, they had done it. I still didn't tip.

The Stupidest Thing I’ve Ever Seen

2012-01-28T11:46:00.011-06:00

Starting when I was about 12 years old and up until about the age of 15 or so, I used to love to go roller skating at Skateland. They had pinball, girls, and slurpees. Oh yeah, and some roller-skating. Real skating. Not like you kids today in your fancy-pants inline getups. These skates had the traditional, stable 2 dimensional platform and the big rubber stopper/goer on the bottom/front of each skate. It served the purpose of both braking and rapid acceleration. If you stood “on your toes”, you could run on the stopper for a few strides until you got up to speed. It was important to slow down in transition from the rink to the carpet or you'd continue on at the same speed while your skates lagged behind.

The skates were off-white suede with pink wheels. If you were cool, you had your own skates. Black leather with whatever color wheels defined you as a person. Then you could tie the shoestrings together and drape them over your shoulder as you casually walked into the rink, winking and pointing to your make-believe friends. I was not cool. I tried to tie the shoestrings of my rental skates together, but they (the shoestrings) were too short so the skates didn't lay nicely on my shirt, but propped up from my shoulder to the front and rear as I found a locker.

There were a few Skatelands around town and a place called “Cheap Skate” up on 90th and Maple, but Skateland near Irvington was our home rink.

The evening of skating was typically 2-3 hours. In that time, there was the default “Free skate” where all were allowed to skate, provided they skate slowly and carefully all the way around that black traffic circle. This was a black piece of tape that circumnavigated the inner part of the rink. If you were a rebel, you’d skate dangerously close to the tape, flirting with cutting the corner. I won’t lie. Sometimes we cut across the tape at either end. Usually the end opposite the DJ/Skate Patrol station. Sometimes we got flagged for cutting, but usually we got away with it. The Skateland peace officers ran a pretty tight ship. Once after a rather egregious black traffic circle infraction (My friend was completely on the other side, so I cut through the middle), I was sent to cool off with the stern admonition, “That shit might fly at Cheap Skate, but it’s not happening here. Not on my watch, kid. I mean, look at you in your stupid rental skates.”

To keep everybody honest, Skateland would stage various specialty skate sessions throughout the evening. They were two songs long and I was excluded from most of these for one reason or another. That was OK with me. Mostly, I just liked to see how fast I could skate. I used to think I was like some sort of Eric Heiden on wheels. I’d even put my left arm behind my back as I sped through the crowd for a few “laps”, only to bring it (my arm) down for the final burst …

Whistle!! “Slow down, kid”

“Oh yeah, I know, Cheap Skate, yada yada yada. Sorry.”

The first specialty skating session was the “Ladies Only” Skate. The songs were, Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing” and “Brick House” by the Commodores. This was the time when the girls got to show off their disco/skate moves. Well, except for the cool girls. They just skated at a walking pace, complaining to one another about all the losers at Skateland.

During the Ladies Skate, The gentlemen lined up along the rail to watch. Everyone in their new velour shirt. Except me, of course. I couldn’t afford velour, so I had to watch from the confines my cheap terrycloth wanna-be-velour shirt. At least my watch was the cool red L.E.D. kind that required the push of a button to see the time. Not one of those stupid grey and black L.C.D. ones.

Next was the Backward skate. Backward skaters only, please. I don’t remember what songs they played for the backward skate. Nonetheless this was a very important skate. We "forward only" skaters needed to find out which girls could skate backwards. This way, I knew exactly who I was going to be too afraid to ask to accompany me to the “Couples Skate”.

The songs for the couples skate were “Beth” by KISS and the heartwarming domestic abuse number, “Don’t give up on us” by David Soul a.k.a “Hutch”. There were 3 couple skates during the evening. I usually spent those times looking out at all the happy couples skating. I’d reflect on what it would be like to be brave enough to ask a girl to skate with me. Ahh, those would have been the days! Occasionally, a girl would ask me to skate, so I got to go. But then, if she liked me, she might try to kiss me or something. Panic! Ahh. I don’t know how to do this! Fear of looking like a fool has hindered me in some way for most of my life. Unfortunately, my grasp on what looks foolish is all topsy-turvy.

There was also the “Hokey Pokey”. I was never sure how to shake my “left side” about without affecting the rest of my body, so I gave up and just let my right side go too. The neat thing about the Hokey-Pokey (besides its apt name) was that it was held at the center of the rink and you were actually allowed to skate on the black traffic circle when you turned yourself about. I’d emphatically tap the tape with the front wheels of my right skate, glancing innocently at the official. He’d glare back at me powerless, barely concealing his rage. “Kid, if this wasn’t the Hokey-Pokey, I’d open the double doors of this place with your smarmy little skull.”

Judges? Ok yes, we’ll accept “smarmy” - but we're not happy about it.

Then came the “Gentlemen’s Skate”. The 2 songs for the Gentlemen’s Skate were always Foghat’s “Slow Ride” and “Ballroom Blitz”, but I don’t know who performed it and we didn’t have the internet available back then so I can’t check. But it was these guys.

Who years later became these guys:

Anyway, this post is about the stupidest thing I ever saw (Remember, I couldn’t actually see myself trying to skate like a speed skater). But first, I have to talk about the coolest thing I ever saw, because they’re related. It was during the Dude’s skate, and some dude (with his own skates, of course) was leaning back on one skate, one foot forward, rolling along, pretending to be playing a guitar to the song “Slow Ride”. He had nothing in his hands at all. But by position alone, it was obviously some sort of pantomime of a guitar player. Brilliant. Also, it may not have been called a "mullet" yet, but he was sporting a damn cool one.

If only I had my own skates, a shiny red shirt, unbuttoned to reveal my fashionable Italian horn necklace, the ability to lean back like that, and permission to grow my hair, I’d be as cool as that guy. I don’t know if this type of pantomime was called “Air Guitar” yet (I'm from the time before things had names). It was the first time I ever saw anybody do it. What a great idea. Like lip syncing, only not as realistic looking. All the cool guys wore black pants and a red shirt because it approximated the Skateland Traffic cop uniform and most of these guys yearned to hold that position one day. A friend once rhetorically asked me, “You know how much tail those guys get?”

I think it was rhetorical. Maybe he wanted to know because he did actually get the job a few years later. I don't know if he got any tail though. We went our separate ways after I stopped going to Skateland and he didn't.

The day after witnessing the fabulous air guitar demonstration, I was standing at the jewelry counter at Target, browsing the Italian horn necklace section (they had one of those in the 70’s), When I decided to see if I could knock out a few licks on the “no guitar in my hands at all.” I couldn’t do it. It just didn’t feel right. Mostly because I had taken guitar lessons. On acoustic guitar. Sitting down. When I tried to “Air Guitar” I looked more like Leon Redbone, hunched over, looking down at my fingers, etc. Nobody “Air guitars” to Leon Redbone. So when I tried to air guitar to some rockin’ Van Halen or something, I’d always miss the chord, stop, look at my hand, back up and start again. By that time, the guitar solo would be pretty much over. Turns out I can’t air guitar any song I can’t actually play on real guitar. And it’s not like I could request “Tom Dooley” at Skateland, is it? That air guitar performance remained the coolest thing I had ever seen until 1999. That’s when “The Matrix” came out.

Oh yeah, the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen was in a Documentary called “Air Guitar Nation”. The documentary is excellent. It is about a very serious worldwide Air Guitar competition. Some of these guys actually hate the other competitors. There are accusations of cheating, song stealing, etc. It is unbelievable the amount of time, practice and preparation that goes into pretending to play an instrument. Granted, the end result is well worth it. Whatever. It’s the stupidest effing thing I've ever seen.

Hang on I think I know who’s at the door, but I’m going to go check and make sure it’s not a you-know-what. Holy crap! Snap crunch slurp die.

Note: It wasn't until many years later that I realized the cool air guitar guy at Skateland was Shim.

The scariest day of my life

2012-01-21T14:06:00.008-06:00

I never liked Karl. His name may have been Carl. But because I thought he looked like a member of the National Socialist German Workers Party, I’m calling him Karl. He was a few years older than me. He was awkward looking. Too tall. Too thin. IcabodCranian Adam’s apple rivaled in protrudiness only by his raptorlike beak of a nose, Sittin’ way up high. Sittin’ way up firm and high. Also, he had a serious case of the bitch hips. In fairness, all of this was my perspective of him at the time. Looking back on it, he was nerd-cool. But we didn’t have that back then.

He wore his stringy dark hair combed to one side in the classic style of say, Der Führer. He usually complimented his dark trousers with a turtleneck that mostly failed to mask the prominence of his laryngeal, um prominence. Rounding out the textbook nerd look, Karl sported a nice cardigan from the Mr. Rogers line and some spiffy penny loafers. Understandable dress considering he attended private school. But for the love of God man, change into some jeans and stuff when you get home. Especially if you’re going to go play tag.

At the time of the scariest day of my life, I was about 10 or 11 years old. My best friend was Steve, oh sorry – Stephen, man I still do that. Anyway Stephen was the smartest funniest bestest buddy I ever had. He was also a nerd, but I didn’t know that yet. I thought Stephen and I were both pretty much like The Fonz. Stephen a little less than me because he refused to attempt to catch any ball thrown to him. He always took evasive maneuvers. Also, he wanted to be called "Stephen".

Karl was Stephen’s next door neighbor. He went to Brownell Talbot. The only thing I knew about the school at that time was that it was where Karl went, and it sounded like the kind of a school that jerks like Karl would go to. Remember – this was a child’s impression. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized that it was precisely the kind of school that jerks like Karl go to. He commuted by Vespa. His Vespa had a basket for his books, but I always imagined he used it to steal little dogs from Kansas farm girls during twister season.

Until I was about 45 years old, I believed I would someday be a great movie actor. Renowned and loved the world over. I still maintain a glimmer of hope. Back in the day, I believed someone would just somehow discover me without me having to go through the trouble of auditioning for anything or learning how to act or sing or dance, etc. I believed I was so great that my greatness could not be hidden for too long. It was only a matter of time before my extreme talent was realized and - “Sorry parents, but I have to go to Hollywood now”. It could even happen during a game of tag.

One thing I could do was run fast. Not like the fastest ever or anything. I knew there were kids faster than me. When I was in 4th grade there were 2 kids (siblings) at the school faster than me. One was in the fifth grade and his sister was in sixth grade. But they weren’t playing any tag with us, so …

That reminds me; I annually won the long jump competition at our school too. So at the time I had my sight set on Beamon’s record. “What are you doing?” Dad asked me one time upon discovering me in the back yard running and jumping into the clothes line.

“I’m practicing because when I grow up, I’m going to beat Bob Beamon’s long jump record.”

“No you won’t,” encouraged my dad, turning and going back into the house.

“We’ll see about that,” I muttered under my breath. Ok yeah, now I’m ready to admit he was right since Mike Powell has since beaten it. I should have said more generally, “I’m going to beat the long jump record.” I’m not sure how dad knew that Beamon’s record would fall to someone other than me. But he did. Eerie.

The thing about running is that footwear and terrain both play a role. For instance, a cheap pair of tennis shoes on slick grass may not be the best, but you know what it's better than? A pair of penny loafers, that's what.

So one day, a bunch of us were playing a friendly little game of tag. I loved tag. I was typically ‘it’ when I decided to be. I was rarely ‘tagged’. But today was different. We had some older kids in the mix today. Well, it was my aunt Debbie, aged 16, and Karl, 14 or maybe 15. Debbie was there because she hung out with us sometimes. Karl was there because he was in love love love with Debbie. Karl had never played anything with us, except I think he sometimes played chess with Stephen. Oh there it is. Just drudged up the whole reason for my dislike of Karl. Jealousy. Stephen was my chess playing buddy, not Karl's! We don’t like Karl, Stephen. How can you play chess with him?

Not that Debbie would have had anything to with Karl. But it didn’t stop him trying. Debbie was cooler than all of us. She drove a cool black Mustang II with the gold racing stripes. Obviously, way out of Vespa boy’s league.

So we’re playing tag and I’m “it”. Karl is near me showboating for Debbie. I’m thinking the strategy must have been something like, “Hey Debbie watch me torment your little kid nephew, thus proving the fates have determined you and I should go steady or something.”

Everyone else was farther away, so I went after a backpedaling Karl. I must have surprised him because he had to jump out of the way to evade getting tagged. He was just a little late. Perhaps it was the penny loafers. By the fingertips, I was able to tag the inside of his right arm. I was very proud of this accomplishment. I had caught and vanquished a “big kid.” As ambassador for all of the children who actually belonged in the game, I was a bit of a hero. There was much shoulder patting and celebration. You know how when David slew goliath, the Jews were all happy and stuff? I imagine it was pretty much like that.

What happened next was really not much of anything. Karl with his head hung low, walked over to the railing by the front porch, grabbed his cardigan and went home. Wow, we collectively thought. What a sore loser. No wonder he never plays with us. Or talks to us. Or looks at us. Oh well who wants to be ‘it’ now that Schicklgruber left?

“Engine, Engine number nine …”

“Excuse me? Which one of you is Fred Hinsley?” The voice belonged to an elderly lady. Well dressed, smelling of some fine fragrance like ‘Charlie’ or ‘Shower to Shower’. She had been given my name, but didn’t know which of us was me. My heart leapt. This is it! Finally the bozos in Hollywood got their shit together. This woman is obviously from the Talent Agency of Movies and Everything.

With a sly smile, a little click of the tongue and a wink, I pointed to myself, “Right chere, ma’am. So long suckers. Don’t be too jealous when you get the postcards.”

As this nice lady roughly grabbed my arm and started pulling me across the yard, I realized that if I’m going to be in the movies, I’m going to have to learn that their ideas about courteous behavior differ from ours. When she started saying things like, “They oughta keep people like you in a kennel.” I began to get a little bit terrified. When she dragged me against my will into Karl’s house It became clear that She was Karl’s mother and she was mad at me for something and she was going to take me into her house and kill me. I began to cry.

Three minutes later, I had been pushed down into a kitchen chair by the nice smelling evil fucking witch. Karl’s dad was pacing back and forth seething. “Have you had your rabies vaccination, you little animal?” he inquired. I was all out bawling at this point not knowing what to do. I was sure they were going to murder me to death and I had absolutely no idea why.

Karl’s mom is shouting something at me. I’m too distracted to understand what she is saying. Then I remember English. She is asking me what my phone number is. I’m still terrified, but relieved. For one thing, my parents had never abused me in this way. For another, if my dad answers the phone and finds out what is happening he will be killing Karl’s dad in roughly 9 seconds.

I give my phone number in a voice that would have won an academy award saying “A dingo ate my baby.”

Mom answers. Damn. Karl’s dad completely oblivious to the fact that a flip of the coin gave his mortal coil a stay of execution.

Witch: Um yes, Hello. Is this Fred Hinsley’s mother?

Mom: wahwahwahwah

Witch (in a very dramatic voice): Your son has bitten my boy!

Mom: wahwah

Me (protesting in 'dingo dines on baby' voice): I DIDN’T BITE HIM!

Witch: Doh! What’s this?

Karl’s Dad: Karl. Come down here.

Witch to mom: Hold please.

Karl’s dad: He says he didn’t bite you.

Karl: Actually no he didn’t.

Witch to mom: Sorry, hee hee, wrong number. Click.

Karl’s dad: Then what the hell happened to your arm?

Karl(suddenly adopting a british accent): Funny story that. He scratched me purely on accident during a little game of tag. Nothing too serious, I’m sure.

Witch to me: you’re free to …

She probably said “go” but I don’t know because I bolted out of that house faster than either of the siblings at my school have ever run. Karl’s dad was removing his belt. Hopefully to just whip Karl but I didn’t stay to find out.

Then the scariest thing in my life happened. I imagined what it would be like to grow up where Karl was growing up. My attitude of him changed instantly. I saw that he wasn't just some supreme asshole for no reason. I saw that he was a human being with fears and emotions just like the rest of us. And also, he was a supreme asshole.

Later when I got home and dad had been briefed, he went over to Karl’s house. Karl and his parents disappeared in the night a few days after that.

I guess I should finish part 3 of that Proudest moment thing

2011-10-26T21:03:00.002-05:00

But I still haven't been riding quite enough. It's mostly written anyway. Where did I put it ...

Think I'll do a UP Lunch ride today

2011-10-21T09:53:00.002-05:00

It is easy Friday after all ...

Who's crazy now?

2011-03-10T06:35:00.003-06:00

I've been listening to Sheen's Korner lately. I enjoy it quite a bit. He just sounds like a pissed off guy to me. Not real crazy. I mean unless Brady's crazy. Because I think Charlie Sheen is channeling him.

For example, If you watch the following video (Watch the whole thing if you have time) from about 10 minutes or so in and then read a comment from Brady about a post of mine a while back, there's an eerie similarity. I actually think Sheen has been reading Brady's comments. Winning!

Charlie's Korner

Brady Said:

When your (two) readers finish reading this blog, chances are one of them will have said, "It is what it is."

Good God I hate that one.

Of course it is, you stupid parrot.

Oh, please excuse me, I forgot. Self-affirming statements make you appear more intelligent, right?

In the age of Relativism, nothing can be called what it is. Instead, we should strive to speak, write and to even think in vague generalities.

For this reason, I think (never say aloud) in its double-negation, as in: "it isn't what it isn't".

