The World O' Trout

My Mind, It Was Going Le Crazy

2007-02-19T19:01:00.000-08:00

Kathryn and I are back in the 5400 after a weekend in Laramie. Good times. And now, well, it's pretty much like a Sunday night except it's Monday.

For many, many, many years, I've tried to remember the title of a movie I saw as a kid. I asked my parents (both of whom really aren't the type to remember movies, especially movies they dragged me to during the Carter administration); I asked my friends at work; I asked Dirk - that infallible repository of bad pop culture - and even he couldn't help me out.

Now in all fairness, the only detail I could come up with was that it had three old guys in it and they wanted to rob a bank. So perhaps I really can't blame anyone for their lack of help.

Tonight I had the brilliant idea to surf around IMDB. I tried a search for Walter Matthau because I was fairly certain he was in it. No joy.

Then I Googled "three old guys rob a bank" and found it: Going in Style, starring George Burns. I might rent it one of these days, but mostly I was just glad to finally - finally! - have that figured out.

One OCD tic down, five thousand eight hundred and three to go.

Maybe You Should Have Uglier Friends

2007-02-15T16:07:00.000-08:00

Two TV ads I've enjoyed lately:

1. The two lions watching yutzes on Safari unload some Taco Bell. "Carrrrrrrne asada." Funny stuff.

2. The cell phone ad with a family at the dinner table discussing the two kids' top five friends on their phones. While the exchange between the daughter and son is funny, the father's reaction to the daughter's theatrics is even funnier.

Off to Laramie tomorrow, depending on the snow dragons.

2007-02-03T21:06:00.000-08:00

The Scariest Commercial in the History of Ever

2007-02-01T15:51:00.000-08:00

The other night Kathryn and I were watching a show - Heroes? Good Eats, maybe? - when a commercial came on so weird, so scary, so profoundly troubling, that I had to pause (thank you, DVR) and rewind.

Now I think we can all remember some creepy commercials without too much effort. The odd five year old girl with the Southern accent espousing Welch's grape juice, for example, used to give me nightmares. I can't make it through one commercial break on those more peripheral cable channels like the Military Channel or Fox Soccer Channel without being subjected to some hot chick cooing that "she knows you still got it," and that I can pick up some awesome performance enhancers without a prescription.

But it wasn't on an obscure cable channel that we saw the scariest effing thing we've seen in a long time. No, it was on a normal station, and I'm willing to bet you've seen it too.

That's right. I'm talking about the return of Orville Redenbacher.

On its surface the ad is innocent enough - good ol' Orville says something about music and makes a little popcorn. Then, at the end, a group of real people group around him as he bops away with headphones.

Note I say "real" people, and I ain't alluding to a really bad early '80's primetime TV show. No, I'm referring to the fact that while the actors and actresses who collect around Orville appear to be normal human beings, ORVILLE IS QUITE CLEARLY NOT HUMAN.

That's right. Someone either did a really bad makeup job trying to make someone else look like Orville, or they pixelated his happy ass in order to increase Q1 profits down on Redenbacher headquarters. Smart money's on that second one.

I'm serious about this. If you happen to catch the ad, and if you happen to have DVR, pick a moment when Orville has a close up and pause your TV. You'll see what I mean. Creepy.

Sofas!

2007-01-28T07:50:00.000-08:00

We (well, technically, Kathryn) bought sofas yesterday. For a lot of money. They're very nice and will add a touch of class to our living room. They'll be delivered tomorrow, at which point my stupid little loveseatfuton thing will find a new home - in a dumpster.

We haven't told it yet.

Random Guitar Lesson. Also, Go Bears.

2007-01-21T18:23:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I was plinking around on my guitar, trying to figure out "A Little Less Conversation" by Elvis. It's unusually funky for an Elvis tune and is propelled by a groovy little rhythm guitar hook. It was made famous when a remixed version appeared in Ocean's Eleven.

I'd been checking out various tab sites because I just couldn't figure it out. As many times as I've listened to the song, I'd just assumed that like many other funk tunes it was in the key of E. Sure enough, all the tab sites had it in E, but when I played it as published, it sounded... wrong.

It sounded wrong because everyone on the Internet is wrong. As I plinked around a little more and picked out specific tones, I realized it's in A. The opening chord is an A7 and the riff finishes on a sliding (half-step hammer on) D7. I play it in the open position but on the recording it might be at the fifth position - I can't tell, and it sounds just fine in the open position anyway.
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I have vague memories of my grandfather watching the Bears on T.V. at my grandparents' place in Crystal Lake. I'm not sure the man ever made it to a game; I'm not sure he was even a football fan at all. And towards the end of his life I think he gravitated to televised golf more than anything else. Still, when I think of the Bears, I think of my grandpa.

Way back in the heady pre-realignment days I was an NFC Central guy all the way. I was born in Detroit and chose to be a Lions fan sometime in late childhood... but I had a Vikings hat and coat as a kid (I even saw a game once in the old outdoor stadium in Minneapolis - brrrr); the Packers were hapless schedule fodder and peripheral at best; and then there were the Bears. Some of my favorite toys of all time, which I can find absolutely nowhere online, were my posable NFL players with removable jersey number stickers. I had a Lions player and a Bears player - the Bears player was black and I naturally put #34 on him.

Now, being a Lions fan is a hard life, so I've been rooting for the Bears for several seasons. When they face the [insert AFC champion here] in the Super Bowl, I'll be wearing my Walter Payton jersey.
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Finally, I'm sick. Again. This one started as a sore throat on Thursday and quickly moved into my chest. It comes in waves - at times I feel okay and at other times I'm totally miserable. Luckily, Kathryn is being amazingly patient and understanding. Tonight I'm hopped up on Theraflu and am going to try to get some work done. My employees may have an easy day tomorrow.

Well OF COURSE I came up with something to write about. . .

2007-01-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

Hmph. Like I said previously, because of how my brain works, I'm going to post now that I've told you I wouldn't be posting for a while. A few thoughts this morning...

Wanna buy a kayak?
A popular allusion in the world of whitewater boating is when someone has "the wife and kids talk." It's basically a reference to the inherent danger of whitewater kayaking and a means of broaching the subject of scaling back the risks one is willing to take. In other words, when a boater reaches a certain point in his or her life, said boater may have "the wife and kids talk" (with a friend or with his/her own conscience) and decide that maybe running that Class V with a suicide strap is a bad idea.

I've never been a serious whitewater boater. Oh, sure, I got really interested in it and there for a while could snap off clean rolls just fine, but I've never had whitewater fever the same way I get flyfishing fever or soccer fever. When I moved to Laramie three years ago one of the first things I did was take a trip to Ft. Collins to buy a whitewater kayak, and I took it down the Poudre River precisely one time.

Now that Kathryn's in the picture, and now that we've moved to a place with very few Class III runs, my whitewater kayaking days are over. Anything that involves the possibility of knocking her head on rocks is straight out for her, and anything that involves storing an 8 foot plastic boat in our spare bedroom is right out for me. So while I never really had a true "wife and kids talk," I think it's safe to say that any kayaking we do in the future will be of the touring/flatwater sort, and that means I'm selling my boat.