But even more, the existentialist would argue that everything we experience is already in the past, for by the time our myopic brains record what our eyes have sensed -- as when your neighbor shouts, "I SEEN IT!! IT IS WHAT IT IS!! -- it has already happened.

Thus, even better than above, one should think in doubly-negated past terms, as in: "it wasn't what it wasn't."

But if I'm feeling really obtuse, then I turn directly to my all time personal favorite, the "Future in the Past" tense. The beauty of this tense is that it encapsulates the best of both worlds: the future wrapped in the reality of the past.

Hence, I present the best of all, the double negative, future in the past version: "it wasn't what it wasn't going to be".

That's better

2011-02-08T14:14:00.003-06:00

January:

February:

So it will be about $58 plus taxes, fees and surcharges, whatever that means.

I got rid of cable TV.

2011-01-24T13:27:00.003-06:00

Anyway, last October 30th, a bunch of us (about 20) flew to Long Beach California to take a 7 day cruise on the Mexican Riviera. The Cruise started on October 31st. I won’t bore you with any of the details of the cruise. I have something much less interesting to bore you with (with which to bore …). Whilst (while) aboard the ship (big boat), my debit card became mysteriously unusable (as opposed to clearly unusable). I figured, “Well, the Visa people don’t know I’m in Mexico, even though I purchased the cruise and everything on the same debit card. Ok, I’ll straighten it out when I get back home, because right now I’m needed on The Promenade Deck for a thrilling game of 70’s TV trivia.”

When I went to the bank a few days later, I found that my card information had been stolen from a vending machine at work. Well, sort of.

Work recently put an aisle of a convenience store along one of the walls of the cafeteria/break room. All the vending machines were replaced with refrigerators and junk food shelves. There is an evil little self checkout device at the end of the aisle that steals your debit card information and runs off to Argentina and Paris trying to make really big purchases.

At least that’s what happened to me. While I was on my cruise, this little machine was stealing my identity.

Ok, no big deal. Nothing actually went through. Presumably because the device is only about 4 feet tall and its signature didn’t match mine.
The problem happened later on when some of the monthly bills I pay that are taken directly from the debit card started not getting paid. Oops. I probably should have thought about that.

Actually, the only one was Cox Communications. Because they insist on using a credit card instead of taking the cash out of a checking account. Probably because no one in their right mind keeps enough cash in their checking account to pay the Cox bill.

So the cable bill for November didn’t get paid. Cox was pretty cool about it. They didn’t even mention it. Not until they called on December 8th to explain that 2 months were due. “Oh yeah, sorry about that. What do I owe you?”

“$484”

“For 2 months?”

“Yes.”

“I mean I get that its $242 per month, but $484 for 2 months sounds a little steep.”

"We (Cox) would like to mention that we noticed that you don’t have the Cinemax package which gives you 23 channels of Cinemax for just $5.99 a month (for 6 months). And if you decide to keep it after that, just do nothing (you won’t be able to afford to do anything anyway) and the you’ll still receive all that great entertainment for a few (37) pennies a day more."

“Hang on, let me get my calculator …”

"No."

“Ok, well I don’t want Cinemax.”

"Yeah, that’s cool, could we get a credit card number from you?"

“Are you guys related to the machine at work?”

"No. Umm, that reminds us, what’s the available line on that card?"

So that’s how it all started. I was in denial about the cost of cable TV. It took a brave little machine trying to steal from me to show me where the real crime was.

I’m not blaming Cox for any of this. They never misrepresented the cost (just the value) of their service.

So after about 4 weeks of muttering “484” to myself on my way to work, My wife and I did an informal feasibility study. Through considerable analysis and repeatedly saying “484”, we decided to dump cable and invest in Reynolds. They make aluminum foil. You see, back in the day … Oh never mind.

We decided to move forward as of Thursday January 13th. Last Saturday, January 22nd, after some pretty good OTA test results, I returned the boxes to Cox, who asked me if I would be interested in their new wireless (phone) service. I told them I didn’t need HBO/Showtime/Starz on my phone. Aww, Cox. You’re nothing if not salesy.

We will see how well it works in the long run. I have informed Cox not to let me get cable again no matter how much I beg. They assured me that I could “Upgrade” my internet speed from “blazing fast” to “fucking blazing fast” for just $6.99 a month for 5 months, after which time …

I had to stop them and ask them to tell my neighbors about this great offer because they (my neighbors) don’t seem to know how to put a password on their routers.

Next blog (in a day or 2, really): Buying an antenna.

A post

2010-07-30T19:54:00.003-05:00

For the last several months, I've been working on a big huge project for work. Well actually for pay. It's not volunteer work. I have been unmotivated to do much else. The project is now coming to an end.

Tomorrow and the next day, I'm going to work at the Cox Classic. A Nationwide tour event out in West Omaha. If all goes as I plan I will get to walk 18 holes with some pros. It is volunteer work.

I have been putting in some hard efforts on the bike for about the last 10 weeks or so. The addiction has returned somewhat. This week is special in that it is the first week in over 2 years that I've put in more hours on the bike than I have at the driving range. Don't get me wrong ... I was put on this earth to golf. However, we all lose our way sometimes. Plus, there's nothing like the feeling of holding that 90% MHR for a couple of minutes. I'm getting there.

Now go ahead Chinese symbol name guy, comment with a bunch of dots that link somewhere.

Beep

2010-07-14T13:10:00.001-05:00

The Proudest Moment, Part two

2010-04-27T21:04:00.007-05:00

“Ready for another?” boomer asked.

“Waiting on you, Boomer.” Cube said.

It was Friday afternoon. Boomer and Cube had just finished the longest hottest gruelingest work week of their lives. They were beat. They were sunburned from the waist up. In fact, cube was now so dark that were it not for his fine brown hair that the sun had bleached nearly blonde, he might have been mistaken for someone other than “the whitest guy ever”. After sweating it out all week, swinging a sledge hammer 40 hours in the blistering sun, they wanted nothing more than the relief that only an ice cold American lager could provide. But not yet.

Boomer filled cube’s empty cup and then his own.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“What’s the score?” Cube Asked.

“3-2, you.”

“Bullshit. I totally won that last one.”

“You only say that because the speed of sound, proximity of your cup, etc.”

“Fine, 3-2” Cube was worried. He took the first 3. Boomer, the next 2. Boomer was catching cube and cube was losing confidence. The first one to 5 wins. However Cube felt a forfeit coming on. He really did not want to slam any more coffee. His forehead was drenched with dirty sweat. Strangely, the nice cool air-conditioned Village Inn didn’t seem to help.

“Can’t we finish this with beer?”

“So you want to quit? I understand if you do.” Boomer was bluffing his ass off. He felt if he had to drink one more cup of coffee, his already bleeding throat was going to send it all back up, still scalding hot, onto the table.

“Fuck it,” Cube said, digging a dime (the wager) out of his pocket, sliding it to Boomer. It all started with some sort of “Dime fawa cup of coffee” joke neither one of them understood. “You win Daniel,” Boomer’s real name. “Let’s get over to “Louis’”

Louis’ (pronounced Louie’s) was not a person. It was a bar. It was well-known in town as the primer bar. If you were young and didn’t have a lot of cash, you started at Louis’. You could get good and “started” for about 3 or 4 bucks. Then you could milk it at the highfalutin places like the Dundee Dell or Trovato’s or whatever.

The boys worked as “Instrument men” at a local architectural firm. It was summer work. An instrument man was the second best of 3 jobs on a surveying crew. Rodman was a distant third. First place was for the guy who went to school. He carried around and interpreted the blueprints. He got to drive the vehicle. His title was “Prick”.

Normally, the work is not bad. Normally, boomer and cube didn’t work together. They were on separate crews. But this week, everybody (except Prick) was pounding in property pins.

A property pin is a steel rod about an inch and a half in diameter and 2 feet long. It is placed gently in the ground via sledge hammer, to mark the corner of a property line.

The problem with the ground where new construction is happening is that it tends to get packed down by all the big heavy yellow machinery driving around, moving dirt, etc.

On the previous Monday morning, Boomer and Cube reported to work only to be told they needed to put in all the property pins for Oak Street between 165th and 168th by Friday. At this point, Oak Street was just a well-worn dirt trail. It had recently been wilderness. The earth movers were done grading the street. The property lines had been drawn. All that remained was to have a couple of dummies with a sledge hammer and a shitload of steel pins pound them into the ground on the hottest driest week of the summer. Some college boy had already gone by and tapped some 16 penny nails (with bright orange plastic ribbon tied around their necks) into the location for each pin. Thanks dude, we owe you. Don’t get me wrong. The nails could not be pushed into the ground. It was too hard. A hammer (lighter than a sledge) was required for even this job.

Boomer proudly pockets the dime, grabs his pack out of a small pool of coffee spilled on the table, wipes it dry, and shakes a Kool from it. He offers one to Cube, who respectfully declines. Cube has his own smokes, but Boomer is trying to convert him over to the dark side (menthol).

Boomer had a new trick he was working on. If he ever mastered it, he was sure to get a tumor. He would lay the unlit cigarette in his hand, cradling it in the crease between his middle and third finger. By slapping the wrist of the hand holding the cigarette, Boomer could nearly always catapult the cigarette directly to the right of his open mouth, sending it neatly into the Cobb salad of the person in the booth behind him. This time, by some miracle, it actually landed in his mouth. It was almost as amazing as his reaction, “What? I never miss. What?”

“So, you want to head over to Louis’ then? I need a shower first,” Boomer exhaled, minty fresh smoke escaping from his tar filled lungs.

“Yeah, I’m going to head home. Pick me up in an hour,” Cube, working on his own trick, lighting the match from the book with one hand, and burning the tip of his thumb in the process.

Then Boomer had an idea, “You wanna catch Rocky Horror tonight?”

“Naaw, it’s at the 6-west now. I heard it really sucks. They don’t let anybody dress up or throw anything. All you can do is yell,” Cube informed.

“That’s all we ever did anyway.”

“Yeah, but I liked watching the freak-show too.”

“True. I say we clean up, head over to Louis’, then to The Homy for a while (you can’t finish at Louis’), Then I’ll ask you about it again. Deal?”

To be um, yeah, I’m not writing any more tonight, so …

The Proudest Moment of Someone Else’s Life, Part 1

2010-04-23T21:54:00.003-05:00

It was the familiar wonderful sound and smell of fried eggs, bacon and coffee that woke Officer Jack Hughes from his blissful dream-state. She’s making my favorite again. As he made the dreamy transition out of his deep slumber, he realized he was lying flat on his back in bed, smiling. He was happy about something, but could not immediately remember what it was. Some vague feeling of great accomplishment. “I must have made a good bust last night. I always feel this way after a good bust.”

Let’s see, what was it? No wait. I’m retired. Crap. Dread filled Officer Hughes’ mind at the painful realization he was no longer on the force. He hadn’t made a bust in over 5 years. He hadn’t had bacon and eggs for breakfast for at least 2 years. Not since that 27 year old “Dr. Snotnose” told him he’d kill himself if he didn’t get his LDLs and triglycerides down. “But I’ll die without my bacon and eggs,” he pleaded. “Dr. Snotnose” would hear none of it. Louise, Jack’s better half conspired with the good Dr. “I still need you to fix things around the house. I’m afraid it’s oatmeal and grapefruit from here on out, snookems.”

Death by fiber, Ex-officer Hughes thought. Why couldn’t I have just died in the line of duty? Heroes eat bacon. That’s what it’ll say on my gravestone.

But now bacon, eggs and coffee is exactly what he smelled. There was no mistaking it. Is this some sort of dream, he wondered. He opened his eyes to see his bedroom ceiling. The old familiar Mississippi river shaped crack running southeast from the ceiling fan. No. I’m really here. I’m really awake. I really smell bacon and eggs, and I’m really happy. But why?

Sitting up on his elbows, looking beyond his feet he saw his current work uniform draped over a bedroom chair near the vanity. It all came back to him. The bacon and eggs were still a mystery, but he now remembered why he’s so happy. The next thing to do is casually go into the kitchen and tell Louise about last night. He relaxed for a moment back into his pillow, fingers interlocked behind his head. Big old grin on his big old face replaying the past evening’s triumph. He carefully framed the events into a lucid story designed for maximum breakfast entertainment value. The goal, as it had always been, was a sweet “My hero,” and a light kiss on the cheek from Louise. Of course she was being sarcastic, but Jack loved it. He knew well the great depth of her love.

Once he was ready with his story, Jack reminded himself to walk into the kitchen casually. No whistling. That will spoil the surprise. It will be difficult to refrain from skipping like a schoolboy into the kitchen. But it was a challenge old man Hughes was willing to accept. He had no choice. Also, he wanted to find out why that evil old woman was cooking his favorite breakfast when he could no longer enjoy it. “Louise, you got some ‘splaining to do,” as their old joke went. Louise never failed to back him up with her best Lucille Ball, “Waaaaaah!”

“Here he comes,” thought Louise upon hearing the floorboards announcing Old Man Hughes’ approach. “Funny, he doesn’t seem to be skipping,” she suppressed a giggle as she pulled the fresh squeezed orange juice from the icebox. “He’s got a story for me. I’m not making him eat that wretched oatmeal as he tells me his first new story in 5 years. Who knows how many more stories there will be?”

Louise understood the old man pretty well. Forty to fifty years of paying attention will do that. Retirement had been extremely difficult for Jack. His job had meant the world to him. He’d put his life in the hands of his comrades on countless occasions as they had in him. Since retiring, he’d slowly come to feel like he was no longer a part of the gang.

For the first few months of retirement, Hughes life had changed little. He still spent most mornings at the same old coffee shop, arguing sports with his old pals before they reported for duty. He still went down to Ugly Tom’s every Friday night to toss back a couple brews with the same group, swapping war stories. Lamenting how bad the kids these days are getting. Unfortunately, Jack’s stories were all beginning to start with the phrase, “Did I ever tell you about the time …”

His pals didn’t mind. They loved the way Old Jack crafted a story. The way he brought it to life. But Hughes minded. He felt now that he’s done contributing, he’s done talking about it. So he stopped going. His friends would call every Saturday, “Missed you last night, old pal.”

Jack had his excuse ready, “You know, Louise has been pestering me to take her to the fish fry,” or “Junior was passing through town, a break from school.”

Eventually the calls stopped. Jack became depressed. He rarely left the house. He rarely got out of his pajamas. His health started to fail. When Louise realized he was killing himself, she suggested he find a hobby. “I’m only good at one thing. I only ever enjoyed doing one thing. That ship has sailed, baby cakes.”

“Then go get a job,” Louise said.

“I’m not going to get a job. I’m retired. This is what I waited my whole life for”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Dammit Louise, why do you always have to be right? What am I going to do? Flip Burgers? Some high school kid for a boss?”

“There’s always …”

“Don’t say security. I’m not going to be a rent-a-pig. What would the guys say?”

“Whatever they say, it’ll be better if they’re not saying it at your funeral. Talk to Bob. He’s always looking for a hand. I’ve never seen you this way. I’m worried.”

Bob was Jack’s best friend and first partner. He was about 10 years older than Jack, but you’d never know it. He had always stayed busy. About 5 years before Bob retired; he started moonlighting as a security guard. Eventually, he bought the security company and built it into a lucrative little empire. Bob asked Jack about a half dozen times if he wanted to make some easy money. Making reference to an old “dirty cop” joke from back in the day. Jack always declined, citing the joy of retirement. Bob knew it was more likely pride. But He also knew better than to push Jack too hard.

Louise also had a slightly selfish motive for wanting Jack to get some sort of diversion. Jack was wrong about one thing. He was not only good at police work. He was the best story teller she had ever known. When Jack was telling a story, he was reliving what he loved. He was happy. Louise was happy when Jack was happy.

Since retirement, the stories were fewer and farther between. Jack barely spoke at all. He was restless. He tossed and turned all night. When he was on the force, he slept like a baby.

This was how Louise knew a story was coming as she heard the floorboards creek. Last night he had slept like he hadn’t in years. When she woke and saw him peacefully on his back, goofy old grin on his face, she decided it was time to bring out the bacon and eggs. “I’ll bring the bacon, you bring the adventure, my hero,” had been her agreement with Jack from the time they were kids.

Jack had been at his new job as Mall Security for about 2 months. Because he was the “newbie”, he got the worst shifts. Even so, he had already gained a hint of spring to his step. The job did give him some purpose, but was mostly unfulfilling. He never said anything other than, “It was fine.” His shift started at 10PM and ended around 2AM. Only the movie theater was open after 9PM. It was closed at 11 on week nights. There was very little interesting happening. For most of his shift, he was alone. Certainly nothing to inspire a famous “Jack Hughes story”. To Jack it ended up being about the same as sitting at home, but with a little bit of cash.

Just as Jack was about to abandon hope that the new job would ever bring excitement, he heard a rumor. There was an old, beat up Movie Theater in midtown that was closing. For years it had survived off ticket sales of its weekend showing of the cult classic “The Rocky Horror Picture show”. The movie was shown at midnight and had a huge following. The rumor was that the Six West, which was the 6-plex at the mall where Jack worked, had agreed to pick up where the old theater left off. The old theater had allowed its patrons to yell and scream, throw things, dance around in the aisles and dress in costume. Jack had no idea what “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” was. All he knew is that the crowds tended to get a little rowdy. Not on my watch, Jack thought.

To be continued ...

To Absent Friends

2010-04-21T18:48:00.006-05:00

When you ask most people what they consider their proudest moment, they might say something like, “The day I got married,” or “The day my first child was born,” or “When I graduated from college.” Etc. For me it was the day I got to teach Northern California how we do things back in little old Nebraska.

When I was in high school, my bestest goodest buddy, Greg was a fan of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. He had been to it maybe twice. I had not seen it. I had seen it advertised as the Friday and Saturday midnight movie at the Admiral Theatre for years. I really had no Idea what it was.

If you don’t know, The Rocky Horror Picture Show is a Science Fiction Musical Satire of cheesy Sci-Fi movies from the early to mid 1900s. The story is told from the point of view of an innocent young couple Brad Majors (ASSHOLE!, Major Asshole, to you) and Janet Weiss (SSSSSSSS). They are recently engaged and are on their way to visit their old Science Teacher (Great Scott!) to tell him the news, when a flat tire on a dead end road on a rainy night changes their plan. They run into a transvestite, Dr Frankenstein character from another planet (Transsexual) in another galaxy (Transylvania) who takes them in and um, liberates them.

As excellent as the plot sounds, the real reason people went to see this movie was to yell and throw stuff. When Greg and I started going to see the movie, we were pretty primitive. The only thing we yelled was “Fuck her, I did!” when Janet discovers Rocky weeping in his aquarium in his gold lamé undershorts.

But as the months went on, we became true craftsmen. Thinking about ways to creatively add to the RHPS experience. Once, Greg and I constructed a cardboard plaque with a drawing of a mouth full of teeth on one side and a nice long neck drawn on the other. This turned out to be one of the awesome-est things ever. When we were being frisked at the front door to make sure everything was kosher, the kid asked about the plaque. We showed him the neck and told him what it was for. He nodded approvingly and said (I’m not kidding) “What about the teeth?” He just about fell over laughing when we showed him the other side.

So yeah, normally, you needed toilet paper, newspaper, toast and a spray bottle of water if you wanted to go the equipment route. We just had the plaque. But I’m not here to talk about the plaque.

After a couple of years of fairly regular attendance, we were officially RHPS experts. At least that’s what we thought. We knew every line (in Omaha). I knew the whole script. I knew all the songs (including the ones not on the Soundtrack album). I knew the Roxy Theatre version of all the songs. I had the picture disc. Etc. etc. But still, there were plenty of blank spots in the movie where you could actually hear some of the dialogue. No one had an answer for a good 20 percent of the film. At least not in Omaha.

So one Halloween night in Palo Alto California – I went to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was either that or go see "The Cure" live in concert. I know. I should’ve seen "The Cure", but then the proudest moment of my life might be something I'm less proud of than what I'm about to describe.

My plan was to show these California people that I knew as much about this movie as any of them. I was so wrong. This was 30 miles from San Francisco. I’m going to teach them about Sci-Fi transvestite movies? Whatever. Hey, I was a dumb kid.

In Palo Alto, on Halloween, there was no dead air through the whole movie. I could not yell a word in edgewise. People were yelling hilarious stuff all the way through. It was amazing. Most of it was completely new to me. My tired old lines sucked compared to theirs. But I just yelled mine anyway. It was still fun. And with so many people yelling, no one could know for sure who the guy was, yelling the lame lines from the 70’s.

Then it happened. Totally unexpected. Much like when you’re telling a friend about your embarrassing rash in a noisy bar just as the really loud cover band abruptly ends their song. I could not hear what was being said in the movie, but I knew my cue without having to hear it. Dr. Frankenfurter says: “ …and you shall receive it. In abundance!”

So before I realize what is happening - as I’m yelling *my line at the top of my lungs, it gets real quiet. I’m the only person yelling – and it’s the only time there was only one person yelling. Yes! There is a dead spot in Rocky Horror Picture Show in Palo Alto on Halloween! And I just fixed it. There you go Northern California. You’re welcome.

Me: Hey Franky, what’s your favorite high protein drink?

Dr. Frank N Furter: Come. We are ready for the floor show!

Uproarious laughter. Joy from freaks in California all around. People moving back into the seats near me. Admiration from the real pros. At last. The 2 seconds of the movie not filled with screaming fans will soon be but a memory. I couldn’t believe it. How do you not do something with “come”? Seriously Northern California, I thought you were better than that.

Anyway. That was the proudest moment of my life. And my dad’s. Oh yeah, he wasn’t so thrilled about my obsession with the transvestite movie. Don’t dream it, Dad. Be it.

*The line was not my invention. I believe it was Charles Cox who penned it. At least that’s who I heard it from. Of course that name might be wrong, too. Anyway – this Charles guy forgot more about RHPS than I ever knew. He also told me that Princess Leah was Luke's Sister about 2 minutes after Yoda said "No, there is another." Of course I didn't believe him. Everyone knew Yoda was talking about Lando Calrissian. But they kissed! we protested. Anyway. He was right about that too.

In case you haven't heard.

2010-04-21T18:39:00.000-05:00

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."

Here's an idea

2010-03-19T17:25:00.002-05:00

I was thinking about this after Shim posted a brilliant comment. So mini people have a problem with the difference between your and you're, we should all just start using the universal 'yer'. Unlike the first too (2), 'yer' is appropriate fer either usage. If you wanted to say two someone "yer pudgy", the meaning is clear. They're's no ambiguity their. Of course occasionally, yer meaning may not be clear. If you walked up to someone and said "Charlie Brown, I used to wonder if you were crazy, but now I can clearly see yer nuts ..."

Never mind. I just wanted to say that punch line. I don't really care about anything else.

9.3

2010-03-17T07:36:00.002-05:00

So what that means is that I’VE BROKEN THE 200 POUND BARRIER!!!1!!ONE!WONEXCLAMATIONMARK!

I weighed in at 199.3. I still weigh too much to make 190 by Shim’s April 1 2010 deadline. I might be able to get down to that target weight by the end of April, though. Then I can get to the serious work of putting all the weight back on. Mmm, that’s going to be delicious.

---

P.S. Brady, My official handicap index for the start of the year is 23.3 - maybe I should post how that number increases/decreases throughout the year as well ...

A friend of a friend of Bryan's interviewed me while driving today

2010-03-04T20:59:00.003-06:00

I was driving. He was interviewing. Well, I wasn't really driving. I was hitting some irons. I was at Miracle hill on the driving range. He was there too. But he was not driving. His name is Matthew Hansen. He is a writer for The Omaha World Herald. He told me he wants to write a story about hard-core outdoor Omaha people. "Ok", I said. Then he wrote a story. Then he put it in the paper. It's kind of like when Brady got his bike back. Except nobody wants to take my photo (Golfer's Physique). So I says, "Hey - Do you know Bryan Redemske?" Then we talked about what a great guy he is for a while. We both sounded like we believed it, too. Wierd.

I talked to Spence while spinning today.

2010-02-27T18:45:00.002-06:00

Well, Spence was spinning, I wasn't. I thought I was going to be spinning an hour later, but it turns out today was "National Spin for 2 hours for a donation of 75 dollars" day. Ok, maybe that's wrong. It's just that when I asked the front desk person if there was a sign up sheet for the 8:15 spin class, I was informed that there was no spin class today because spin class was filled up with people who had paid 75 bucks to spin for 2 hours for some fund raiser. Don't get me wrong. I don't think Spence paid the 75 dollars. He was just on one of the bikes alone in the spin bike/aerobic room, spinning. He looked like he'd been there a while too. All sweaty and stuff. So I stopped in and chatted with him for a while. Turns out, you don't necessarily need an actual class to spin. As long as there's no step-aerobics or anything going on, nobody's going to say anything to you for mounting one of those bad-boys and going for a quick ride. Sweet.

Anyways I had a back up plan. I always do. You never know if spin class will be filled up or there will be a national "spin for 2 hours to save the whales" day. So I suited up and hit the basketball court. Good thing too. After I warmed up a bit, I was hitting 3-pointers (I mean like honest-to-goodness, nothin' but net, swishes) like a mad man. It was as if I had some sort of Baset-ball Jones ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh wee. Tyrone Shoelaces would have been very impressed. My top.

13.0

2010-02-25T09:08:00.004-06:00

Less than a stone away from my goal (goal: 13 Stone 8 lb). I put the big pants away for next winter. Now losing weight on pace with Jan Ullrich during a TDF.

My secret? Well, I'll tell you.

First, make a big plate of your favorite food. It doesn't matter what it is. Get as much as you want. Pile it on. For me, it's a double meat, philly with extra cheese and extra mayo and a family size curly chili cheese jalapeno fries (extra spicy) from Tony's All-You-Can-Gorge Cow-Flesh and Cheesecake eatery. Mmm. I wish such a place existed.

Anyway, before you sit down to eat your delicious meal, take one flintstone chewable vitamin to slightly curb your hunger.

Next - and you cannot skip this part - take a clean plate and divide the meal in half. This does not have to be exact, but it should be close. Try to divide each part of the meal in half. Now you have 2 decent sized meals in front of you. Take the one that looks slightly larger (be honest, otherwise you're only cheating yourself) and throw it in the trash. I know it sounds horrible, but you were going to eat it. And that's even worse for weight loss.

Now you can sit down and enjoy a good meal, except, no you can't. Are you kidding me? That's still too much food. Scrape the other plate into the trash too and go smoke a cigarette. That should take care the hunger for a while. Later on, you can have another Flintstone chewable if you're good.

I’m using my degree … finally: A book review.

2010-02-24T18:02:00.004-06:00

Note: This review may contain spoilers. Where possible I will point them out in advance.

A few weeks ago, this guy I work with, we’ll call him “Sam” came to me and said, “Here’s a book I want you to look at. It’s got some stuff in it about flexible pattern matching in strings.”

I looked down at a bright yellow book, called “Flexible Pattern Matching in Strings”.

“Ok, Sam.” I argued.

Sam continued, “Once upon a time I implemented the “Set Horspool” algor …”

You know what? Let’s call him “Ted”. “Sam” is just not working for me.

“… Algorithm, but lost the source code. I want you to read this book and find the best way known to man or beast to search for any of a list of strings within a target string,“ Ted went on to explain.

At first, the idea of reading what looked like a textbook didn’t appeal to me. But Ted sweetened the deal by telling me there were algorithms described inside the book. I love algorithms. Ted knows that. “What the heck, give me that book Sam. I mean Ted!”

Several white board drawings and unrelated personal anectodes later, Ted left me alone with the little yellow book.

A voice inside my head said, “This is your chance Freddie. The opportunity you’ve worked for. Don’t blow it.”

I swiveled abruptly in my office (cubicle) chair. I hadn’t immediately realized the voice was internal. “What do you mean, “opportunity”?

Voice: You know as well as I do what I mean.

Me: Then why don’t you fill us both in?

Voice: Seriously?

Me: Please?

Voice: No.

I may never know what the voice meant. But I knew that this was a chance to use my formal training in computer science. Taking a closer look at the book, I notice it’s not bright yellow, but more pale. Hmm. Must be the lighting. I carefully open the book. Ted is pretty anal about his stuff so I don’t want to get spaghetti sauce on it or anything. As I begin to read, I realize what a profoundly wonderful book this is. Well, after about 1 and a half chapters. I had to kind of skim over chapter one, the elementary crap about bit-parallelism and bit operations and the labeled rooted tree and trie crap (yawn) and get right to the good stuff in the middle of chapter 2. This is where the author struts his stuff. Showcasing his talent, he masterfully paints the tale of flexible pattern matching history. From its humble beginnings in a sleepy midwestern village where the controversial Knuth-Morris-Pratt idea came to prominence all the way up to jaw dropping discoveries like Boyer-Moore, Horspool etc. From start (1 and a half chapters in) to finish (about chapter 5 or so) You learn the truth about algorithms you've heard about your whole life but never believed actually existed.

SPOILER ALERT!!!: Turns out, Horspool is an improvement over the original Boyer-Moore idea. I know, right?

Let me tell you, if you’ve ever had a need to match patterns flexibly, or even if you just consider yourself a weekend flexible pattern in strings matcher, here’s your book. I’ll warn you, though. If you do get this book, keep your eye on it. People will be “borrowing” it from your cube on a regular basis. Yeah, It’s that good.

Whatever you do, don’t skip the section on the Backward Nondeterministic Dawg Matching Algorithm. I won’t spoil it for you, but I will ask that you thank me later for the heads up.

BIG HUGE SPOILER ALERT, AND THE REASON FOR TED’s VISIT IN THE FIRST PLACE: Though the Horspool Algorithm is great for finding one particular substring, its multiple string version, “Set Horspool” sucks ass. Thankfully, there’s an answer. In the late 80’s, early 90’s a couple of guys by the unfortunate names of Udi Manber and Sun Wu describe what turns out to be one of the most efficient ways to find any of a set of substrings within a certain string. It is named after its inventors. By now, it should be obvious I’m talking about the “Wu-Manber Algorithm!” Ok, be honest. Who thought it was “Manber-Wu?” Silly reader!

So I read the book. Got the info I needed and wrote a program that reads in a list of words and looks for their occurrence in some text. And it does it really really fast. Thanks Little Yellow book!

By the way. The reason Ted wanted this thing? Well, here at the company, we have lots of information. We also have a list of potentially offensive words. We like to run the information through looking for these 400 or so words. I ran this blog post through it. Results below:

---
ix = 0, match found: CRAP
ixTemp = crap
---
---
ix = 0, match found: CRAP
ixTemp = crap
---
---
ix = 1, match found: HATE
ixTemp = hatever
---
---
ix = 0, match found: SUCK
ixTemp = sucks
---
---
ix = 0, match found: SUCKS
ixTemp = sucks
---
---
ix = 0, match found: ASS
ixTemp = ass
---

Call me a skeptic

2010-02-19T10:53:00.001-06:00

I have this brother-in-law, let’s call him “Lane” who has helped Jill and me with all sorts of menial labor type tasks over the years. He’s helped us move at least 3 times without complaint. So when he moved into a new house a while back, it was unfortunate that it was at a time that I was unable to help, due to not wanting to. He also built a rock wall one time and was looking for help, but alas, I had to go for a bike ride or something.

I’ve always felt kind of guilty about the uneven favor balance, so when I heard he was going to move his backyard fence to the north about 23 feet (7 meters), I vigorously volunteered to help. Mainly, to alleviate the guilt. But it also seemed like it could be some good exercise.

The first thing we had to do is wait for the guy with the auger, we’ll call him “Mike” to show up. In case you don’t know, an auger is used to dig cylindrical holes for posts for fences, not to be confused with a bung hole borer or reamer.

Once Mike got there, we had the labor-intensive duty of standing around watching him use his 2-man auger by himself. Any of us would have helped, but he didn’t want it. There was one guy, who shall henceforth be known as “Steve” in this story, who sheepishly tried to help Mike by lightly pressing down on one of the handles with a couple of his fingers while Mike drilled into the ground.

I should back up a minute. It should be noted at this time that there were about 5 guys at the fence moving party. We think of ourselves as reasonably smart people. We think we’ve got what it takes intellectually to put some holes in the ground. As it turns out, intellect can be your enemy when it comes to trades such as digging. See, Lane has an underground sprinkler system which complicates the matter slightly. We don’t want to dig just anywhere potentially rupturing a water line so we had to be careful about where we put these holes. Luckily for us, the problem has a simple solution if you believe in magic.

Turns out Mike is a “dowser”. He can divine the location of water under his feet by using bent pieces of wire and walking around until they move. I did not realize what he was doing until it was explained to me. The thinking here is that the sprinkler lines under the ground will have water in them. This highly abnormal concentration (about 1 inch diameter) of water about 8 inches below ground will trigger these handheld bent wires to move together.
“We’ve got a skeptic!” Lane shouted after it was explained to me.
“I’m no skeptic,” I insisted. “That would mean that I doubt it. I don’t doubt it. I know it’s bullshit.”
“Skeptic,” the other four nodded in knowing agreement. It was like they were saying, “How cute. The computer guy doesn’t believe in the science of divining rods.”

“Well ok guys, How’s it work, then?”

Mike was happy to explain:

Here’s the interesting stuff I learned about dowsing.
Only Certain people, let’s call them “seers” can do it. Others cannot. Some are better (more sensitive, Mike explained) than others. Mike thinks it has something to do with the chemistry of the individual somehow mixing with the elements of the earth.

Power lines above can disrupt the reading. He showed us this by walking under power lines and – sure enough, the wires moved together like the closing of a gate, only to open as he cleared the source of interference. I thought of it much like the way you might tune a radio station in (except that there really are radios that can receive broadcasts).
It was really quite amazing. Not the dowsing. The fact that Mike, Steve and to a certain degree Lane all believed that the dowsing practice was smaller than some of the huge piles of shit they’d seen in the past. Fascinating.

A very long story

2010-02-16T12:56:00.000-06:00

Well it all started when I, oh crap - I forgot. I have a one o' clock meeting. I'll finish this story later. Bye.

18.0

2010-02-10T08:17:00.005-06:00

Even though, Shim's suggestion of April 2010 seemed too far away. It now looks like April 2011 is more like it. Thanks for the lovely email, Brady.