It's a Pyranha Inazone 230, if you're interested. I'll let it go, along with sprayskirt and floatbags, for $250.

Scary math.
I realized something this morning and it truly horrified me: I've been paying rent for about ten years. If we say the average has been $500/month, that means I've paid roughly $60K in rent. Not cool, man. Not cool. Time to buy a house.

What's Up?

2007-01-07T06:06:00.000-08:00

Hey all. It's been a while, and here's why.

First, Kathryn moved in last month and that's going really well. However, I'm unwilling to write about her life or our relationship publicly.

Second, the only other thing going on in my life is my work, and I've always been unwilling to write about that here. I could write about sports, I suppose, but I don't have a whole lot to say there, either. Mediocrity, thy name is Illinois men's basketball.

Third, I don't have a whole lot of energy to write anyway. If it's clever and creative stuff you're after, especially the kind of stuff I used to write in Laramie, I don't know what to tell you. Almost all of my creative (not to mention physical, emotional, and intellectual) energy goes into my job, and by the time I get home I can barely compose a coherent email.

So that's it. I may or may not update - and given how my brain works, I'll probably wind up writing a lot more now that I've posted something claiming I wouldn't write too much.

Good Times!

2006-11-26T09:53:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving at Kathryn's sister and brother-in-law's place in Denver was a hoot. Rather than write about them without permission, I'll just summarize the whole event by saying her family is remarkably free of those tensions that plague other families at holidays.

I'm back in the 5400, preparing for work tomorrow and a much more important event in under three weeks: Kathryn's moving in. I hesitate to write about the details here, but suffice it to say that sometime in the last two years several dimensions of my life straightened out. Kathryn's been a significant part of that.

That's pretty much all I have right now, folks. Today will be spent cleaning the apartment and doing work, all with football playing in the background.

Just a Song Before I Go

2006-11-21T05:44:00.000-08:00

Hey gang. I'm off to work in a few minutes and I'm not sure when I'll post again - I'm heading to Denver for Thanksgiving and may or may not squeeze in a post.

Therefore, I thought I'd plug one of my favorite sites. As an occasional guitarist and mild Deadhead, I stumbled upon rukind.com a while back. It's basically a site devoted to all things Grateful Dead, including guitar tabs and lyrics. I just visited it again this weekend and I can't believe how amazing the place is. Check out the video instruction - that Ed guy knows his stuff.

Your assignment over Thanksgiving Break is to learn both Jerry's and Bob's parts to "China Cat Sunflower." There will be a quiz upon our return.

I Should Be Working

2006-11-16T20:52:00.000-08:00

[Instead, I wrote a poem tonight. Not sure about the first stanza or last line. - Ed.]

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

Early in the morning, clouds are footprints
through a living room after a party.

A neighborhood dog covers the basics first:
what has changed out here
since it circled and settled into bed,
warm and content? What is still here?

It doesn't bark at me now, when ice is a colonial power. It watches me
navigate the sidewalk. It snorts at the snow. We make eye contact.

We agree to keep this secret until later,
when it will howl at my audacity
or at cars throwing slush; at the mail carrier;
at its own feral ambitions long since negotiated into this –
a surrogate den
bloodless food
and strange things to protect.

It barks at me in the thin sunlight.
Ice plots in the gutter. The day
has wearied us all.

C 20

2006-11-12T08:20:00.000-08:00

[I wrote this poem sometime within the past two years. For the record, I have no idea what in the hell I was trying to get at. - Ed.]

----------------------------------------
C20

Forged and cast into
jerking trusses, nouns are verbed
or worse. Take the French, for example,
who say things like
"le weekend," or our
own digital messages punched out
on cell phones, where numbers
and letters are common denominators.

Maybe they're entitled. Or
maybe the other tenth,
the part the law ignores,
doesn't need possession anyway.

Planning to Plan: This Will Be Suck

2006-11-06T20:02:00.000-08:00

In Office Space, on the whiteboard in the conference room where Peter interacts with the Bobs, some office drone has written "planning to plan." In context, the phrase is a shrewd summary of the double-talk and typical waste of brainpower that occurs in meeting rooms. Corporate America is skewered endlessly in that movie, and the small touches are what vaulted it into cult status.

I had three days off this past weekend and managed to commit about 8 hours of free time to playing catch up on work. It wasn't enough. I thought I was okay heading into Monday morning, but once it arrived I realized I had much, much more work to do. About a year ago I had a Korean professor whose English was a little shaky. During one legendary classroom discussion about how badly things can go in our profession, he said something about learning how to deal with it all or "This will be suck." And indeed, I have yet to learn how to deal with it all, and looking at the amount of work I didn't get to, that phrase has stuck with me for the past few days. It's so overwhelming that I literally am not sure how to approach it all. This morning I find myself planning to plan.

And then there's the cold.

I've been slightly sick on-and-off all fall. Nothing major, just the occasional headache (probably more occupational than physiological) and sniffle with a sore throat thrown in for variety. This past Sunday morning I woke up with a stinging sore throat and by Monday morning my immune system had gone AWOL - sore throat, headache, and a desire to do little more than to lay very still. The worst part, however, was my nasal adventure. As the French would say, "My nose, it was going le crazy."

So I took yesterday off, and upon further reflection yesterday afternoon, took today off too. It's just as well, since I need to not give my germs to anyone else and have to catch up on work anyway. The stacks of paperwork have reached critical mass. I have to get through them or my life will implode into a singularity of paperwork hell.

I'm all hopped up on cold meds. Hopefully that won't be too apparent in the papers I'm about to wade through.

Random Question Friday: Super Day Off Edition

2006-11-03T08:17:00.000-08:00

Due to a schedule adjustment that only people in my profession have to deal with, yours truly has a (much deserved) day off. And in honor of days off everywhere, today's Random Question Friday asks you to describe good mornings. That is, when you have a good morning, how do you know? What sorts of things constitute a happy beginning to your day?

Mine involves a pot of super special coffee that I reserve only for weekends and/or days off, some sort of cooked breakfast instead of toast, and a visit to archive.org for some Grateful Dead background music as I shower and clean up, etc.

A Moment of Random Coincidence

2006-10-31T16:12:00.000-08:00

Hey, everyone, before reading any further, check out Dirk's story about his devil costume and accompanying pitchfork.

Are you back?

It's a strange world. Dirk and I worked together several years ago and have kept in touch. Our birthdays are close (he's a few years older than me); we share a similar sense of humor; he's gay and I'm not. Regardless, I'd never heard his pitchfork story and was astonished to read about it today.

When I was five or so I too wound up as a devil for Halloween. I'm pretty sure my mom sewed the costume - just like she would later sew my sweet Chewbacca costume - and I recall fairly vividly that I wanted a pitchfork really bad. I don't remember the precise argument about the pitchfork, but I do remember being a supremely pissed off five year old when I learned I would not, in fact, be allowed to carry a pitchfork around the neighborhood. I'm sure there was a logical reason - say, the likelihood that I would spear everything within striking distance including but not limited to my sister - and I'm also sure they were completely lost on me. Oh, the injustices of a five year old's world.

Instead, my mom sewed a piece of black fabric onto the front of the costume. Apparently I went along with it but I'm not sure why. In retrospect my devil costume went from totally badass to Dorkiest Homemade Costume (Ages 10 and Under Division) in just a few snips and stitches. No pictures exist. That's probably a good thing.

... And Two Recipes

2006-10-29T18:25:00.000-08:00

Due to the absence of heat I've been hanging out in the kitchen because, as it turns out, there are multiple sources of heat in kitchens. I made up the following two recipes this weekend. Creative? No. Delicious? Oh yes.

1. Cocoa with rum.

2 TBSP unsweetened cocoa powder
2 TBSP sugar
1 mug milk (I used soy milk, but whole milk would work)
several ounces rum
Mix sugar and rum in bottom of mug.
Heat milk in saucepan over medium-low heat until it steams. Add cocoa powder; mix thoroughly. When hot (but not boiling), pour carefully into mug. Stir. Drink. Forget furnace troubles.

2. Crockpot chicken and potatoes and stuff.

2 chicken breasts, frozen or thawed
a handful of frozen broccoli spears
a handful of new potatoes, cut in halves
1 large can cream of mushroom soup
1 packet dry onion soup mix
a bunch (1/3 bottle? 1/4? who cares?) of leftover white wine in the fridge
Throw everything into the crockpot. Turn crockpot to low. Go away for 8 hours. Forget about it until bread in oven is done. Eat. Watch football.

Two Thoughts

2006-10-29T07:52:00.000-08:00

1. My furnace is broken for the second time in a week. I came home on Friday to a rather cool apartment and promptly called my landlord, who said it wouldn't be fixed until Monday. I'm not sure what the actual temperature is in here because the thermometer on the thermostat is buried at 50. I'm currently wearing three layers and an arctic knit hat.

2. I'm a Tigers fan by birth and a Cardinals fan by indoctrination, and this was the first World Series in twenty years or so around which I scheduled my life. I remember bragging to my stepbrothers about that '84 squad that won the Series (Kirk Gibson remains my favorite player of all time – shares my birthday, wears #23, etc.) At some point in the '90s I stopped caring about baseball except in a vaguely social way particular to St. Louisians. If you've been to St. Louis in the summertime you probably know what I mean.

Now, my Tigers cap is my all-purpose cap for summer lounging and impromptu fishing expeditions, and after Ordonez's homer sent the Tigers to the Series for the first time in 22 years I almost cried. So I should have been rooting for the Tigers in this Series, but as the Series moved to St. Louis I found myself rooting for the Cards. I couldn't really figure out why I didn't want a replay of the '68 Series (the Tigers came back from 3-1 to beat the Cardinals) until a thought occurred to me Friday morning that should have been obvious all along. I was rooting for the Cards because of my dad.

He grew up in St. Louis and lives there now. He hadn't seen his team win a World Championship since 1982. Friday, Game 5, was his 65th birthday. When I talked to him shortly after the last out and the best (and last) baseball town in America was going completely nuts, he sounded happier than he has in years. The man got the kind of birthday gift that comes along once or twice in a lifetime and he sounded giddy – and my dad doesn't do giddy, thank you very much. Throughout the Series I had played along with the notion that I wanted the Tigers to win it all, and due to a wager I owe him a dinner at our favorite local restaurant here in the 5400 the next time he comes. That tab will be worth every cent.

The Weekend: Super Writing Extravaganza

2006-10-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

I'm back in the 5400 after a weekend in Laramie with Kathryn, Abbey, Dan, Jenn, Phil, Chris, Heather, the badgers, other old friends, and the god of Interstate travel.

It rained most of Friday, and knowing that I had to drive through 3 hours of weather to Laramie put me in an anxious mood. By the time I pulled out of the gas station around 4:00 the rain disintegrated into tiny ice crystals on the windshield. Five miles out of town it was true snow; the climb up to Beaver Rim required downshifting to a crawl through snowpack and passing a jack-knifed semi that couldn't handle the 6% grade. Even at the top I kept fishtailing and thought very hard about turning around, or at the very least, pulling over to put on chains. Near Sweetwater Station the road slowly improved, devolving from snowpack to tracked snowmelt to slush to dry.

That's a weird stretch of road, especially with low ragged clouds obscuring the local ranges and a white haze bringing the high plains horizon even closer.

I made the turn at Muddy Gap and headed for Rawlins. This stretch is usually treacherous because of traffic – people tend to open it up here, blazing past tourists and semis in the summer and slow locals and semis in the winter. I'm in that second group. My 2wd Tacoma simply doesn't have the gumption to go fast and as such is not cut out for Wyoming speed limits.

In fact, my truck isn't cut out for Wyoming driving, period. People who know me also know that I'm frustrated with my truck. I want to buy a Subaru next summer. I'm not at all convinced that a Subaru will be faster than my truck, necessarily – the Subaru will have a slightly larger engine and lower center of gravity but will still be 4 cylinders.

The Subaru would excel, however, in the general crappiness I encountered near Rawlins. Granted, horrible drivers will be just as horrible in a Toyota Tacoma as they will be in a Subaru Outback. But for those of us who aren't horrible drivers, the viscous locking AWD and boxer engine on the Subaru would provide a wee more agility and control on slush than my truck.

A few miles out, somewhere between Rawlins and Wolcott Junction, the snow started in again. At Elk Mountain it was clear I would not be making good time to Laramie: besides the obligatory wind gusts, snow drifted onto the road and splattered on my windshield. All traffic, with the exception of the occasional idiot, slowed from 80 to 60 to 40 within ten miles. Somewhere near Arlington I sidled in behind a semi, leaning into my steering wheel to see the tracks in hopes of keeping my truck in them.

By the time I got to Laramie I was a nervous wreck but managed to perk up by the time we all met up at Abbey's apartment. Driving through town felt eerie, and that feeling would resurface a few times over the weekend. I'd spent just over two years there and only left two months ago, but already it was no longer my town. At Appleby's, Kathryn and I agreed that it felt like we should have known more people. The same thing happened when I returned to Champaign the first few years after college. It was like someone had mugged my friends not just for their money or clothes but for their haunts as well. Strange.

Abbey turned 21 a few days ago but has been celebrating all week long, culminating in this weekend's bash. The plan was to head to Appleby's and see where the night took us, so from Appleby's we headed to the Library, a bar across the street from the residence halls and pretty much the only place I ever went for weeknight drinks. Kathryn and I have a few songs we have to play on the jukebox there, and after a few rounds of Long Island iced teas, pool, and foosball we all headed back to the apartment.

Pizza, Pabst Blue Ribbon. The first half hour of a movie.