I think that even though I'm far too busy to post anything, I'm going to anyway. I'll just type faster and do no editing or proofreading. That should speed things up. Ok, so what is making me so busy I can't sit down for a few minutes and tell a story or something? I'll tell you what. PS3. That's what. Yeah, it took a while, but I'm finally a lazy teenager who sits around playing video games all day long. I'm currently playing "Get A Life 2.0: The routine continues". I can't get past chapter 4 "Higher education". Whew.

I've also been kind of occupied doing nerd stuff. I bought a cheapo computer to connect to my 19 inch flat screen Home theater (theatre) system. That's right! 19 inches (measured diagonally). Hmm? Your parents console was bigger than that? Well, I hate to break it to you, but your parents were compensating for something. It looks really big if you move the couch up a ways. The definition is so good, I can clearly see each RGB pixel.

Also keeping me pretty busy. Snow shoveling. But enough about that.

Oh and there's cub scouts and Basketball. I'm a den leader and coach.

Nocitably absent from the laundry list of chores. Laundry. My clothes are really smelly now. Ahh the life of a teenage gamer. Which reminds me. Why is there no outcry about how horrible "The Who" sounded during the Super bowl. Are they trying to make us wish we never complained about seeing a nipple? You win, Super bowl Half-time entertainment people. There are worse things than briefly exposing body parts. Now bring back singers younger than my grandparents. Thanks.

I really don't have time right now.

2010-02-03T07:52:00.000-06:00

Otherwise, I'd love to post something.

Them Avatarians is Tall!

2009-12-22T15:07:00.006-06:00

Well, the verdict is in. “Avatar” is a good movie. It appeals to everyone. I’ve listened to people talk about it for the last few days. Some people will say they did not like it. They will be lying. The smartest person I know loved it. The dumbest person I know loved it. Below are their reviews. I’m not saying who’s who, though.

Review #1:
Damn, I went to see that Avatar movie. That was a good movie. It was about these aliens on their home planet of Avatar. The Avatar alien race is killing the humans who’ve come from Earth to mine some valuable rocks. Then this crippled Marine “Semper Fi!” gets hired to infiltrate the Avatars via a virtual reality machine. And it’s cool because he can’t walk in the real world, but in the make-believe world of Avatar, he can! So needless to say, he likes being a big, blue Avatarian. Then he ends up falling in love with this girl Avatar so he switches sides, fighting for the aliens on their home planet. They’re called “Avatars” because they have to tame and fly around on pterodactyls. Like how some people call pilots, Avatars. Man that was a good movie.

Review #2
The movie 'Avatar' takes place almost entirely on Pandora, a moon of Polyphemus, in the Alpha Centauri A system. I think the naturally occurring floral neural network of the moon must have somehow influenced the evolution of the moon's fauna so that the physical, biological communication links of each of its species were compatible with one another and the network itself. Interesting ...

So there it is. The dumbest person I know and the smartest person I know both missed the point of the movie. Oddly, the dumb guy was closer than the smart guy. The movie's point is that we no longer need Kevin Costner to make a good 3 hour movie.

I'm just going to ease back into this blogging thing.

2009-12-16T17:56:00.005-06:00

First of all, I just wanted to post some photos of my old bike. A 2001 LeMond Zurich. For a long time, I had some dura-ace open pros on it, but now I've got them on the Cannondale, and so the original wheels are on the old bike. I like to call my bike "Ol' Yeller and Blue". It has been consigned to the trainer for the last 3 years and has become corroded by sweat. It's been nearly impossible to shift to the big ring because of the old rusty cables responsible for that duty. Tuesday morning, the cable finally snapped. I decided to run the bike over to Olympia for a Makeover (and new cables).

It ended up being quite a job because some parts had rusted to the frame. But in less than 24 hours, They returned it to me like this!!!

Wow, I might just start riding again. Olympia is my favorite shop. It helps that it's in the 'hood.

Well anyway, here's a preview of what you'll be looking at most of next Spring/Summer:

If you like the way it looks, thank the guys at Olympia.

I'm just kidding. I'll be golfing.

The day my little puppy died.

2009-11-17T11:03:00.007-06:00

For my 8th birthday, my parents bought me a little puppy. He was the runt. Though he was small in stature, he had the heart of a lion. So we named him Leo. This was the first time I had responsibility for another living thing. What I didn't understand was that even though little doggies love the taste of anti-freeze ...

Ok, I'm just kidding. I never had a dog. Well, I did but I don't remember it. It was when I was one years old or something. So long little Leo. We miss you.

A Departure

2009-11-12T12:20:00.011-06:00

My oldest daughter turned 19 today. On my way to work I was thinking about that. The first thing that came to my mind was how she was when she was little. One particularly bittersweet event popped into my memory. Actually, there is a photograph of it. I first thought of the photo, then the event. I don’t know who took the photo. It might have been Jolene’s mother.

In the photograph, Jolene is somewhere around 3 years old and our backs are to the camera. We are flying a kite out at either Lake 11 or Lake 16. I don’t know which. Why did this memory come to me? Well That’s what I was wondering.

From the time she could sit up and play, each night we’d go into her room and play some game. Usually, it had to do with me trying to stack blocks as quickly as she knocked them down. Or we’d wrestle, or I’d tell her stories.

Every night I would drag my feet to play with Jolene the requisite 20 minutes or so. I didn’t want to play with her. I just wanted to sit and relax.

Every night I would enjoy myself so much playing with her that the session typically went for an hour or more.

She was smart and funny. She had a wonderful sense of humor. I was very proud.

Every night I would put her to bed. We would play a game, saying goodnight to all sorts of animals, warning them to quiet down because it was bed time and if they weren’t quiet, we promised the animals we’d make a sandwich out of them and say they taste like chicken.

At that time in my life, I was working 2 or 3 part time jobs. I was a sophomore at UNO taking 12 hours. My ex-wife did not work. I was exhausted. Jolene was the only part of my day I enjoyed. It was a rather dark time.

Eventually, my ex-wife had had enough of my screwing around at work and school all of the time and threw me out of the house (this is very close to the truth). I had wanted Jolene to have a normal life from the time she was born. The burdens she had were not fair in my mind. I left the house because the family was broken. She was a baby in a house where the parents were always yelling. I thought (perhaps incorrectly) that it was better to spend a couple of great weekends with her a month, than 7 days a week of fighting with her mother.

In my most painful memory, I tried to explain to my daughter that I was leaving while she (I’m crying right now) was standing in her crib balling. Why was I leaving her? She thought I loved her. She was a baby girl losing her daddy. Her best friend. Her superhero. My ex wanted me to lie to her and tell her I’d be back soon. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should have lied. I did not believe it at the time.

Leaving my wife was easy. People did not understand that. They thought I was miserable because I was no longer with my wife. At that time I was only allowed to be with my daughter for very short periods of time. The courts had not decided anything yet and My ex claimed she did not trust me alone with my daughter. She’d let me visit for an hour or 2 here and there. The only visitation I had was with Jolene’s mother present, making it difficult to be myself around my daughter.

One time however, when she was 3 years old, I was allowed to take Jolene unsupervised to the lake where we flew a kite. The ex met us out there and took Jolene back home. I think that’s where the picture came from.

Before Ex got there, I got to watch my daughter as herself with me as myself. Her daddy showing her how to fly a kite (today she’d say she taught me, but she’s a liar).

As I stood behind her, watching her looking up to the sky, carefully holding the string the way I’d instructed, I had the strong revelation of the pain awaiting me in the coming years. I loved being with her so much. I wanted to have her knock the blocks down every day. But it would only be a couple of times a month for the rest of her childhood.

I believed that one day she’d want to come and live with me. She was smart and funny. Her personality was similar enough to mine. I reasoned that her mother would eventually have the same effect on her as she did on me.

Finally about the time she was 16 or so, she moved in with us. I was so happy for her. I had always wanted something for Jolene that I could never give her until this point. A home life she deserved. It was not fair that she should be in a crazy house where the parent heaped too much responsibility on her. She should be allowed to live her high school years unencumbered by her parents’ problems. We tried to do that as much as possible.

She’s in college now. She earned a full ride. I’m so proud of her I can’t express it. I only write about this because I’m hoping it will be suitable in lieu of me spending money on some gift.

That last line is for Jolene. Did I mention she has a great sense of humor?

Happy birthday Jolene.

The Real Wesley J

2009-11-03T20:06:00.013-06:00

The truth is stranger than fiction. At least that’s the old cliché. I’ve always believed that to be only partially true. I guess it depends on what truth and what fiction you’re talking about.

The other day when someone calling himself “Wesley J” commented on my blog, my first reaction was to take it at face value. I was confused by the vile, crude, illiterate nature of the comments. Knowing the real Wesley, I had not expected that type of response. On the other hand, I had never seen any of Wesley’s writing so even though he has always seemed intelligent, maybe it just didn’t translate to the written page. There are many extremely intelligent people who are simply cursed when it comes to reading and writing. Unable to convey the witty thoughts “forming in their brain”, they are limited to the basest form of human communication. Threatened by their clearly inadequate literary skills, they must resort to homophobic derision and name calling.

Of course, when the real Wesley stepped forward and explained that I had been duped, the fake comments made sense. Wesley’s explanation was articulate, like I would have expected.

However, the fact that the prank was engineered in the way it was shows the perpetrator is an intelligent person, which I can verify now that I have finally figured out who it is. Although there will never be the remotest hint of it in his writing, this is one of the smartest people I've ever encountered. I’d venture this is one of the few true geniuses I know. To hide behind my psyche undetected like that. Whew. Wait until I tell you who it is!

Before I continue I must warn you. “Wesley J” is tricky. This story has a few parts that I’ll unveil over the next few days. In between, there may be comments from “Wesley J”. They may persuade you that my conclusion is false. But I make this promise. After I’ve shown you who he is, there will be no doubt.

I’ve known the person now calling himself “Wesley J” since I was 14 years old. I met him the year I despised myself more than any other. When I turned 15, I said to myself,
“That was the worst year of my life. I doubt there will be any that bad again ever.”

So far, it’s true. After a bitter painful divorce when I was in my early 30's, and the ensuing extreme poverty, I can honestly say the joyless 14th year of my life was the worst ever. I was unhappy all year. Some call it growing pains or puberty. All I know is I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to be me. It was during that summer that I met “Wesley J” and we immediately became best friends.

But to talk about that, I have to talk about the comment of “Wesley J’s” that gave it away. Like I said, I know the guy. Even though we are now sworn enemies, he was most likely bored with my sorely inadequate guesses as to his true identity, so he threw me a bone when he lied and said he was in New Mexico. Only "Wesley J" and I will ever know what that truly means. But I'll let you in on as much as I dare.

Eleven months out of the year, my dad worked hard. He’d scrimp and save to put away enough cash for a big annual family vacation. These were great. Usually something big like Disney World!

On this particular year we were going to go to Florida for some fun and sun. At least that was the plan. However, my grandma had a dying brother who lived far, far away. My grandma never drove a car. At this time, she was about 65 years old. She was resigned to never seeing her brother alive again. My dad decided it would be nice if we modified our vacation plans so Grandma could see her brother. As it turned out, this change resulted in one of the most memorable vacations we ever had. At the time, there were 5 in our family. We had a 1972 Chevy Nova with no Air conditioning. We were going to be taking Grandma with us. We were also going to take my aunt (mom’s sister-german [ sic ]) with us because she would like to see some of her uncles/cousins-german [ sic ] as well (look it up. I just learned it today and wanted to use it). So with seven people, the Nova wasn’t going to cut it.

So my dad bought a big huge Ford Custom 500. It was the first car I ever saw that ran on “unleaded fuel”. It was roomy enough for all seven of us to ride in comfort to our ultimate vacation destination. The place relevant to the tale of "Wesley J". Because you see, my grandma’s brother, Marion, was dying of emphysema. On the suggestion of his doctor, he had moved himself and his family to the dry climate of Farmington, New Mexico. The hint “Wesley J” left for me in his last comment. Oh, he doesn’t live there anymore. He tends bar at an island resort. But he used to live there. Oh did I mention my great uncle’s last name? It was … Keeler!

(To be continued. Or not)

Thanks Wes, someday I will repay your great kindness

2009-10-31T05:20:00.002-05:00

source

There lived a huge and fierce lion in a forest. Once, weary after a long day of hunting, the lion returned to his cave and soon fell asleep.

Not long after, a little mouse chanced upon the lion’s cave. Thinking that there might be food inside the cave, and not realizing that it was a lion’s lair, the mouse decided to explore the cave.

As it was dim inside the cave, the mouse could not see clearly. Suddenly, the mouse hit against something very big, and it felt warm to the touch.

"This must be my day!" the mouse thought. "This could be a big meal!"

The mouse walked around the thing that he had hit to find out what it was. As he looked, and his eyes became more adjusted to the dimness, the mouse had the greatest shock in his life. There, right in front of him, lay a sleeping lion!

The little mouse was terrified. Without wasting a second, he made his escape. But in his haste to run away, the mouse tripped over the lion’s nose! This woke the lion up. He was very angry.

The little mouse trembled in great fright. He immediately picked himself up and tried to dash away. But the lion’s paw clapped down upon him and held him tightly to the ground.

Just as the lion was about to kill him, the mouse quickly spoke, "Please, Mr Lion, do not kill me! I’m so tiny and won’t make a good meal for you. Spare me now and some day I will repay your great kindness!"

When the lion heard that, he was amused. "How could a tiny creature like this repay me?" he thought.

But the lion was full after his hunting that day. So he released his paw and let the mouse go.

Many days later, while the lion was hunting for food, he ran into a hunter’s trap and was caught in a big net. The lion struggled to free himself but the net was too big. Unable to free himself at last, the lion filled the forest with his angry roars.

When the little mouse heard the roaring, he realized that it was the lion that had spared his life. The mouse knew immediately that the lion was in some kind of trouble. He ran as fast as he could to where the lion was.

When the mouse saw that the lion was caught in a net, he quickly gnawed at the net until it parted. The lion was freed. And he was glad that he had spared the little mouse’s life.

If Wes had a Facebook page ...

2009-10-29T16:00:00.001-05:00

I'd SO request his friendship. But I think he might be a little too cool for that.

Uh hey, wesley.

2009-10-29T15:57:00.003-05:00

I already have a yellow bike.

Sorry about the last one, Wes.

2009-10-29T15:36:00.003-05:00

My bike snobbery leaked a little on that one. Bad judgment. I know you and that you are too fine a person to hold it against me, a sinner. But for my peace of mind, could you please confirm your forgiveness in the form of a couple of reassuring comments? I mean, come on, it's the least you can do, loser. Oh crap, there I go again. Now I really do need 2 comments to confirm that we're cool. At your earliest convenience, of course.

What's better than a comfort bike with Aerobars?

2009-10-29T15:34:00.001-05:00

Nothing.

The finest person ever?

2009-10-29T15:32:00.000-05:00

Perhaps.

Go Hawkeyes!

2009-10-29T15:25:00.001-05:00

Wow, those Iowa football players sure are a handsome bunch! I bet Iowa has a good coach, who's nice and things. Probably not as nice as Wesley, though.

If I paint my bike yellow

2009-10-29T15:11:00.003-05:00

Will you comment on my blog, Wesley? Twice if it's not too much trouble. No reason. Just wondering. Thanks.

I drank what?

2009-10-14T15:13:00.010-05:00

So this morning, I got up early and went for a nice brisk morning jog/walk/limp/crawl. Sort of. I didn't go outside. I gave our 5 year old Treadmill its 3rd workout. It was a good time.

Important: If you read this blog, you already know that every once or twice a season, I decide to start working out. This is one of those posts. I will shortly complain about being out of shape, but that is actually not the reason for this post. So if you're patient, the stuff at the end will be new stuff, straight from today's news! To help, I'll put a big 'LINE 3000' in the spot where I'm done whining about my fitness level and start talking about the boy genius in England I saw on the news while jog/limping. So if you just want to skip ahead, goto LINE 3000.

LINE 2000
Since I'm out of shape, I decided to listen to some old Matchbox 20. This turned out to be an excellent strategy. As I've mentioned before, I like getting into shape better than being in shape. When you're getting into shape, it is important that you don't overdo it. One way to make sure that you don't push yourself too hard is to listen to something like "Matchbox 20". I suppose "Maroon 5" Would work just as well, but I don't have any and I dislike "Matchbox 20" less.

The choice of workout music can make or break the session. Once, Shim suggested something like Social D as good workout music, but I'm pretty sure it would kill me if I tried to keep up right now. Matchbox 20 is calm enough, with just enough rebellion for the occasional "run-ups" that the mechanics of a treadmill can provide with the prolonged push of a finger.

So with the ipod set on "somber", the television set on CC and mute, I began my morning jog ...

LINE 3000

While reading the news on the television today, I noticed I had a bit of an "I want to push you around" sort of an attitude. I can't explain it. I was feeling pretty calm, but slightly rebellious. There was a story about a 2 year old in England that has the same I.Q. as Einstein (presumably Albert, before he died). He (the Brit) is the youngest child ever admitted to Mensa.