Saturday was my friend Chris's birthday and also the UW football game vs. Colorado State. Jenn and Abbey dropped Phil, Chris, Kathryn and me off at the game and headed over to Heather's place to help with the badgers.

The game was a blowout and a great time, with the Pokes shutting out CSU in a frigid wind. We sat right behind the band in the student section, notorious for alcohol and verbal abuse, and it lived up to expectations.

After the game we headed to Chris and Heather's for a while, tried our luck at dinner but got laughed out of the overflowing wait area at the Mexican restaurant, and wound up back at the apartment. Kathryn and I then headed back over to Chris and Heather's place for some late-night Nintendo 64 action, the kind of fun we used to have 8 years ago.

Sunday morning came quick and so did the departures. I swung by Chris and Heather's again, drank some coffee, ate some bread pudding, watched the badgers tear into the bread pudding like, well, badgers, and hit the road.

I was really dreading the drive home, with reason. It was windy, of course, and the nasty stretch by Arlington and Elk Mountain was again treacherous – this time, snow blew across the road and froze in spots. The trouble was that you never knew when those slick spots would come up. You could risk it, or you could get stuck behind the occasional semi or R.V. doing fifty. And on more than one occasion I risked it and sped straight into a patch of iffy looking slush and water.

But I didn't die. The Interstate god must have been pleased with my offering of gas station coffee grounds and roadkilled deer hides, because by the time I got to Sweetwater Station and the Beaver Rim descent I'd put 100 miles of completely clear road behind me. I stopped to download some coffee at Sweetwater Station, where it was remarkably warm compared to the weekend's cold snap. From there it was a matter of plummeting down Beaver Rim, a few winding turns through red canyons, and the final turn and 8 meaningless miles into the 5400.

Back home last night safe and sound. This week is already rolling.

I Know, I Know

2006-10-14T10:44:00.000-07:00

I haven't updated for a while. Kathryn and I had a great weekend last week, and this weekend I'll be busy doing work at home. "Homework," one might call it.

As for last weekend, here's one true story of many:

Kathryn and I went to a Grateful Dead bar in a section of Colfax Ave. that reminded me of downtown Phoenix. Once inside the bar we quickly grabbed the only high table available, and she held down the fort while I went for drinks.

A note here about the bar. Any bar dedicated to a specific band is bound by contractual obligation to contain two elements: first, it must be covered wall-to-wall with said band's concert posters, artwork, photos, etc. Second, it must have hardcore fans miming along word for word while said band's music pipes in through the jukebox. This bar had both elements. In spades.

There's another element that bears discussion, though, and this element is not limited to dedicated bars: the dude on the prowl. I don't think I've ever been in a bar on a Friday night without spotting at least one. Hell, I've been that guy - but not often, and not within the past five years or so. I've witnessed dudes on the prowl, though, and have entertained myself for hours watching the awkward advances and jackassery associated with them. And the one thing I've learned from observing dudes on the prowl is this: if you see a woman sitting by herself at a high table, do not, under any circumstances, attempt to pick her up. Don't speak to her. Don't even bother with eye contact. She is either with someone, or someone is about to meet her there. Always.

It just so happens that dudes on the prowl in a Grateful Dead bar are a little - oh what's the word I'm looking for here? - creepier than dudes on the prowl at your local Appleby's. Dudes on the prowl in Grateful Dead bars will fall into two categories which coincide with Grateful Dead fans in a broader sense: they are either highly educated, progressive, and generally nice people, or they are filthy hippies who give the Left a bad name. Now, I'm proud to be in that first group. The Dead's music is, at times, revelatory. I'm not a hardcore Deadhead by any means, but I love their music and am always thrilled to meet other people who love the Dead as well.

That second group, however, is infamous for its drug use, questionable hygiene, and lack of personal integrity - they can't hold a job because that would require motivation and commitment. They can't interact with normal people because that would require social skills above and beyond the phrases "wow, that's a really powerful statement, man" or "yeah, but the best weed comes from Humboldt County, man."

Now, Kathryn is the kind of person who will attract attention when she's sitting alone in a bar. A dude on the prowl with lesser powers of observation than myself might mistake her for someone who wants to be picked up by a filthy hippie. One would think a hippie couldn't screw up the courage to wear a tie to a job interview, much less approach a woman who is way, way, WAY out of his league.

And so it astonished me when, after taking no more than three minutes to retrieve our double rum and Cokes from the bar, I returned to our table only to see Kathryn being approached by a dude on the prowl. Three minutes. I left her alone for three minutes and a dude on the prowl had spotted her and gone in for the kill.

I'd witnessed the last ten feet of his act: shoulders drooping and swaying in that hippie kind of way, he leaned into Kathryn's personal space right as I arrived with two drinks. He was in the process of opening his mouth to speak.

Now it's not like I'm a big guy or even all that intimidating. But when he saw me, he closed his mouth and pivoted with surprising alacrity and balance for someone on that many controlled substances. Funny, funny stuff.

Someone's Got a Case of the Mondays

2006-10-02T20:02:00.000-07:00

Today was probably my roughest yet at the new job. No details for fear of revealing my profession. Tonight I'm trying to figure out what in the holy hell I'm going to do tomorrow and so far I've come up with: . . .

Guh.

In happier news, I'm heading down to Denver this weekend to see Kathryn, eat Ethiopian food, see a movie, maybe shop a little bit, and just generally try to relax. I was also paid recently, which helped with my outlook on life.

Illinois 23, Michigan State 20. I Repeat: Illinois 23, Michigan State 20

2006-10-01T11:52:00.000-07:00

My beloved Fighting Illini have won a football game. I've spent the better part of the past 24 hours in preparation for the earth spinning off its axis.

That is all.

The - tada! - Return of Random Question Friday

2006-09-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

Alrighty, readers, thanks to Dirk I've been pondering what, exactly, I should ask about for the glorious return of Random Question Friday.* Then today during my afternoon nap - which lasted approximately as long as it takes light to travel halfway across an atom - inspiration struck. Television! Of course!

Now, for all my intellectual pretensions about T.V. and our complicity in the consumerist gulag, I've loved me some T.V. shows over the course of my life. I was a West Wing devotee and am currently hooked on Lost. Two and a Half Men cracks me up, too, but I don't organize my life around it.

And thinking back, there were others: E.R. used to be a Thursday night staple until it jumped the shark many car wrecks ago, and before that I was hooked on Northern Exposure, which not only gave us one of the best lines ever ("Detroit? I hear it's like Cleveland but without the glitter"), but also gave us Maggie. Ah, Maggie.

My pubescent television experience went pretty much by the numbers, with Airwolf and Miami Vice ruling the roost. And then we get closer to those shows which truly shaped not just my nightly schedule, but even my playtimes as well; shows so compelling they became archetypical in my pre-pubescent fantasies. At bedtime I'd doze off thinking about playing Magnum P.I.'s sidekick, or would concoct vague paths to guest appearances on Simon and Simon.