Now I realize that there must be more to the story than what they talked about, but I was unimpressed with the evidence of the little boy's genius. They specifically mentioned 2 things.
1) He can name all 9 planets.
Ok, first of all, Einstein -- if you're going to go around belonging to Mensa and everything - you might want to stop at Neptune. Remember wonderboy, Pluto is not a planet. In fact, The last time Pluto was a planet, you weren't even born yet. And so what if he can name them? Does he know where they are? What they're made of? No. So the 2 year old remembered 9 names. Spectacular. I have a son (Jack) who was singing the alphabet at 2 years old. And you know what? He was stopping at 'Z'. He wasn't adding some arbitrary letters to the end like this little dumbass from England does with our solar system. So obviously Jack is smarter than this boy. But do I say "Oh Jack's a genius!" No, of course not. I just say the kid in England is a moron. Simple.

2) He speaks in complex sentences.

Not being a genius, I didn't know what they meant by this so I had to research the story. I will say that my son Abe (who's 4) has been speaking in complex sentences for as long as I can remember him talking. To this day, he engineers some of the most confusing sentences I've ever heard. I usually have no idea what he's trying to say. Because he's a genius. But back to Limey the brain. I looked for news about him and found out one of these complex sentences.

He said "I say, Mum, when I eat sausage, it's like a party in my mouth."

Really. That's what got him into Mensa. The only thing I can think is that if you say it with a British accent, it does sound a little smarter. I mean, maybe it's because Abe speaks American that when he says "Dad, cam I have dat fing wif de wady in purple frozen underwear?" that I'm not immediately on the phone with WOWT.

A new post, but first - Brady and Mom are right.

2009-10-08T11:23:00.004-05:00

From: msnbc

Poll finds most annoying word — ‘whatever’
Easily beats out strong contenders such as ‘you know’ and ‘anyway’

So, you know, it is what it is, but Americans are totally annoyed by the use of "whatever" in conversations.

The popular slacker term of indifference was found "most annoying in conversation" by 47 percent of Americans surveyed in a Marist College poll released Wednesday.

"Whatever" easily beat out "you know," which especially grated a quarter of respondents. The other annoying contenders were "anyway" (at 7 percent), "it is what it is" (11 percent) and "at the end of the day" (2 percent).

"Whatever" — pronounced "WHAT'-ehv-errr" when exasperated — is an expression with staying power. Immortalized in song by Nirvana ("oh well, whatever, nevermind") in 1991, popularized by the Valley girls in "Clueless" later that decade, it is still commonly used, often by younger people.

It can be an all-purpose argument-ender or a signal of apathy. And it can really be annoying. The poll found "whatever" to be consistently disliked by Americans regardless of their race, gender, age, income or where they live.

'A special class'
"It doesn't surprise me because 'whatever' is in a special class, probably," said Michael Adams, author of "Slang: The People's Poetry" and an associate professor of English at Indiana University. "It's a word that — and it depends how a speaker uses it — can suggest dismissiveness."

Adams, who was not involved in the poll and is not annoyed by "whatever," points out that its use is not always negative. It also can be used in place of other, neutral phrases that have fallen out of favor, like "six of one, half dozen of the other," he said.

But the negative connotation might explain why "whatever" was judged more annoying than the ever-popular "you know," which was recently given a public workout by Caroline Kennedy during her flirtation with the New York U.S. Senate seat vacated by Hillary Rodham Clinton. "You know," Adams notes, is a way for speakers to seek assent from others.

Pollsters at the Poughkeepsie, N.Y., college surveyed 938 U.S. adults by telephone Aug. 3-Aug 6. The margin of error is 3.2 percentage points. The five choices included were chosen by people at the poll discussing what popular words and phrases might be considered especially annoying, said spokeswoman Mary Azzoli.

Another fun look at slang!

2009-09-10T15:49:00.011-05:00

I’ve spoken in the past of “I know, right”. A relative newcomer that showed great promise early on. I’m glad too. I think it’s cute. I like hearing it, right? So anyways, now that we have this great new thing to say to people after every statement uttered in any conversation, there are a few I’d like to see move on. Some phrases are a lot like Brett Favre. They end up signing with the Vikings. I mean, they just don't know when to quit. Hey! Maybe that could be a new slang phrase. Example:

"Did you see that Shim is racing again this year!"
"Yeah, what a Vikings signer!"

Below are my suggestion for phrases ready to be removed from our lexicon. My criteria is simple. I'm sick of them:

The first one that really really really bugs me is the sarcastic form of “Really”
As in the Saturday Night Live News thing:
Really. Blagojevich? Your head of hair is really prominent and you try to sell Obama’s seat? Really.
Or whatever. It’s done. Let it go. Please. I would have no objections to letting “let it go” go, either.

The second one is “It’s all good.” Thankfully, as soon as people got tired of Paul Hogan and well, Australians in general we stopped saying “No worries” . Why not come up with another clever way to say “I forgive you?” How about “The recent events have in no way altered the current situation which remains indistinguishable from what will certainly be commonplace behind heaven’s pearly gates.” I mean, that’s just off the top of my head. I’ll have to concise it up a little, but you get the idea.

And the third one I’m really sick of: “Crazy”, meaning “very”. Munson uses or used this one a lot. Now Denis Leary is using it in a Ford Truck commercial. A sure sign that if it was ever cool, it is not now. I think Mr. Leary is talking about the Ford Truck engineers as being “Crazy Smart”. “Crazy” is the bastard stepdaughter of the eighties gem, “Way”. I actually think Munson used to say this, too. It lasted longer because it made more sense. I never liked it though. I always thought of it as a California thing because that’s where I was when I first heard it. In fact, I moved back to Nebraska solely because I was afraid that if I stayed in California I’d have to walk around appraising everything as “Way cool.” My fear was that some day it would be the way I really talked. I’d rather shovel snow than talk like that. And it gets Crazy cold in the winter around here.

An interesting question is that if “very” was replaced by “way” which was replaced by “crazy”, what’s next? I’ll tell you, because I already know. My kids say it all the time and kids are our future. The word is “Poop”. My kids love this word. So if you don’t want to get left in the dust, start saying it immediately. Example: Dude, Where’d you get those poop cool pants? I’m poop envious of you.

Strangely, there are some tired old phrases that I’m not sick of yet. “It’s all good” has a cute little brother called “That’s what I’m talking about”. I don’t know why, but I find this way less annoying than “It’s all good”. It might be that it is actually a somewhat complete sentence. Although, if we wanted to obfuscate that puppy up, we could. “That’s my topic” would be nice. Upon seeing your favorite athlete accomplish something spectacular, “That’s my topic!” Then offer a high five to any takers.
Or simply “My Top” It would be every bit as nonsensical as “My Bad” used to be, but way more current since I just made it up just now.

Speaking of which, “My Bad” has been gone for a long time, but few realize it. How do I know? Gee, let me tell you a story …

One beautiful Saturday Morning, I took the boys (ages 4 and 6) to Panera. It’s one place we can all agree on. Usually we get into the car, and I say, where do you boys want to eat. Jack (6) says, that place that Grandma likes. He means Panera. We saw her there once.

Abe always gets a big cinnamon roll. Jack gets a breakfast sandwich. While we’re in line, Abe enjoys running into people, smearing his grimy hands on things, and breaking stuff. Good boy. On this particular morning, he accidentally rammed into the little old lady in front of us. She turned to him, glaring with an evil eye. She did not look at me. She wanted to hit him. She wanted me to correct or scold Abe in some way. Normally, I would if the victim seemed cool. But she was a grumpy old bitch in line at Panera. Fuck her. Ooh. I’m getting fired up talking about people giving my kids a dirty look even though they totally deserve it.

So where was I? Oh yeah. “My Bad” is long gone. So shawl wearing old crab lady is ordering and there is some sort of mix up. The cashier is a fine young customer service representative for the Panera Franchise, so she patiently explains the issue to the little old lady, who upon realizing her error, says “My Bad.”

Now my first thought is, “Gee that seems out of place for this old woman to say that.” Ohhh, I get it. The girl behind the counter is black. It all makes sense now. You said “My bad” to enhance your “street cred”. You think that’s what black people say. While I’m enjoying this deepening dislike for the old lady, the cashier says, “Wow, I haven’t heard that phrase in a long time.”

Oh my god. That was awesome. She said it in a way that was missed by the old woman.

I don’t feel comfortable with affectations. So, even though the cashier was an African American, I was able order normally, in God’s English with no mishaps. The transcript of this process follows. I call it “How to order at Panera and not make a complete fool out of yourself, version 1”:

Yo, yo, yo It is vitally important for me to get some breakfus up in here. Check it. My man Abe will bust a grub on that cin-o-min roll. And little J to the A.C.K. will enjoy a delicious breakfast sandwich with the bacon option. That’s my topic!

Me? I’ll jus pop a 40 of coffee and lemme grab a shim of that Bagel. That would be extraordinarily fly.

How much!?! Damn girl! You take debit cards? Oh shit, I forgot my Personal Identification Nizzle. You take checks? Dyn-o-mite!

Now how hard is that?

The First Husker Game

2009-09-02T13:28:00.008-05:00

The date was September 29, 1973. It was at the stadium in Lincoln. The opponent was a worthy Wisconsin team. The Coach was the highly despised Tom Osborne. I liked Tom Osborne because he was young and good looking. Devaney, The King of Kings, looked old and short to me. I didn’t care for him. It was a day of many firsts for me, I was 8 or 9. Depending on whether I wanted to do something or whether I was crying about not being able to do it. It went like this:

“Dad, can [sic] I go to the whatever and do whatever?”

“What? Freddie, you’re 8 years old. Far too young for that sort of thing. Oh what? Now you’re going to cry about it? I don’t believe this. You’re 9 years old. Far too old to cry about stuff you’re too young to do.” No wonder Dad thought I was a mathematical genius.

But you know what I wasn’t too old or young for? A husker football game! Yeah!

I’m not sure why my dad decided to take me to a football game. I don’t think he ever really went that much. But it was an adventure that I still think about from time to time. I didn’t really follow football. I listened to the Nebraska games and cried if they lost. I was not assessed an age tax for that, though. It was the one acceptable reason for crying in our house. Oh yeah and saying “sucks”, as in “Tom Osborne sucks.” But I never said that because I liked Tom Osborne.

Pre-Game Preparation

The first thing we all did was drove to some bar. Two or three of my dad’s uncles/friends were there. There was also a pinball machine. I loved pinball. It was pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen. I asked my dad if I could play it while he and his uncles discussed the upcoming challenge against the Badgers. I totally expected him to call me some kind of 8 year old, but nope. This was a special day. It was kind of like my dad was the Godfather, and his daughter was getting married today or something (Incidentally, my sister’s first child was a masculine one).

My dad’s uncle Bob was a stinking drunk. Literally. He really smelled awful and he was always drunk. He constantly picked his big, huge nose. He had the loudest voice of anyone I know. It was a great voice. I always thought he could have been a successful radio announcer. He wouldn’t even need a microphone. He was easily my favorite of my dad’s uncles. Mostly because all of those guys (including my dad) used to frequently brag about the fights they had and the many asses they had kicked. Not Bob. He bragged about always getting his ass kicked. Good stuff. On this day – my special day, Bob handed me a stack of quarters so I could go play the pinball machine. Neat. I stuck the quarters in my pocket and went over and started playing. Man, it was fun. Here I am in a bar playing pinball. Drunk people love kids in the bar. Especially drunk Husker fans. Everyone was donating quarters. I felt like some kind of celebrity or something. Yippee.

Then, some guy (probably a Wisconsin fan) who was obviously too shy to directly hand the quarters to me, subtly placed a stack of 4 on the edge of the machine. I looked up to thank him, but he was gone. This is great! I’ll be here for a long, long time. Then I get to go watch the Huskers and that hack Tom Osborne play against Wisconsin (whoever that is).

So, after draining my last ball, I grabbed one of the quarters off the edge of the machine and started my next game. This innocent little action set in motion a brand new “Ass kicking story”!

About 2 minutes later, I was putting another quarter into the machine …

“Hey!”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing? Those are my quarters!”

“Uh … oh, I, sorry, I thought …”

“Get outta here. It’s my turn you little punk,” apparently thinking I was a very short adult.

Well that was that. I was not sure what had happened. I did not know that the way to get in line for a pinball game was to place money on the edge of the machine. I was putting it together, but I was too scared and confused to make any sense of it, so I just went back to where my dad and his uncles were and sat down.

Dad: Is your game over already?

Me: That guy put his money up there and told me it was his turn … Where are you going, pops?

Dad walks over to the guy playing pinball. They're out of hearing range so I can only see what's going on. After some other gesturing, dad points to the front door. Pinball guy immediately leaves, without finishing his game or picking up his quarters.

“Ok, Freddie, that guy had to leave. He said he’d be honored if you’d play the rest of his game and use those silly old quarters still sitting there for any subsequent games you might wish to play.”*

Then really loud to nobody in particular, Dad said, “I’m sure nobody else in here likes pinball anyway, so you can play until we leave if you want.”

Tremendous!

So after I got done playing pinball, it was time to head to the sporting event. Once we were seated, my dad asked me if I’d ever seen so many people in one place before. I was pretty sure I hadn’t, so I said “No.”

Next thing I noticed was how small the field looked. It seemed so much bigger on the radio. I now know it’s really just a pitching wedge from one end to the other, so …

What was cool about it though was my dad’s response to my observation, “They say people who think the field looks smaller in real life are paranoid.” I have never understood that comment. I don’t know if he was joking or basing it off of something he learned in psychology.† But I’ve always wondered if it was true. I have never heard anything about it, but it could just be part of a bigger conspiracy.

So then the game happened. It was a great time. All the way through. I remember the score: Nebraska 20, Wisconsin 16. Until today, I wasn’t sure about the team or the date. But I remembered the score. That’s how I found out the other two when I was researching this story.

I said to my dad, “I bet those guys who came here from Wisconsin feel pretty bad.” I didn’t realize it, but a Wisconsin fan heard my comment. My dad said, looking at the Wisconsin fan, “It was a good game. Both teams played well. I doubt they feel too bad.” Then the Wisconsin fan and my dad nodded to each other, kind of smiling about my comment. Wow. Dad just illustrated good sportsmanship in front of me at a Nebraska game. A few hours earlier, he booted a guy from his own pinball game and took his quarters as a fine for not giving them to me. Now he’s showing humility in victory.

So it made me think. A lot of times, Husker fans are called the greatest fans in the world. It’s something we learn very early on, if even from a group of drinking, brawling truck drivers. That’s pretty cool. That’s also why people now love Osborne so much. Even though he had huge shoes (figuratively) to fill when Devaney gave up the reins, in the long run, his example of sportsmanship eventually won over Husker Nation.

I’m just kidding. It was the National Championships. Nothing else matters around here.

* My dad has never used the word ‘subsequent’.
† My dad never took psychology.

I'm back!!

2009-08-17T18:08:00.009-05:00

From my bike ride. Not back to cycling. No, I'm still a golfer who occasionally rides his bike. Which reminds me, "The Hurt Locker" is an excellent movie. Go see it.

"Hey ladies, just thought you might like to see what a real golfer's body looks like."

That's me in the center, in the slimming black "Twin Six" kit. Brian on the left (my right) and Wesley on the right (my left). Photo by Pat Cash. I would say "courtesy of Pat Cash", but I didn't ask him. I'm sure he'd be cool with it, because he's courteous, but you never know. I really do hope it's ok, though, because otherwise all I've got is this artist's rendering ...

Even though I've abandoned riding for the more noble endeavor of golfing, Sunday came with the realization that I'm always going to be a cyclist. Riding is a blast. There's no way around it. And not just riding. Riding hard. I can't help myself. I went as hard as I possibly could for much of the ride. There's nothing like the feeling of putting the hammer down, exiting the workshop and going for a hard ride. My accelerations were ungodly. My form unmatched. Bystanders were vigorously barking on me.

This was all fun and games until the road went up. Even the slightest hint of an incline put me instantly in "The Hurt Locker". It's been years since anyone on anything other than a road bike has passed me on the way up a hill. Unless you count Sunday. Oh yeah, I remember. Here come the 12 year old girls. Hi girls. Nice streamers. Ok, you go on ahead, I have to check on some things while I climb this hill. Oh man, I am SO going to coast past them after I crest this thing. Whoosh!

So I got into Ft Calhoun after roughly an hour. Not Bad, considering.

I saw several old friends. Named things like:
Munson, Randell (with hair on his legs), Redemske, Keffer, Bazant, Armstrong, Ed Brown, Wesley, Gordon, Ellis, Savoie, Brian C. Just kidding about Armstrong. He's not a friend of mine.

But most importantly, I seen Shim. He made some gesture toward me that I can only assume meant "Way to go, sport!" He grabbed his right cheek (of his face) and rapidly slapped it repeatedly against his gums, making, well a loud cheek-gum-slapping noise. I responded with a subtle and confused wave.

By the end of the ride, I had nothing left - other than the uphill ride home. Oops.

I have a strict policy of never getting off the bike and walking due to lack of fitness, so I was concerned about getting home. I did something I've never done before. I took a longer, flatter route to get home. I don't think I'd have made it otherwise. "A man's got to know his limitations," as Clint Eastwood said in a movie that is not called "The Hurt Locker".

Fredcube, where were you? Quarry Oaks or something?

2009-08-12T17:42:00.016-05:00

We were worried sick?

Well I'm glad you asked. As a matter of fact I was at quarry oaks, see?