But even before then, way back in the mists of the early '80s, my mom and I used to watch The Greatest American Hero together. I remember the theme song clearly, but literally nothing from the show other than the cheesy special effects when the dude went flying through the air. And somehow I think that is still my favorite T.V. show - not because of the show itself, mind you, which was probably intolerably stupid by anyone's standards today - but because I have great memories of the act of watching the show, just hanging out with my mom in our rec room.

The question then, readers, is this: what is your all-time favorite T.V. show, and why?
--------
*Yes, I know I'm writing on a Thursday night, but I'm a busy guy and Fridays are full-blown nuts. Deal.

Uh, I Dunno

2006-09-27T17:08:00.000-07:00

Crazy nuts busy around here, folks. The new job is fun and getting better, but I have very little free time. I'm really looking forward to this weekend - with the new cable and internet, Saturday will likely involve little more than several cups of strong coffee, college football, and cleaning my apartment. Wheeeee!

The Weekend

2006-09-25T18:36:00.000-07:00

It was busy.

My dad and stepmom flew in for the weekend. We ate out a bunch, went fishing once, and that was about it. But now I have just a ton of work to do, so I may not update again for a bit.

Some of You Have Already Seen This, But What the Hell

2006-09-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

Chickapah, Chickapah, Chickapah Pieeeeeeeee

2006-09-18T17:45:00.000-07:00

Who doesn't like chicken pot pies? Wrong people, that's who. People who are wrong. Only wrong people and/or the criminally insane don't like chicken pot pies.

Which is why I splurged and had one for dinner tonight, along with a glass of Turning Leaf 2005 riesling.

Now, I have several things to say about this post's title, chicken pot pies, and riesling, but I'll keep this one brief because I have approximately a metric ton (or would that be "metric tonne?") of work to do tonight.

First, the first reader to correctly identify the reference in this post's title wins a pony. Second, chicken pot pies pretty much rock. Third, although I've done some remarkably stupid shit thanks to white wine and had sworn off it for the better part of a decade, I've found that I really like riesling a whole lot. It will join port and pinot noir in my wine selection, ruling my kitchen as a triumvirate of grapey goodness.

Hallelujah and Praise Jebus!

2006-09-18T15:58:00.000-07:00

I have internet again. Look for more posts, more frequently.

You may commence the celebration.

Another Random Update

2006-09-06T16:01:00.000-07:00

Hey, readers!

I'm at the library again, avoiding a half hour of agony spent on the bike trainer watching Katie Couric anchor CBS news. If pressed I'd have a hard time picking which one is more agonizing.

Actually, no I wouldn't. Ms. Couric is a horrible anchor and I can't wait until my $15/mo. basic cable package kicks in. Two more weeks until I get NBC Nightly News back. . .

Kathryn came up this past weekend for the first anniversary of our relationship. We had a good time, as she so thoroughly notes, but now I'm back to a daily routine that doesn't seem to change much.

1. Wake up at 6.
2. Eat toast with a cup of coffee.
3. Walk to work.
4. Wrangle badgers.
5. Walk home.
6. Get on the bike trainer for half an hour.
7. Cook dinner.
8. Plan for the next day.
9. Talk to Kathryn.
10. Go to bed at 9:30.

Lather, rinse, and repeat 5 times weekly.

The Weekly Update

2006-08-28T18:33:00.000-07:00

Well, the first week of the new job was enlightening. The new job also takes up every last one of of my waking moments except for those small chunks of time I find on the weekends to go fishing.

That's a very pissed off 7" brookie on the end of my line.

Datelines, Milestones, Anniversaries

2006-08-21T18:16:00.000-07:00

Alright, readers, my new job starts tomorrow and I'm pretty much going insane. I'm at the 5400's library again, both because I needed to return Lord of War (great film) and because I needed to get the hell out of my apartment before I started chewing on furniture legs like a Border Collie left alone for three weeks.

Man. The English major in me just comes shining through sometimes, doesn't it?

Anyway, to get my mind off of tomorrow I thought I'd share my perspective on an important anniversary Kathryn and I shared a week ago or so. She beat me to the punch and was in fact the one who pointed it out – I'm not that great at remembering dates, but she and I share a way more important anniversary here in just under two weeks, so I'm not beating myself up for forgetting this other date.

Kathryn and I met two years ago last week. I'd spent that summer catching up on some required foreign language classes – "Necessito agua! Soy Cubano! Viva Che! Viva la revolucion!" – and working desk jobs at various halls on campus. My summer job dovetailed nicely with my Fall RA job; I worked my last shift of the summer job on a Sunday afternoon and started the RA job that Sunday night.

Various staffers had trickled in all that weekend. I don't remember too many first impressions except for two: first, a guy we'll call "Chris" dumped a large cup of water on a woman we'll call "Katie" as she walked up to the hall for the first time. The RA rooms were conveniently located directly above the entranceway, and that was certainly not the last time an RA pulled that little stunt.

The second impression I have is much clearer. Kathryn walked in sometime that Sunday afternoon and came to the desk, where I was handing out room assignments and other basic information. Our boss's office was tucked into a room attached to the lobby area, and you had to walk through the lobby desk to get to his office. This came in handy when you wanted to see him. It was problematic when you didn't.

I remember thinking to myself, "Whoa," as Kathryn and I made small talk.

Here's this woman who's clearly smarter than hell, and she's a brunette with glasses to boot. Easy, Trout. Easy. Let's not do or say anything stupid here. Let's just give the nice woman her room assignment and pretend not to listen as she has a conversation with our boss.

"Hey Kathryn! How are you!," B said. He's a genuinely great guy, B, and really the only time I wished his office was far away from the lobby desk was the morning after I orchestrated a midnight burying of his car in snow. I will deny this if asked.

"Just fine," she said. She and B chatted for a bit until the landmine went off.

"And how's J?" B asked.

"Oh, he's fine, he's blah blah blah blahdie blahdie blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"

The rest is quite literally a blur of sound. It was one of those contextual moments where it was clear she was talking about her boyfriend and had, incidentally, just crushed the dreams of some doofus she'd barely met. To this day I have no idea how J was at that point, or how the rest of the conversation between Kathryn and B went.

We had our first staff meeting later that night, and I sat in a chair somewhat isolated from the group, scared as hell about my second go at college, not to mention my new career at the end of it. Kathryn sat in another chair to my right. I stole a few glances but that was it.

There were plenty of other moments from that year that bear telling, but we'll leave it here for now. Happy anniversary, baby!

The Office

2006-08-19T11:55:00.000-07:00

Hey, readers. A quick note from the 5400's public library, since my office computer won't allow me to sign in yet.

Speaking of the office, I spent four hours yesterday cleaning and straightening up since the previous occupant(s) apparently decided throwing four year old reports into a dusty corner was an acceptable way to maintain order. By the end of the day I'd filled three large trash cans and two large cardboard boxes with old reports, etc., that our employees will never, ever want again.

And speaking of employees...

At one point in my day I'll have 31 of them. Yikes.