Here's a shot of me sending a ball to its final resting place somewhere far, far to the right of the fairway. I'll miss that ball. It was so cute and round. Maybe (definitely) I should get up on my right toe better. Oh well, it's a work in progress. Notice, I also broke the tee which is on it's way back to earth in the photo. So yeah. New ball and tee from one swing. Damn.

Here's another lovely view beside the Platte river. This is from the tee box on 13 or 14 (I think 13). My drive went roughly (literally) to the right of about where that cart is leaving me with 207 yard uphill to reach the green in regulation.

From this lie ...

Well, I don't normally hit the 3 hybrid 207 yards level on a good lie, but it was a good swing. I ended up left of the green, but the distance was correct. I most likely got some cart path to lend a hand, but I don't know cause I couldn't see the green from there. Nonetheless, I was very proud of my big boy shot, as can be seen here:

Yeah, that's the mighty Platte River behind me. I went on to bogey the hole (which is what I like to call fredpar).

The course is beautifuller than any I've seen (I've not seen many, but it's still awesome). We were playing from the white tees (1 in from the tips). Until we got to this hole ...

From the white tees, there was no danger. Just nice green fairway all the way to the green. So we decided to play from the black (where I took this photo from) which meant carrying this 180 yards of cavernous weed valley cliff thing. Awesome. By some miracle I took a 3 wood and gently swung it, thinking "just get it halfway there". Cha-ching. Yeah, that was a par (or fredpar, I can't be certain). Anyways, I landed and stopped on the green. Pretty impressive for me - and actually anyone in the world. I'm just saying.

Next highlight. The signature hole at Quarry oaks. Number 17. 394 yard par 4 from the tips (which we played because it was the signature hole). As you can see It is a dogleg left, and really really cool. This was also my best drive of the day. I sent it 250 (way down hill) to about where the guys are standing on the right side of this photo. FORE!!! No, I waited til they cleared out.

I actually did par this one - not just some weird fredpar.

Damage: I don't know, 10 balls lost or so. Which means 10 penalty strokes. I'll have to clean that up a bit.
front 9: 54
back 9: 49
So um: 103

Then we went to Miracle Hill where the warm up at Quarry did me some good. 45 and 44 for a personal best 89 on the course. Sweet.

And yeah, it turned out better than work as I had predicted.

Hey, you gonna eat the rest of that?

2009-07-27T16:03:00.008-05:00

Again, I was very very busy today at the company. During my coffee break, I found a newspaper in the breakroom and started reading. I didn’t expect to find anything of interest, but I was bored. Imagine my surprise when I read that Squirrel season starts in Nebraska this Saturday! You need a license, though. You can’t just go around killing squirrels without a license. What if everyone just went around killing squirrels? I know, right? Well to make sure that doesn’t happen, there’s a hefty 14 dollar price tag on the license. What I thought was interesting is that you are allowed to “bag” up to 7 a day, but may not have more than 28 on you. Interesting, because to exceed the legal number of dead squirrels in your pocket, you’ve got to have some squirrels you (or someone you know) killed at least 4 days ago. Mmmm. I suppose that number (28) includes all the squirrels in your freezer. Next to the Ben and Jerry’s. And again, I say, mmm.

Ok, so I don’t hunt. Mostly because it doesn’t seem like any fun to me. That and they don’t generally let you hunt the stuff that tastes good. I know, I know, venison is so delicious when prepared just right… spare me. Please. Deer meat is nowhere near as good as just about any part of a cow. I love beef in its many tasty forms. Deer meat? Not so much. Chicken? Extremely versatile and yummy. But when does chicken or cow season open up in Nebraska?

Pork. Perhaps the best meat on the planet. Pig season, anyone? Nope. Not gonna happen.

Even if you could just drive out to some farm somewhere and start plugging away at cattle, it would still be simpler and probably cheaper to just go to the Bag-N-Save and grab you some steaks.

But Fred, deer jerky is awesome! No it’s not. It’s just tastier than straight deer meat because it’s got so much salt in it that some of the rancid deer flavor gets masked. By the way, beef Jerky sucks too. We have freezers now. There’s no need for “Jerky”.

To learn more about this wondrous hunting season stuff, I visited the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission website to see what other things I might be able to hunt. I mean, if they have a squirrel season, who knows. Maybe they have a Red-Breasted Robin season, too.

Sadly, no. However, I did see something that I found even more amazing than the fact that people pay 14 dollars to hunt squirrels.

They have this thing called "Fur bearer Running Season". It's for foxes, raccoons, etc. But you don't kill them. You just chase them. From the site:

During the running season, bobcat, raccoon, red fox and Virginia opossum may be pursued or chased with hounds, but not killed.

I've heard in the past that hunting seasons are structured to help wildlife as much as possible. Thin the herd to prevent disease and starvation and things. I'm guessing the idea behind running season is to help the foxes and Virginia opossums stay in good shape. Otherwise, they'd probably just lay around all day getting fat and lazy, taking insulin shots, blaming their metabolism or glands, etc.

But anyway, back to squirrels ...

So ok, let’s say I get squirrel terminator license. Hey listen, it’s better to have one and not need it than need one and not have it. I suppose if I find myself in a situation where I have to kill a squirrel (or 7), I could always claim self-defense. But it would just be easier to fork over the 14 bucks and be good for the season.

I think it might be fun to kill a squirrel just for the immediate and drastic emotional charge it would surely evoke. I don’t love or hate squirrels, but I do think they’re kind of cute (mostly because one has never gotten into my house, ruining all the furniture). I can imagine walking along with Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder, when I spot it. The enemy. The brown furry little guy, up in the tree, hunched over furiously chewing away at whatever, turning it over in it’s cute little enemy paws. Mr. Bluebird instinctively slows his chirping. I edge within range, slowly bringing my trusty .22 long rifle up to my shoulder while Mr Bluebird cautiously flies over to the other side. As I deftly take the instrument off “safe”, the squirrel suddenly stops chewing. Suspicious but frozen. It is too late for you my friend. Pop. Yes! Right though the heart! Woohoo! As I watch the critter fall lifeless to the ground in a series of impossible contortions, I think “what the hell?” I just killed this creature. I don’t want to eat any squirrel. Guilt briefly threatens to sour my day until I remember my sidearm. My 1911 .45 ACP. I’ve always wondered what it would do to a small furry cute little animal. I grab the handgun and approach my fallen foe. I see it still twitching a little and actually not completely dead, yet. With the blast of the .45 at roughly point blank range, no more sign of any squirrel. 1 down, 6 to go. Zippity do dah …

Slow Day

2009-07-23T15:28:00.005-05:00

I’ve been very busy at “The Company” lately. It’s a good thing. Doing really cool coding and things. But unfortunately my blog publishing has suffered. Well I thought I’d take a break and relive something. But I haven’t thought of what I want to reminisce about yet. (currently tapping fingers lightly on keyboard, staring at monitor, waiting for a thought about something to blog about from my past).

It’s my brother’s fault I’m not the master of whatever it is that I should be the master of. One time, when I was about 8 or 9, I had an inspiration. I figured out a way to draw realistic looking stain glass windows. I worked on my drawing for days. Non-stop. I poured my heart into it. The shading. The balance of light. I made the colors dance together with grace and beauty. Framing each window of my inner-church-scape was deep mahogany, rich with ornate detail as if routered by the smooth hand of God Herself, bitches!

Once finished and signed, completely ready for its inevitable showing upon the refrigerator, I collapsed in a heap amongst the crayon paper littering the floor. The Crayola brand sharpener dulled from hours of abuse. No matter. The work was complete. My finest work to date. Well, as far as drawing went. My proudest artistic achievement was not in the realm of drawing at all. It was writing. In the second or third grade we had to write a story about monsters for Halloween. Mine was excellent, to understate it a tad. The quality of this work, a story about a baby Frankenstein monster, has never been questioned by any sane person. A literary triumph, frequently inspiring its readers to abandon mediocrity and strive for a greatness seldom believed possible. It spent an unbelievable 6 weeks on the refrigerator. A feat I believed not to be matched in my lifetime. That is until I finished the Stained glass piece. As I drifted off to sleep, I imagined the possibility of coming in from the summer’s heat each day, several times a day for the next 2 months, to get a drink from the cold water bottle. As I was physically refreshed, I would also be spiritually energized by the sight of my opus. The Stained Glass Collection, Numbers 1-9. Oh yes. I envisioned a series. Sweet dreams, little prince. Life takes a tragic turn upon your revival.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my brother is a fine person. A much better person than I will ever hope to be. He cares about people who are not him. A foreign concept to me. Not that I think of foreigners as exceptionally empathetic (except Mexicans), because that would be racist. What I mean is that I am unfamiliar with this whole compassion thing. I tend to see people skin deep. I have a difficult time understanding that there is a conscious being in there with feelings, dreams, and whatever other bullshit goes on in their pathetic little minds. This is probably why I saw my brother as this evil person that was always messing my stuff up. The truth is I was messy too. But I tended to blame my brother for everything. Until he came along, blah blah blah.

So anyway, about an hour after passing out, I awoke. Why am I on the floor? Why are there crayon wrappers everywhere? Oh yeah! The drawing! It’s finished and now I’ve gotten the required amount of rest to officially unveil it to my mother. Dad would not have appreciated the drawing. Most likely, he would have suggested that I was judging him, like he didn’t know what the inside of a church looked like. And also, he would have intimated that any heterosexual boy would be outside playing. Something like, “So the little faggot was drawing all day. Go figure.”

Ok, so where is the drawing? I know I left it right here. It looked like a big version of all these little pieces of crumpled up, stained glass window … Uh oh.

So yeah, my brother had torn up the drawing. He had no idea why. When asked, he told mother “I felt like destroying something beautiful.”

I was hurt. But honestly, somehow I knew I’d get more mileage out of the destruction of the work. Every time I felt like drawing, I’d blame my brother and not draw. He ruined me, was my excuse. Even years later, when my brother proved to be the true talent, faithfully reproducing most of the artwork of genius and Conan illustrator, Frank Frazetta, I hung on to the excuse.

“Isn’t Steve a gifted artist?” grandma would ask.
“You should have seen the stained glass window,” I’d whisper.

Oh it's on

2009-07-09T15:14:00.004-05:00

Among the many perks I've received as part of my compensation from my current employer "The Company", I have just had the prestigious title of "Corporate Cycling Challenge Team Leader" bestowed upon me. It is indeed a great day.

P.S. Hey Shim, click on the picture to enlarge it. That's what she said.

It’s like riding a bike, only slower

2009-06-17T10:25:00.002-05:00

I like getting back into shape much more than being in shape. Once you’re in shape, the gains are minimal. You’re building over months or years at a time. When you’re out of shape, particularly if you have been in shape before, the overnight improvement is amazing. I’ve been out 3 times this year. 17 days ago, last Sunday, and last night. The first ride did not feel bad, per se. I could not press down on the pedals, but I could spin pretty comfortably for a while. About 20 miles into a 25 mile ride, my legs were fatigued. Last Sunday was an easy spin for a while. Even though I had not ridden for 2 weeks, it was better than the first ride. The best way to describe last night’s ride is after about 10 miles or so, my legs “woke up”. I could suddenly push down hard on the pedals without that weird shaky pain feeling.

After they woke up, my legs immediately hit the snooze to rest for another 9 minutes. Then, they did it again. Wow. This is fun.

Then the best thing ever happened. I looked behind me and saw another "Keystone Hammer" about a quarter mile away. Hmm. I didn’t pass that guy. I’m in no kind of shape, but I’ll give it a go. I’ll see if I can hold him off until I turn off the trail at Aksarben.

Well almost. He finally caught me at College of Saint Mary’s where He told me he’d been chasing me for a few miles and I told him that I knew and I was glad we could motivate each other on today’s ride. Then we gave each other the secret Hammershake, and parted ways.

Good times.

The Time I thought I saw God

2009-06-16T15:01:00.008-05:00

It was roughly 40 years ago. I didn’t have any idea what God looked like back then. All I knew was that people go to church to see god. I had always been instructed to recite a clever little poem to God each night before I went to bed:

“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake. I pray the lord, vengeance on my murderers to take”

or some such nonsense. Anyways … I don’t know if I ever went to church before I was about 3 or 4 years old because I don’t remember. My dad and mom were not churchgoers. My Grandpa (dad’s dad) and Grandma (Grandpa’s wife) were. They would like to take me to church with them on the major god related holidays (Christmas, Easter, Super Sunday).

Mom: Freddie, you’re going to go to church with grandma and grandpa, tonight.
Me: What’s church?
Mom: A big place where old people go before they die.
Me: Why?
Mom: Because that’s where God lives.
Me: Really!!
Mom: Yep.
Me: Sign me up, boy! I want to meet this God I’ve been talking to.
Mom (to herself): heh heh heh. I told him God lives there.

So I’m pretty sure it was Christmas time because I remember being quite disappointed by the church’s idea of treats. I had recently learned about treats from Halloween and was eager to see what The Almighty had in store in the treat department. I mean, if the weird old guy across the street can give out tootsie rolls, God’s treats will be really swell! But no. They gave all the good little boys and girls brown paper bags filled with apples and oranges. Uh.

I remember taking out one apple and one orange. I then tried in vain to get some sort of meaningful comparison of the 2. You can’t do it, I tell you.

One thing I also noticed at church. People sway back and forth when they stand. I thought they were doing it on purpose. But no. It’s like a constant catching of balance. I was looking up at my grandma and my aunt. They were standing there listening to some prayer or something. Moving slightly forward, than catching themselves and jerking slightly back. Only to move forward again. I think I had never noticed it because I had never been so bored in all my life (3 or 4 years). Also, I didn’t realize it was involuntary. I thought that’s what you were supposed to do in church. So I started doing it. But I’m pretty sure it was not as subtle as grandma and Aunt Debbie, because Grandpa gently squeezed my clavicle (I found out years later what it was called) to encourage me to stop it.

The next thing I remember about church was the singing. Not all of it. Just one song in particular. And only one part of the song in particular. It was “Silent Night”. And the part of the song I’m talking about sent me into uncontrollable giggling. “Sleep in heavenly pe-EACE!” It was so loud and so high pitched, that if anyone had been sleeping in heaven or earth, they were surely awake by now. That was fun! I gotta get in on this! Oh yeah! They’re singing it again! I’m definitely joining in this time! I’m going to contribute to the loudest thing I’ve ever heard! Here goes!
Congregation and me: Sleep in heavenly …
Congregation: (nearly whispering): peace
Me: (Ted Nugent would be proud): PE-EACE!!!!

Woah, they kind of changed that up on me. Bunch of swaying apple pushers! Now they’re laughing at the cute little boy who fucked up. Screw you guys. I’m going to go tell God if I can find him. He’s gotta be around here somewhere. Mom says he lives here.

That’s when I saw him. He’s tall. Well groomed. Dark hair. Good looking. About 30. Wearing a navy blue suit. Coming out of the basement of the church. I actually remember what that man looked like to this day because – well – I really did think it was god. I also thought that he was coming up the stairs because he had just come back from hell to tell the Devil he was in big trouble or something. It was very exciting. Although some of this post is fictional, most of it is true. And the truest part is that I was so excited to be seeing God that I could feel my heart pounding.

But I asked my grandpa if the man was God, He said no so quickly that I wondered how he knew. I mean he barely looked at the guy. It was at that moment I figured that the only way he could know without looking was that God wasn’t there. Grandpa explained that God was there. God was everywhere, he told me – but you can’t actually see him. What a jip. I kept the next question about “why’d we have to come down here, then” to myself.

So that was it. Not only is God invisible and everywhere. If you go down to the church, you’ll get a bag of fruit that you are required to be thankful for, even though it’s going to rot in the paper bag and be tossed in the trash before Super Sunday. Which nobody cared much about back then. It was like “Oh I guess the Packers won again” or something.