New Job

2006-08-14T17:21:00.000-07:00

Not much to say, really, since it hasn't truly started yet. But I did go to an orientation session today. I'm usually a power napper - ten minutes and I'm set for hours - but after I got home tonight I crashed for an hour.

More news as I get it.

Huh?

2006-08-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, readers, I've been spending a few hours each day in the 5400's public library (I know I called it the 5600 before, but I was wrong. It's 5400.), surfing, emailing, and enjoying the air conditioning. Since I left my entire DVD collection with my bestest manfriend and his wife in the 7200 during the move - intentionally, since they're parents and probably haven't seen a movie in its entirety in over three years - I've also discovered the joy of checking out videos for free from public libraries.

So yesterday I picked up a few titles: Amadeus and Surviving in Bear Country on VHS; a Masterpiece Theatre production of A Tale of Two Cities and Speilberg's War of the Worlds on DVD. Instead of unpacking my apartment yesterday I pretty much vegged on the couch, watching Tom Hulce's genuinely brilliant portrayal of Mozart in the blistering heat.

This morning I got up, reheated some biscuits I baked yesterday (didn't spray the sheet enough and burnt them to hell on the bottom) along with some fried eggs, brewed up a damn good cup of coffee, and watched Tom Cruise and Dakota Fanning squeal in War of the Worlds.

Now, I wanted to like this movie. In fact, I did like the first hour and a half or so, but then it just kind of, well, ends. Can someone please explain to me how and why exactly the aliens died? If this is one of those things where I just need to read the book, fine, but for a Speilberg production this ending totally sucked.

I'm so confused right now...

And We're Back!

2006-08-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

Alrighty, readers, I'm at the 5400's public library, where they not only have wireless internet but also a gazebo out back. Unfortunately there's no power in the gazebo and the wireless signal is weak, so I'm currently in the children's section where the signal is strongest.

Don't count on me posting as much as I previously had, but I'll be on at least once a week every week until the day comes that I pay off my credit card and get cable.

Onward!

The Last Post for What Could Be a Really Long Time

2006-08-04T13:09:00.000-07:00

Hey, readers.

As most of you know, I'm moving tomorrow. I've decided that I won't get cable TV (and thus internet access) until after I've paid off my credit card, and there's simply no way I'm going to blog from my new employer's computer. So unless I can find a cafe with wireless or perhaps use the public library's computers, I won't be posting as often as I have been. This could be for several months.

I promise I'll keep writing, however. I simply won't be able to post what I write about.

In the meantime, check out the bloggy goodness at Kathryn's or Dirk's or Dave's or Graeme's. I check them regularly because they update regularly and are all funny and brilliant and beautiful people to boot.

A Quick Note About Tie Colors

2006-08-03T06:38:00.000-07:00

So I've been using my bike trainer lately, pedaling my happy ass to absolutely nowhere while watching NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. Why NBC? Dunno. I remember Tom Brokaw giving props to South Dakota once on The Today Show when I was a wee little tyke living in Brookings, and he became The Anchor I Trust The Most. And when he quit and Brian Williams took over I stuck with NBC for the theme music (I know, I know - a rearranged major diad isn't a real big deal. But the way they play it makes it sound all important and shit).

Besides, Dan Rather was always a self-important goombah. I couldn't even tell you who has his job now.

Anyway, I've been watching the nightly news and sometimes a little cable news, and I've noticed that members of Congress have begun wearing blue ties. I don't know how many of you remember the heady patriotic fashion trend of late 2001 and 2002, but red ties were everywhere. Ev. Ry. Where.

There's been a shift, somehow, to blue. A desperate attempt by the right to soften its image? A desperate attempt by the left to show where their loyalties have always lied, despite some serious and consistent kowtowing to the whims and fancies of a Republican Congress? Beats the hell outta me.

Even the president has been wearing blue ties lately.

Okay. Back to wrangling ~~badgers~~ small children.

Interlude

2006-08-01T14:56:00.000-07:00

Hey, readers. My bestest manfriend, his wife, and their two ~~hellion~~ adorable sons arrived in the 7200 today. Yours truly will spend as much time as possible with them over the next few days until my departure on Saturday. I may get around to posting, I may not.

Random Question, uh, Thursday

2006-07-27T07:08:00.000-07:00

I'm heading to Steamboat tonight, fishing with Willis tomorrow, Kathryn's joining us tomorrow evening, and then we're all heading to Winter Park to catch Willie's band on Saturday. Between my girlfriend, fishing, live music, and hanging out with Willis and Jenn, I won't really care about the internet a whole lot for the next few days.

Speaking of good times, describe the best day of your life. Once again, the birth of children doesn't count. This one is all about you.

Another Harry Potter Update

2006-07-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

I finished Order of the Phoenix late last night. I'm not exactly disappointed in the ending but there weren't any of the truly shocking twists I was anticipating. The semi-major character's death didn't surprise me very much - I'd always thought he was a marked man in that Harry-Potter-world kind of way. It's like Rowling just won't let Harry have it easy, ever, and in all honesty I kind of dig that about the series. The only truly interesting twist in Order of the Phoenix, in my opinion, is the reasoning behind Harry's return to Privet Drive every summer.

And come on, didn't we already know (or at least intuit) that this town ain't big enough for both Harry and Voldemort?

Yes, yes, I know there are some cracks in the prophecy through which Rowling may squeak in a rather large surprise or two. If I had to guess I'd say Neville is going to play a huge part in the plot; if not in Half Blood Prince, then in book 7. I've also overheard enough to know that Snape isn't out of the picture just yet, nor is the Malfoy family.

Alrighty. Back to my "job" where I do important "work" in order to keep myself from being "bored to death."

Red Red Wine, Stay Close to Me

2006-07-24T17:45:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1983 I was 11 years old and new to Rochester, NY. Return of the Jedi had come out in May, right around my birthday, and I spent most of my days zipping my Star Wars figures through our hedges on invisible forest speeders. There were neighborhood kids around but at that point I hadn't yet made too many friends. It was a difficult time, and the more I think about it, the more I realize it was difficult for more people than just me.

When I wasn't outside I was in my room above the garage. I'd put plastic airplane models together, emerging from my room light-headed after hours of inhaling Testor's model cement (I'd later be terrified yet impressed by the edgy guys at school who did this on purpose). When I wasn't doing that, I was sorting baseball cards or having vague and confusing daydreams about semi-clothed women.

No matter what I was doing, however, if I was inside, my radio was on. I mostly listened to WPXY ("98! P-X-Yyyyy!"), which at that point was the only station I could find that played rap. They didn't always play rap, mind you, but they played it more than other stations and that was good enough. I remember hearing "Shackles" by R.J.'s Latest Arrival among other early '80s hiphop classics.

Later that year, sometime in the spring of 1984, I heard a song that changed my entire perspective on music, a phenomenon that wouldn't happen again until I heard Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" almost ten years later. The song I heard in my room one rainy Saturday afternoon had a cool beat (I'd later learn it was reggae), oddly wistful lyrics, and this effing earth-shattering moment when the music stopped except for someone rapping over the drums.