One final note. The Church is not there anymore. It was a little Lutheran Church down on about 20th and Cuming. The land is now used for Creighton Parking. I’m not saying it had anything to do with the apples and oranges, but I’m not saying it didn’t either.
~~~~~~~
Note: I was just doing the math and realized that when this happened, my grandpa was younger than I am now. Since My dad was 19 when I was born, and my grandpa was 18 when dad was born, and I was like 4 or 5, he would have been about 42 or 43 at the most.

25 down. 5000 to go.

2009-05-30T13:43:00.003-05:00

I figure, I need about 5025 miles on the bike to get in shape. It's been a long time. So this morning, I mowed the lawn, pulled one of my bikes out of the garage, hosed it down real good, pumped up the tyres (tires) to about 9 bars (130 psi), stretched the twin 6 clothing to its absolute limit and went for a ride.

At first it was like riding a bike. I felt like I remembered how to do it. I coasted down the driveway, down the street, down through memorial park, up through UNO. Uh oh. Up seemed a little too hard. Oh well. Through elmwood. "FORE!!" And up onto the trail, going south. At this point, I realized I had a pretty good tail wind, since I was going 23 without much effort and haven't been on a bike for several months. I felt good. Except for my hands. And my legs. And my bottom (I say shyly while covering my mouth to suppress a giggle). I settled in at around 25 miles an hour and cruised to the place where I turn around (12.5 miles). Then I spun into the headwind at 12 or 13. nice. My legs now felt really sore. My hands couldn't get comfortable. My golf clubs were in the trunk of my car all lonely. After much effort, I made it home, barely surviving up the hills.

So, I'm not quite ready to hang with the skinnys. Maybe tomorrow.

This morning reminded me of a Rolling Stones concert I never went to

2009-05-29T13:39:00.011-05:00

So I'm driving to work this morning, minding my own business, listening to Mike and Mike talk about which of them should throw out the first pitch next time they're invited and if only one is allowed. My thoughts are wandering the way they always do when your driving 30 minutes and there's nothin' much to do. I'm thinking about how much fun it is to swing a golf club. The bills I need to pay. The fact that I should get my tags for my license plates since they'll be expired by Monday.

Anyway, the stretch of road I was on had a posted speed limit of 40 MPH. I basically never speed, unless I'm on the interstate. I'll go with the obligitory 5-10 over. So I'm cruising along at 40. Mike and Mike agree that Golick should be the one to throw the pitch. Just then, I hear the rumbling of a motorcycle. It comes whizzing past, weaving in and out through the traffic. It was loud. It was moving at least 60 mph. It was probably a Harley. I didn't really see. What I did see was the jacket the rider had on. It said "Hells Angels Ne***" or something. The location was obscured by the back of the bike seat. I was surprised. I didn't know they still had "Hells Angels".

I was kind of entertained by that. I hadn't thought about this group of misfits since I saw the "Starsky and Hutch" movie. There weren't Hells angels in it, but there was some sort of Bike Club that was supposed to be for toughs.

There was also this Charlie Sheen movie where he was a cop who was deep undercover in some outlaw bike gang.

Recap of my wandering thoughts this morning:
"I think I should throw the first pitch, because people would be more enter..."
"Let's see, Pay the daycare, U.P. tuition, get new car registra - What the - Hells Angels, Ne***? Wow. I didn't know they still had those. Maybe it's his dad's jacket. No. No one would wear one of those unless they "earned" it."

I wondered how you get in. Who do you contact? Do they have a web site? If I was to guess based on what I remember from Starsky and Hutch and that one Charlie Sheen movie. I'd say first of all, you have to ride your motorcycle to some shady saloon on the outskirts of town. It is very important that the saloon be made of wood. It must have a lot of worn out paint advertising on the building. Of course there must be several Harley Davidson motorcycles lined up out front. I don't think you'd be doing yourself any favors if you were recently bathed either. It might not be the case anymore, but I believe a couple of decades ago, it wouldn't hurt to have a red bandanna tied around one of your boots.

Once you enter the bar, the worst thing you can do is anything other than walk solemnly to the bar and order a beer. This is one thing you cannot get wrong. Do not order a Budweiser, a Miller, or any other specific brand. You order a beer and take the 8 ounce draw you're given. If there are no women in the bar you might be in trouble. You will probably have to finish your beer and get out of there before someone starts talking to you. But don't worry, there's always a woman in the bar. She's currently being harassed by the biggest guy in there. The leader of the gang. Now all you have to do is pick a fight with him. This is not optional. The Hells Angels are currently looking for troublemakers. They don't care if they kick the shit out of you or vice versa, but somebody's getting a whoopin'.

The best way to pick a fight with the leader of the Hells Angels is to simply notice that he's being kind of rough with "The Lady". A subtle turn in the direction of the disturbance and then a quick glance back down at your beer should be enough.

"Something on your mind, mister?" and congratulations, your application is currently being processed! It's all down hill from here. Just mop up the floor with the guy and bingo, not only are you in the club, you're their new leader.

And that woman you protected? She'll welcome you aboard with a nice slap in the face. Even though it will sting tremendously, it is very important at this point that you don't cry. A wry smile and a turn to finish the last gulp of your beer is the next step to full-fledged Hell's Angelhood. So finish that beer in one gulp, and head for the door.

"Say hold up mister,"

Stop. Turn slowly to face whoever.

"I ain't never seen anybody put a whoopin on ol' Dean like 'at. Who the hell are you?"

"Just passin through. Stopped in to get a drink. That's all"

"We could use a guy like you. No shit. Why don't you ride with us."

"Not much of a joiner"

"Hell, none of us are. That's what this is. A club of loners."

"What would Dean say about it?"

"Dean ain't gonna say shit, is you Dean?"

"uhg"

"Suppose I was to ride with you all on say a probationary basis. What do you guys do?"

"Hunt vampires, mostly"

"I'm in"

(to be continued. or not)

The New Star Trek Movie Beams Up Some Serious Walking Around Cash

2009-05-22T08:35:00.003-05:00

Spoiler Alert: If you have seen the movie, you may not want to read this review. I haven’t seen the movie but I’ve heard it’s really really good.

At last. The new star trek movie has arrived. I have been eagerly anticipating this event for months. It has been all I could think about day and night. I haven’t groomed. I haven’t bathed. The idea of seeing the crew of star trek one last time before the next sequel has got me all giddy.

I know very little about it other than my brother said it was really good. He’s usually pretty good about that. I still don’t get “Unbreakable”, but otherwise we like pretty much the same movies. “Ooh, I’m made of glass and you’re afraid of water! Ooh.” Whatever. Stupid movie (Unbreakable).

I’ve seen some commercials for it (Star Trek: Back to the First Generation). It kind of looks like “Starship Troopers” or something. I hope it’s as good as that movie! I think Leonard Nimoy is in the new movie. Wow. That doesn’t seem pathetic at all. Maybe he’s in it kind of like the way Paul “Michael” Glazer and David Soul were in the “Starsky and Hutch” movie. I bet William Shatner is in it too. Probably, the new Kirk wrecks the enterprise chasing down a bad alien or something and the new Spock buys the original Enterprise from the old Kirk - reluctant to give up the keys.

Yeah, that’s probably what happens. Then Probably Old Kirk and New Kirk sit out on the balcony, smoking Cigars, bragging about conquests or asking each other’s permission to bang some chick or something.

Warning: The following is what I know about the plot from the commercials and the way I remember stuff people said about it. And probably some stand up comedy routines from decades ago.

So the story begins introducing us to an ornery little Jimmy Kirk in the sleepy little town of Ottumwa, Iowa. It is clear early on that he’s got a taste for adventure. Constantly getting into Mr. Wilson’s flower bed and tracking mud on his mother’s nice clean kitchen floor. He’s incorrigible!

We also get to see Spocky. A four year old half/Vulcan child. He struggles internally with being different than the others. Oh big shock there. I struggle internally with thinking that humans and Vulcans have compatible DNA. There’s probably some explanation in some book somewhere, but it’s not all that interesting to me.

It is in high school at a Halloween party, that we find out Captain (Of the football team) James T. Kirk has a thing for green chicks. He meets a hot green chick (thinking she’s dressed up for Halloween). Next, we see classic Jim, strapping his boots back on. That’s when he realizes this girl really is green and boom, off come the boots!

The movie is well written. The characters are directed to be a sort of tribute to the originals. And that guy from "Shaun of the Dead" plays Scotty. Well that’s about all I know about it. That makes me want to go see it. Or at least wait for Blu-Ray (which was my nickname in college).

Mmm … Marketing

2009-05-21T15:28:00.005-05:00

Tuesday afternoon I decided to eat lunch in the cafeteria at work. Each day, a different vendor sets up shop and doles out somewhat warm food from the menu. There is no allowance in the cafeteria for hot plates or ovens or anything, so the vendor must either prepare everything beforehand or cook it in the parking lot and bring it in to the “kitchen”.

Tuesday, the vendor was DJ’s Dugout. They’re not any better or worse than any of the other vendors. I was in a training class and did not want to go out to lunch so I just needed to grab something. I decided on a burrito. DJ’s is not a Mexican place or anything, but they had burritos. Well, I thought they did. I saw somebody in front of me paying for what I mistook to be a burrito. So that’s what I tried to order.
“You?” said the DJ’s Customer service representative, pointing at me indicating it was my turn to order.

“I would like a burrito, please” confidence spilling into my tone. See, I rarely eat at the cafeteria, so I don’t have the routine down. I feel foolish, because some of those people in line seem to not only know how it works, but they actually are on a first name basis with several of the crew. One thing I don’t want to do is slow down the line. My fellow cafeteria brethren are hungry. They don’t need me getting in the way. I am desperately trying to make this all go as smooth as possible.

“Huh?” questioned my salesperson.
Uh oh. I did something wrong. I hear whispering behind me. Tongue clicking. I sense eye-rolling.
Um, “A beef burrito?” all confidence gone. Maybe “Huh” meant I had to specify whether I wanted chicken or beef. Didn’t I just see a burrito leaving the cashier area? I’m certain of it. Actually, I watched them make it.

Quickly I look to the wall on the left where the menu is kept. A quick scan reveals no burrito. What did I do wrong? I’m sweating now. Just about to panic and order a cheeseburger when I see it. There’s an item listed on their menu as “Taco Salad Wrap”.
Of course. How could I have been so foolish? I know if I worked at DJ’s and we had “Taco Salad Wraps” and somebody ordered a burrito, I’d be like, “Huh?”

Taco Salads were a great invention. The exact same ingredients as a taco, but with proportionally more lettuce and a big greasy fried bowl. Yum. The problem with Tacos is that they are not considered healthy. Even though a taco salad is roughly 1000 more calories than a taco, it has salad in its name, so it’s guilt-free eating.
But what’s healthier than a burrito, besides just about anything? A wrap, of course. Wraps are healthier than bread, so wraps are healthy. Looking back on it, I should thank DJ’s for their health consciousness. Had they just given me a burrito, the self-loathing would have lasted until dinner time. But no. Not only did I have just a salad for lunch, I had it in the form of a heart friendly wrap.
How to make a healthy alternative to burritos that’ll keep them coming back (Taco Salad Wrap):

One 12” Tortilla (call it a wrap to live longer)
½ pound ground beef with taco seasoning in it.
½ cup diced tomatoes
2 cups Cheddar cheese
¾ cup lettuce (shredded, like your abs will soon be)
Some sliced olives (optional)
A crap load of sour cream.

Carefully shove all ingredients onto a tortilla and roll that sucker* up. Then enjoy while contemplating getting into that old bathing suit.

* I'm thinking "Bad boy" might have been a better word choice here than "sucker". Oh well.

The Clever Trick by Chick publications

2009-05-20T08:54:00.004-05:00

Christian: Do you know where you’ll be after you die?

Filthy Sinner: Well, I’m not sure it matters, since, by definition, I’ll be dead.
But presumably, very close to wherever I was just before I died.

Christian: Oh, it matters brother.

Filthy Sinner: Wait. Are you talking all that Bible Junk? Well, that’s ok, I
don’t really believe in all that stuff.

Christian: Oh man, you’ve fallen for Satan’s cleverest little trick.

Filthy Sinner: Huh?

Christian: It’s true. Satan knows that if he can get you to not even believe
in his existence, he wins.

Filthy Sinner: Really? Tell me more.

Christian: Oh yeah, see the “Bible Junk” you mention tells us that if you come
to Jesus, he will in no wise cast you out.

Filthy Sinner: What does “in no wise” mean?

Christian: Not.

Filthy Sinner: Oh. Why don’t they just say “not”. Or why don’t they just
say “Thou shalt in no wise commit adultery.” See, there are too
many inconsistencies in the Bible.

Christian: Well, first of all, brother, that’s from the “old testament”. And
second of all, I find it interesting that you go straight to the
adultery one.

Filthy Sinner: Well, I’m in no wise going to covet my neighbor’s ass. I got that one all under control.

Christian: Pride cometh before a fall.

Filthy Sinner: You talk funny. What’s that mean.

Christian: I don’t know. We just say it a lot at church. Sounds pretty cool, huh?

Filthy Sinner: Yea, it sounds all royal and stuff. So what’s this clever Satan thing again?

Christian: Satan tries to convince you that he doesn’t exist. If he can do that, he might be able to convince you that there is no god. Then you won’t be born again. Then you’ll burn in hell for all of eternity for believing the lie of Satan.

[ image: Ghandi, Hitler, Mohamed, Tevye very sorry and in great misery for their transgression of not being Christians – or not very good ones, in the case of Hitler ]

Filthy Sinner: Woah there, Moses. Slow down a bit. Boop Boop Boop. What do you mean Satan tries to convince me? How? Do I talk to him and stuff? I don’t think so. And seriously dude, Ghandi?

Christian: You know how like, a lot of times, you sit around thinking about stuff that isn’t in line with the word of god?

Filthy Sinner: No.

Christian: Well, that’s actually Satan’s voice.

Filthy Sinner: No it isn’t. Like I sit around thinking to myself in some gravelly, deep Heavy Metal voice.

Christian: If it’s not from God, It’s from Satan.

Filthy Sinner: I thought God created everything. And by the way, that Satan trick thing isn’t really all that clever.

Christian: Oh Yeah. Never mind. I was just messing with you.

Filthy Sinner: Maybe that’s your clever little trick.

Christian: Remember. The wages (wage) of sin is “death”. But after taxes it comes out to about “Don’t feel well. Better lie down.”

Filthy Sinner: So are you saying that whenever I get sick, it’s because of payment for some sin after taxes?

Christian: More or less.

Filthy Sinner: So where does the tax go to? Roads? Health care? It doesn’t make any sense.

Christian: The lord moves in mysterious ways.

Filthy Sinner: Yeah, ok. That clears it up. Where do I sign?

Christian: Sarcasm is the natural language of the devil.

Filthy Sinner: Where do you get this stuff?

Christain &
Filthy Sinner: Ooh! Look! A vampire! Aaaah! Run!
[ Crunch, rip, snap, slurp ]

OH MY GOSH!!! ARE YOU F'ING KIDDING ME!!!

2009-05-18T13:22:00.002-05:00

Source: Reuters
RPT-TREASURIES-Debt prices trim losses after housing data
Mon May 18, 2009 2:04pm EDT
* Builder sentiment in line with estimates

* Sharp rally in stocks cuts safe-haven bid for Treasuries!

* May NAHB index reads 16, as expected, up from April (Refiles to additional subscribers) (Updates prices, comment)

By Ellen Freilich!

NEW YORK, May 18 (Reuters) - U.S. Treasury debt prices trimmed sharp losses on Monday after an index showed an improved mood among U.S. home builders, right in line with expectations.

Any ray of hope that the housing slump might be coming to an end would tend to be negative for Treasuries prices. But prices were already down sharply on the day as a strong stock rally cut the safe-haven big for government debt and some traders may have hoped for a more robust reading on home builders' sentiment than the small improvement actually recorded.

The National Association of Home Builders/Wells Fargo Housing Market Index showed U.S. homebuilder sentiment rose to 16 in May from 14 in April.

The big jump in equities prices was partly driven by stronger results from home improvement retailer Lowe's (LOW.N: Quote, Profile, Research, Stock Buzz), which fueled hopes the economic slump was easing and spending was stabilizing. Those gains, reflecting a revived appetite for risk, kept bonds in negative territory.

"The market definitely has been on a downtrend from (strength in) equities and corporate deal flows. The NAHB data came in pretty much within expectations," said Ralph Manigat, senior bond strategist with 4Cast Ltd. in New York.

Benchmark 10-year notes were down 16/32, their yields rising to 3.19 percent, up seven basis points on the day. They were down 19/32 before the NAHB report.

The 30-year bond was down more than a full point, its yield rising to 4.15 percent from 4.08 percent late on Friday.

The Dow Jones industrial average was 2.03 percent higher at 8,436.30.

"It's really just a reallocation trade," said Calvin Sullivan, trader at Morgan Keegan.

Earlier, the Fed bought Treasuries maturing in August 2019 and February 2023.

Bond yields have been creeping steadily higher for two months on evidence that the pace of economic decline was slowing. But doubts about a second-half recovery have helped the market recover some ground. Benchmark 10-year rates have fallen about 0.25 percentage point in just over a week. (Editing by Leslie Adler)

Boredom

2009-05-18T08:27:00.002-05:00

A few blog posts recently (2 of Brady’s one of mine) have been accurately appraised as being painfully boring to read. It got me thinking. I know that some posts are entertaining, and others make no sense or are just completely a waste of time. The confusing ones are a function of a computer guy trying to get ideas from his head into someone else’s. Good writers routinely achieve this. Computer guys don’t.

So, what’s boring? Watching golf is boring. Watching the PGA tour on television while waiting for the Preakness to start is excruciating. Especially since there was a rain delay, so it was just the announcers talking about how the “action” might continue in 30-45 minutes. The beautiful Big-screen images of the course with nobody on it for an hour or so really topped off that broadcast. But with the 5.1 Dolby Surround, I could hear the rain all around me. I invented “soakaround” technology. I grabbed a water bottle from the laundry room and asked Jack (age 6) to occasionally come by and spray it on my umbrella. It was just like being there. Boring.

But then thankfully, the television broadcast of the 134th Preakness Stakes began at 3:30. The race itself was not until about 5:20 or so but all the really boring crap leading up to it was way better than looking at a rainy day at a golf course on television. The actual race was very exciting. It was another one of those deals where I bet on one horse, but was actually rooting for another. Rachel Alexandra just hung on to beat The Kentucky Derby/ Probable Belmont winner by a length. Whew. My heart was beating hard watching, thinking she wouldn’t be able to hang on. But she did. And she didn’t break any legs either, so.