I suppose by this point in our modern lives even a Bangladeshi street urchin knows what it means to "break it down." But at 11 years old the first breakdown I'd ever heard was an absolute effing epiphany. The song, obviously, was UB40's "Red Red Wine."

I bring this up for two reasons. First, because I cracked into a bottle of pinot noir left over from my graduation party tonight and it's as tasty as it's ever been, perhaps tastier. Second, because after months of finding the edited version without the breakdown on iTunes, I tried again tonight and - holeee jayzus - they had it.

So now I'm listening to that song over and over and over again, and thinking about Rochester, and wishing I could somehow time travel and tell that kid everything would turn out alright.

A Harry Potter Update

2006-07-23T07:02:00.000-07:00

Alright, readers, I've finally finished Goblet of Fire and have plunged head-on into Order of the Phoenix, which is darker and somehow more entertaining because of it. I'm about 200 pages in and it just gets better, especially when Harry gets all full of ~~himself~~ teen angst.

A few questions I can't wait to have answered:

1. What exactly is that ~~Hans Gruber~~ Snape fellow up to?
2. Will Ron and Hermione wind up together permanently? I hope so. Rowling better not sucker punch us on that one.
3. What's this big nasty weapon Voldemort has acquired?
4. Who will step up to the plate and give Harry the "time to grow up" speech a la that Star Trek episode when Picard reamed Wesley Crusher after Wesley's piloting skills at the academy got someone killed?
5. Who will die in Order of the Phoenix? Better not be Tonks. I think I might have a literary crush on her. And before anyone gives me any shit for that, let's keep in mind someone else's literary crush.

Alrighty. Back to the book.

Random Question Friday: Characters in Literature

2006-07-21T07:29:00.000-07:00

Hello again, and welcome to another installment of Random Question Friday! Before we get to the highly personal information, allow me to tell you a little story about me and Harry Potter.

I can't remember exactly when Harry Potter became a player in my consciousness, but I'm guessing it was sometime in my Amazon career – say, early 1998. I probably packed many, many copies of Harry Potter books, and I know that Amazon used to go to amazing lengths to order, acquire, pack, and ship Harry Potter books on time. It's almost (hell, not "almost" it IS) a competition to see which bookstore can best deliver Harry Potter books to customers' doorsteps on the release date. I won't get into details for fear of Amazon's hired goons knocking on my door, but I will say it involves impeccable timing and damn hard work.

So I was fully aware of the Harry Potter phenomenon from the retail and cultural standpoints, but I'd only read the first one. I tried to get into Chamber of Secrets, but that goddamn elf just annoyed me to tears and I put it down. I pretty much lost interest in Harry Potter as literature but remained somewhat amused by its cultural impact. I mean, when brilliant professor types get sustained and highly intellectual comment threads on the subject, you know it's a pretty big deal. It was simply a big deal that I wasn't all that interested in following.

Then I met Kathryn.

Kathryn likes Harry Potter a whole lot and she geeks out on Harry Potter in an adorable kind of way. During Thanksgiving we watched Prisoner of Azkaban with her entire family and I remember waking up with a question about all that Sirius Black business at the end of the film. It was one of those random situations where in pre-waking consciousness you ask a question, not fully aware of what you're asking. Sleeping across the room from each other, here's how the conversation went:

Trout: Hey honey, was Sirius Black a good guy or a bad guy?

Kathryn: Good. The book explains it better.

Trout: Okay. But people thought he was bad, right?

Kathryn: Yeah. Read the book.

Trout: [drowsily] Okay. Thanks honey. [snores]

This summer I decided to get some long-awaited fun reading done. I've been chipping away at Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin series, and I still love those stories to death, but I'm only about halfway through the third volume out of five – and in the meantime I wasn't reading anything else.

So last week I decided to take a break from all those lines and tacks and political treachery and "sou' by sou'west, sir!" stuff and give Harry Potter another crack. Pedaling my happy ass down to the public library, I skipped right over the elf and went straight to Prisoner of Azkaban.

Read it in two days.

I pedaled back down the next day and checked out Goblet of Fire and Order of the Phoenix. I'm right about halfway through Goblet of Fire, and although the first hundred pages or so were agonizing (do we really need that many pages devoted to Harry's muggle relatives? No. No we do not.), it's starting to pick up now. I'm thoroughly enjoying the character development, especially as Harry, Ron, and Hermione become full-on teenagers. My scientific genius bestest manfriend pointed out that he loves the books precisely because the kids behave exactly as teenagers do in reality: bad decision making skills come into play on a regular basis.

And so in reading Harry Potter I realized that it's perhaps cliche, but still true: we read to simultaneously escape and identify. Stories like J.K. Rowling's let us project ourselves into another existence and whether we realize it or not, allow us to pick up on characteristics similar to our own.

And that, readers, brings us back to Random Question Friday: with which character(s) from literature (we'll exclude movies because I'm a snob that way) do you identify? It doesn't have to appear in Harry Potter – it can be anyone from any genre.

Ending Your World, Pt. 2

2006-07-20T07:26:00.000-07:00

Okay, readers, I thought I'd lighten the mood around here a little bit by sharing a deep-seeded fear about which you can all laugh. It's not exactly a phobia and I've never had nightmares about it. It's just one of those things that my little OCD-riddled brain loves to chew on for hours on end, especially during long car trips.

From the first moment I consider taking a trip, to 100 miles into a trip, to the moment I consider getting back on the road, I worry about my tires. More to the point, I worry about them being so flat that I'll have to use an air hose. This is bad, because I'm terrified of air compressors.

Well, maybe not terrified, exactly – not in the same way I'm terrified of Mtv or snakes – but the whole process of using the air hose at a gas station makes me nervous.

I should note two things here. First, let's be clear: I am not afraid of doing light mechanical work. I've drained and replaced almost all fluids in my truck; I change my own oil and oil filter, and I've replaced air filters, plug wires, and plugs. In fact, as long as I have a car, I plan on doing all of these things and learning how to do more (brakes and transmission fluid are next on the list). This isn't about me fearing cars – just air hoses and what they'll do to the tire, and what the tire will subsequently do to my pretty lil' head.

And that's the second important note: my dad tells a story about being a kid and inflating a tire, and the thing blew up in his face. To this day he hates air hoses too.

Is it possible my father passed along that traumatic air hose incident to his son via genetics? Well, genetics from the other half of the DNA equation probably also explains my compulsion to have a vegetable garden, so I suppose so. But having a vegetable garden doesn't haunt me on road trips, and having a vegetable garden would help, however marginally, with this whole green house gas thing.

Which brings me to last night. As you all can tell, I've been obsessing about An Inconvenient Truth lately, so I was doing a little research yesterday and learned that a key component to gas mileage is properly inflated tires (Oh, hell, that's a lie. I didn't "learn" that, I already knew that, but hadn't done a thing about it. Why? Because I'm terrified of air hoses).

Anyhoo, having seen the film and realizing that I had a good opportunity to conquer my fears while also improving mileage, I finally decided to take action last night.