A lot of people think baseball is fun to watch. Nope. It’s boring. Baseball might be the only sport that is actually better on the radio than on television. I think it’s because you can visualize a much more interesting contest than what is actually happening. You hear the bat hit the ball, the roar of the crowd, the excited announcers yelling about whatever. Sounds very interesting.

Many people pretend they like to watch cycling. Mostly boring. The sprint finishes or the tremendous attacks on mountains are really cool – but honestly – only if you know what kind of effort that stuff takes. For the most part, the TDF is a bunch of guys riding on relatively flat roads together for hours at a time, creeping toward the breakaway group that they’ll catch and then there will be a sprint finish (which will be cool – but it took hours to get to that 2 minutes of action). Then all the time gaps of the GC contenders will be the same as the day before. Yawn. But just wait! In a couple of weeks, we hit the mountains! Yeah, whatever.

This blog. About once every 3 or 4 months, I write down some incoherent, irrelevant, self-indulgent dribble and present it to no one in particular (Brady and Shim).

But here’s the crazy part. How bored do you have to be to read it? I think it has to do with expectations. I hope it is not the case that a reader (Brady, Shim or Mary) would be like, “Man, I’m pretty entertained right now. I guess I’ll go check out fredcube.” I hope none of these people are like, “Wow, this skydiving is everything I thought it would be, but before I pull the ripcord, I just want to check something on my Blackberry…”

“Hardy Har har – tipping at Scooter’s! Oh, that fredcube. What a card.”

Workin’ Hard? - or Hardly workin’? Hardy har har

2009-05-13T15:11:00.002-05:00

I really dislike being put into situations with strangers where they are trying to break the ice with some corny comment.

One of my most favorite things in the world is the lame attempt at humor via tired old phrases.

I especially like when I hear a new one - well it could be old, but it’s new to me - that is every bit as lame as lame phrases from old.

Yesterday, at the Scooter’s drive thru, I purchased a large cup of dark roast coffee. I prefer scooter’s to Starbuck’s because I can usually get some coffee by ordering entirely in English. I know you’re thinking, “Yeah, Ok, whatever Rush Limbaugh!” Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of these people that thinks English is the only patriotic language. I don’t think that the language you speak makes you any more or less a great lady golfer. I just prefer to order coffee in English. Mostly because that’s the language I’m most comfortable with (with which I’m most comfortable, I mean).

So anyway, the total of the “large” “coffee” with tax was $1.95. Sweet! I’ve got 2 dollars.

Another thing that I’d like to mention at this point is one of age and culture. My grandparents were raised in a time that good restaurant service was rewarded with a 10% tip. For my parents, it was 15%. Now, 20% is the tip for ok service. Lousy service still gets 15%

I think tipping is appropriate in places like: Restaurants, Full service Gas stations (R.I.P.), Beauty Salons, Tailors and Strip Clubs. Places where there was some actual service being provided by an expert.

You never tipped at self service places where the main qualification is that you’ve decided college isn’t for you: Fast food restaurants, grocery stores, self serve gas stations (all gas stations) and uh drive thru coffee shops.

Smart server people know that when you set the money on the table to pay the bill, they should always ask if you need change back: Example:

“I’ll be your cashier when you are ready!”
So you throw down a twenty for a nine dollar tab.
“Do you need any change back?” (a good wait person will laugh and laugh at whatever you say, once you point out that yeah – you are not tipping 120% today).
A good wait person will also hand you 1 five and 6 ones, so you can conveniently tip more than a dollar, but less than 10.

But I’m not talking about good waiters. I’m talking about people who dump whipped milk in coffee, charge 5 bucks and want a tip for that. Or am I talking about sandwiches? I was recently at a Schlotzsky’s where not only was there a tip jar, but also the cashier gave me an abundance of ones. I probably should have said “Hey – I’m not going to tip you, so could I just get a 5? But anyways …

Of course there’s a tip jar there at the drive thru window of Scooter’s. Recall, I’m talking about Scooter’s. Someone has written “College Fund” on the jar (presumably, the excuse this pierce-faced winner is not in school). I guess I’m supposed to pay for your college. But I’m not going to, because you’ll just blow the money down at Exotica, buying crap to stick through your face. Had they written something like “Kolleej Phundde”, I’d be shoving money in there. Because that’s funny. But no.

So I hand over the 2 bucks, get my piping hot coffee, and
“Here’s your nickel. Now you can give someone a penny for their thoughts with interest!”
It was at this point that she stopped talking, but only in reality. In my mind she would not shut up about me not giving her a tip for filling the cup with delicious coffee and putting a lid on it – ensuring only my thumb would be scalded in the event of a spill.
In my mind she said, “ … for their thoughts with interest you cheap bastard. You come in here and pay 2 bucks for some brown water we ran over some crushed beans and you can’t even throw a buck our way. Well you can shove that nickel up your ass! With interest! Prick."

Does that even make any sense? "Penny for your thoughts, plus interest." Does it mean I struck some deal with someone? I offered them a penny for their thoughts but didn't actually have it on me? So I promised to make it right at a later date, when I could scrape up the cash? Then before the disclosure of thought commenced, we drew up a rough contract, agreeing on the conditions of payment. The interest rate was extremely steep, but the cost for the thoughts was so low I just couldn't pass it up.

Actually, that is kind of funny. Never mind I have to go put a tip in the scooter's college fund jar.

I love coffee.

Ok, I think I'll start riding again

2009-05-12T10:02:00.002-05:00

Brady has been sending the occasional email to me about the U.P. Lunch rides. In a recent one, he mentions dropping someone repeatedly. Man, that sounds like fun. Problem is, I haven't been on the bike in several months. So I won't be able to just jump right in. A few things must happen first ...

First, I need to remove the thick layer of dust from one of my bikes (they all have it, but I'll only ride one at first).

Then I need to squeeze into my XXXL Twin 6 T-shirt that says "Bike Path Warrior" or something.

Then I have to find my white tube socks and tennis shoes.

Then I need to sacrifice a pair of blue-jeans and make myself a nice pair of biking shorts.

Then I need to buy a bottle of Aquafina that is a little smaller than the water bottle cage. It is very important to stay hydrated.

Then I need to adjust the chest strap on my heart rate monitor so my ribs aren't crushed when I put it on.

Then I need to head south on the trail for about 8 miles or so and promptly call my wife to come and pick me up.

I'll be dropping the Wednesday night crew in no time!

Well that took a while

2009-05-07T14:29:00.003-05:00

Last October, we bought a used house. It was across the street from the old house. Since then, The Mrs has completely remodeled it. It looks great. It is almost finished. It was not almost finished when we moved in which was April 1. For about 3 weeks we slept on the floor (mattress, we're not barbarians) amidst the drywall dust and paint fumes. It sucked. But the worst part was that the television I bought in December was still in it's huge box.

Not anymore. It is now attached to the wall as if by magic or some sort of "wall mounting hardware" (nickname in college). There are surround sound speakers flush mounted to the wall and ceiling in various places. A big effing sub-woofer over on the floor. a PS3 (i don't even play games, but I went a little crazy) - all controlled by the MCP - this Harman Kardon receiver dealy. Yeah - it's got AM/FM just in case I ever just want to listen to music on my big-huge screen TV. Mostly I just watch Iron Man and Planet Earth on Blu-Ray.

And you know what else? I'll tell you. PS3 (besides being a blu-ray player) has a web browser. So if for some reason I want to watch something on say HULU or something. Boom, there it is on the big screen in surround sound. A little jerky (internet thing) but still pretty cool.

H1N1!!

2009-04-30T08:05:00.003-05:00

Definitely less scary. I can eat hot dogs again. Yaaay!

Even though we now know that this impending pandemic (along with other illnesses attributed to this) could kill hundreds - even several hundreds worldwide, there is a certain monetary and political responsibility we all share. Yes, it is deadly. Almost as deadly as the sorts of flu that come around every year. But that's no reason to be insensitive.

The more civilized among us are now calling it "North American Flu". The reason? Well, "Swine flu" was upsetting people who sell swine. "Mexican flu" was upsetting Mexicans - and Taco Bell. "H1N1" isn't scary sounding enough. Mostly because there's no way to be scared enough. Howard Hughes had it right. Germs are bad. They will kill you. Right now. There is absolutely nothing you can do about it no matter how you try. So the best thing to do is worry and obsess over it until you blow your brains out. Or your brain - for those of you with just one.

You'll never take me alive, H1N1!!! Hahahaha!

Edit: Note. It is ok to eat pork. Under no circumstances should you eat uncooked humans with H1N1 symptoms.

SWINE FLU!

2009-04-27T10:53:00.003-05:00

Aaaaahhh! Don't touch your eyes! Wash your hands! Avoid doing the "Farmer's blow" or you'll kill everyone that ever lived and even give them the flu.

Oh yeah - GM is firing 23,000 people and ending Pontiac.

New stuff.

2009-04-27T10:36:00.002-05:00

Brady sent me an email the other day. It reminded me that I have this blog.

The headlines.

I have not been on my bike for a while. But will start riding very soon.

I have been on the golf course/range nearly every day.

Almost all of my free time (golf course is not free) has been spent trying to get the new house ready (it is not yet done - about a week away).

The 58 inch plasma HD with surround sound, etc, etc. Is almost done.

I had to switch back to golfing right handed. Instructor's Orders.

Golf, Golf, Golf

2009-02-02T18:36:00.003-06:00

I came out of hibernation on Saturday -- as did many other golfers -- to take advantage of the warmth. While many were content to drive away at the range for a few hours, I had work to do: Milt's par 3 test. 45 minutes (9 holes) total. Heart rate numbers were recorded, as was wattage, and the deed was done. The rest of the afternoon was just sleeping -- soaking in the Z's.

Funny thing about ice. Golf balls bounce really really far off of it. So I was hitting each of my clubs about 50 yards farther (including the roll).

The highlight of the day was on hole number 4. 195 yard (3 wood for me, 7 iron for the pros). You've seen the hole before if you ride the keystone. It goes from north to south and is where that black chain link fence is and the sign that say something like "Caution: errant golf shots". As I was getting ready to swing, I heard voices. Cyclists voices. I looked up and saw 3 or 4 Bellevue bike club riders going from south to north.

"I'll just let them go by, just in case I'm recognized".

So I waited a moment. Then came, I don't know, 30-40 more riders in a group. Great. Well I'm not waiting. "Please lord ..." Swing. Perfect 195 yards. Straight. Pretty. Green. Perfect. Now I can look up with pride ... A-hem! Did none of you cyclists see that? Oh well. It was a nice shot. I swear. It's almost as if the cyclists didn't even care about golf. Weird.

Meet next year's Hammer!

2009-01-16T18:11:00.001-06:00

26.6

2009-01-12T09:49:00.001-06:00

Where are the Blogdens of yesteryear?

2009-01-08T12:07:00.000-06:00

Well, I got my first “hard” ride of the training program in yesterday. I have been feeling hungry lately (couldn’t be the 1500 calorie diet) so I wasn’t sure how 80-90% HR work was going to go over. It was good. It was on the trainer in the basement of the new house where stuff is all torn up. There is only cinder block walls and concrete floors. Very “Rocky”.

I should mention that I am only doing this to get back into shape and lose some weight. I won’t be doing any racing. I might do some group rides, but mostly I can’t wait to golf again. So there it is Shim, no need to suggest McRibs. I won’t be doing the Masters 45 races. You’re safe.

Anyway – the hard workout was very enjoyable. There was even a pool of perspiration under the bike when I finished. Haven’t seen that in a while. The thing that is the hardest (as I mentioned before) is avoiding the temptation to do too much. My program now has me waiting until Saturday to ride again.

But that’s cool. I can watch the big football game/commercials tonight, I guess. But I’d rather be riding. Probably a good sign.

28.5

2009-01-06T16:14:00.001-06:00

Master of Science in Computer Science

2009-01-06T08:47:00.000-06:00

So far, my cumulative GPA for the master's program is 4.0 -- And by cumulative, I mean, after 1 course. I can only go down from here.

I've had worse (I saw Jarrett while biking yesterday) part 1 of 14

2009-01-03T16:18:00.005-06:00

I expected my biking outside for the first time in several months to be a horrible experience. And while I was surprised at how quickly my legs became tired, I remembered once again that I really enjoy biking. -- Hang on, Bowie's "I'm afraid of Americans" just came on. I have to "disco out" for a second. Ok there.

Anyway, I was spinning down the trail, into the wind, on the cross bike. Nice easy, "I can go forever at this speed" pace. Like around 140 bpm or so. Not a care in the world (other than the ruts in the big sheets of ice). The nice thing about the trail is that since it's flat, my excess weight is no problem. My plan was to get about an hour in. I have never been guilty of overtraining. Since I'm just starting, I don't have to do much. That's the beauty of it. I was going into the wind so I figured I'd turn around at 35 minutes.

Then 35 minutes happened. The moment I'd been waiting for for about 35 minutes. My ears were cold (I don't have an amazing body like Bryan). I kept going not because I thought "I need the miles". On the contrary - I don't want or need to do too much too soon. I just lacked the discipline to turn around when I was supposed to. I was enjoying the feeling so much that I just wanted a little more.

I turned around at about 50 minutes - then it got fun. Tailwind all the way home.

I think I really really needed to get away from the bike for a while. I haven't enjoyed a ride like that since 2000 when I added cycling as the cardio part of a weight training program - then immediately abandoned weight training.

Oh yeah - and I saw Jarrett.

I think I'll go for a bike ride.

2009-01-02T14:11:00.003-06:00

well, with over 13% of my body weight to lose, I guess I'd better get started. It is a new year after all. Judging from the forecast, this might be the best day for it. So after I get home and squeeze into my poor old cycling clothes, I'll probably hit the road for about 1.5 hours or so. That should suck pretty bad. I'll let you know. Yeah you.

Thanks for reading, Shim.

150318597377

2008-12-31T10:21:00.001-06:00

31.5

2008-12-28T11:30:00.001-06:00

On Mr Middleton and Irony

2008-11-26T13:26:00.004-06:00

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.

On Brady's comment ...

2008-11-26T11:10:00.005-06:00

Thanks for that brady. It reminds me of something I was thinking about 2 days ago. I was feeling great dread remembering what a dumb little shit I used to be in about 5th grade or so, all the way through college (still going on).

I did not know what racism was. I did not know that some terms were offensive, other than "nigger", which only dad was allowed to say in our family. Apparently he knew the proper usage or something. I never quite understood it. Something like "Dad, you said nigger!" would earn a prompt and violent biff to the forehead.

At this point, I'd like to mention that I realize saying "The N word" would convey my point, so um, what's the difference really?

Back to the cringing dreadful memory. When we were kids, we loved loved loved "Welcome Back Kotter". We thought it was the best show ever. If you ever get a chance to see an old rerun, pick up a book, turn the tv off, and read. You'll be much more entertained. "Welcome back kotter" is in no way even remotely amusing. Maybe it's dated, I don't know.

So the main characters were basically 70's stereotypes. Let see, there was
Vinnie Barbarino (The Italian Lover).
There was Freddy "Boom boom" Washington, The musically inclined, hip black fellow. Again, I know "African American" is correct, but back then it was called Black.
Um, Arnold Horshack, the mildly retarded (mentally disabled), but lovable goof.
And the Sweathog in question: Juan Epstien, The lazy Peurto Rican fraud.
Jaun called himself a "Peurto Rican Jew".
My brother and I sang the song, watched the show every thursday, and had a great time. We thought every bit of it was hilarious. We also thought love of the show was universal.

Which is why I can honestly say, that it was with completely humorous and good-will intentions that from the back seat of a 1975 Ford Custom 500, being driven by my mother, I rolled down the window and shouted to a man that resembled Juan Epstien, "Hey, are you a Peurto Rican Jew!?!"

God. That is really really difficult to relive. My heart is beating faster as I type this.

Hey - guy from my youth that I yelled at. I'm sorry.

Ladies and gentlemen, "Step 9" by request. Thanks oh so much.

Oh yeah - and Shim, I got a Charlie Burton cd if you're interested.

Non Sequitur

2008-11-25T14:27:00.004-06:00

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

2008-11-19T18:58:00.002-06:00

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

2008-10-08T21:15:00.003-05:00

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)

2008-10-07T21:10:00.006-05:00

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 ...

2008-09-25T14:29:00.004-05:00

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

2008-09-24T15:51:00.003-05:00

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”?

2008-09-17T14:28:00.002-05:00

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 ...

2008-09-15T14:31:00.015-05:00

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 ...

2008-09-12T14:41:00.006-05:00

We're a movin' on up ...

2008-09-10T22:07:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-09-10T13:57:00.010-05:00

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.

2008-07-31T20:30:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-28T18:36:00.008-05:00

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

2008-07-18T16:32:00.003-05:00

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

2008-07-16T23:36:00.009-05:00

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

2008-07-10T19:03:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-09T21:10:00.003-05:00

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

2008-07-08T19:34:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-01T14:45:00.004-05:00

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

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

2008-06-27T15:33:00.003-05:00

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

2008-06-24T07:28:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-23T10:22:00.001-05:00

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

2008-06-12T13:51:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-06-12T13:46:00.003-05:00

104 on a par 68 (elmwood)

2008-04-14T21:25:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-03-13T08:26:00.005-05:00

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

2008-03-10T08:49:00.002-05:00

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