Part of the problem is that I didn't have a decent air gage, so I took my bike pump out to the truck in the cool dusk and attached that sucker to the front tire. The owner's manual indicated the tires' psi should be about 29. The front left tire was reading 20 psi. So were the others – all four tires were 2/3rds of their recommended psi.

Since I had the pump handy I just manually pumped all the tires back up to 29. But then I also went out and bought a decent pressure gage (I've never ever trusted those damn stick gages). Alas, by that point my tires were all correctly inflated so I didn't get the chance to use an air hose, but at this point I'm – get this – looking forward to the opportunity.

I have the tools. I have the gumption. I have crappy tires that will likely need inflating sometime soon.

Ending Your World, Part 1

2006-07-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

Blue Eyes' comment in a previous post got me thinking about something. And actually, I was already thinking about this, even before my dad and I talked about it for twenty minutes the other night.

It's this: how on earth do we go about changing people's minds, especially large groups of people who passionately want to believe something else? Originally I'd been wondering how to resolve the crisis in the Mideast – you know, how could we convince radical Muslims that their teachings are flatly immoral, while maintaining their sovereign rights as human beings to think however they want to think. For that matter, how do we protect the right to religious beliefs while ensuring physical and intellectual safety from those beliefs? Laws against violence don't cut it – murder is illegal; we still have religiously motivated suicide bombers. Rational debate doesn't faze wild-eyed holy rollers – we still have the lunatic fringe right here in the U.S. Without resorting to massacre, holocaust-style, how do we eliminate dangerous behaviors built into religious and even political belief systems?

More to the point, how do we change thought patterns and behaviors that literally kill other people, and in some cases threaten the viability of the planet?

Driving a car is not as immediately personal as knifing someone in the throat, but the act itself, when multiplied, can kill us all. I'm not saying this because some movie opened my eyes – I'm no scientist, but it's only logical (hell, almost intuitive) that releasing poisonous gas into the air just might have nasty consequences. I'm saying this because it's been obvious all along, and those who dare point out the truth either get crucified politically or mocked personally. Stump speeches with well-crafted insults keep the audience laughing and win votes; neighbors who drive hybrids are called hippies behind their backs, as if the most traitorous thing a person can do is stop consuming oil.

So how do we convince people to stop driving? How do we convince industry to stop using fossil fuels as energy sources? How do we make renewable energy the preferred and primary source?

When people like Blue Eyes, who is probably a very nice person who really doesn't want to destroy the human race, refuses to believe that her behavior contributes to a global problem, how can I change her mind?

Short of truly horrendous environmental crises (Greenland melting into the ocean, massive food shortages, etc.), I think there's only one way to get through to people: money.

Hybrids are becoming popular because they reduce gas costs. Sure, sure, some people who buy hybrids do so for environmental reasons – thus the neighborhood hippie – but I'm willing to bet that the demand for hybrids lately is directly related to rising gas costs. I mean, my Economist-reading father, a firebrand and frugal conservative if ever there was one, is convinced that he'll buy a hybrid as his next vehicle. To his eternal credit, he's a conservative who doesn't let his loathing of Al Gore distort his analysis of the scientific data Al Gore presents.

The answer, then, is the market . . . at least for the environmental stuff. The religious stuff? No idea.

People need an economic incentive to change behavior (again, short of environmental catastrophe). If gas cost $10/gallon, I bet mass transit would suddenly be very popular. Given the nature of the internet, more people would try to work from home or simply live close enough to walk, ride a bike, or hop on that electric train (and the issue of electricity production is for another post). Car manufacturers would suddenly find high demand for vehicles with extraordinary fuel efficiency, which obviously helps emissions as well.

Should the government tax gasoline to the tune of 300%? Hell, should we encourage oil companies to charge $240/barrel and let them keep the profits? Well, it would hurt many industries. It would upset many people. It would be politically unpopular.

And as it turns out, it would be the right thing to do.

-----------------------------
Update: I'm only kind of right, and very reductive in my analysis and proposed solution. Check out this essay and this opinion piece for a little light reading.

New Apartment!

2006-07-18T18:51:00.000-07:00

Howdy, all!

I spent 7 hours in my truck today, driving to and promptly from my NEW TOWN in order to sign on my NEW APARTMENT. I'm very excited and, incidentally, much lighter in the wallet. It's about two blocks from my employer, it's freshly painted, the closet doors are falling off and the phone jack is dangling by a wire out of the wall, but it's MY NEW APARTMENT!

IN MY NEW TOWN!

CLOSE TO MY NEW JOB!

It was hotter than blue blazes there, and the drive home was Africa hot. As an added bonus I spent the entire trip thinking about how much carbon dioxide I was creating, and also whether or not my kids would ever see snow in their lives. Not that I have kids, but still. This movie will do that to you.

In happier news, the only time I'll ever need a car in my NEW TOWN! is when I drive out of it. In town, I can totally walk to work, the grocery store, and the bar (special note to readers who know precisely which town and which bar I'm talking about: please don't mention either one by name in your comments... wouldn't want my employees reading my blog. - ed.)

That's all for now. Go see An Inconvenient Truth. Right now. Go! Shoo!

It's 11:06 and My Life Has Been Changed

2006-07-17T22:10:00.000-07:00

Okay. I know some of you hate Al Gore, or at least hate his politics. I know, okay? I know.

But all of you, each and every single one of my millions of readers, must go see An Inconvenient Truth.

I know. Some of you hate Al Gore. And although the film contains a few partisan digs, they are well deserved precisely because of the data behind them. Ignore the politics if you must (and I promise there's not a lot of political stuff), but I guarantee your perspective will be changed in fundamental and profound ways.

The data are incontrovertible and terrifying, and that ain't hyperbole. Go see it. You'll be better for doing so.

The World is Ending

2006-07-17T09:43:00.000-07:00

The Mideast. The wildfires. North Korea. Barbaro. Global warming. The Tigers are in first place.

The world is coming to an end, folks. I'm giving it until sometime late Thursday morning.

2006-07-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

Random Question Friday: Pain. Did I Say "Pain?" I Meant "Recipes."

2006-07-14T07:03:00.000-07:00

As suggested in a previous post, today's random question was going to invite the readership to share their most painful and/or gruesome experiences. Once I started writing it, though, it struck me as, well, disgusting. Oh sure, some people enjoy the macabre, but for now this blog is going to steer clear of that stuff.

Instead, I thought we could share our favorite recipes. If you don't know your own favorite recipe, your favorite dish will do.

Mine? My mom's crescent rolls. Not sure how she makes 'em, despite her best efforts to teach me.

Also, her crockpot beef stew. Also, pie.

2006-07-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

My Head, It Is Full of Le Bon Travaile de Zidane

2006-07-11T10:26:00.000-07:00

It's taken me a few days to come to grips with the World Cup final, and after some family members sent some very insightful and interesting articles on the subject, I've officially changed my mind about Zidane.

I was rooting for the French; I like the country of France more than I like Italy; I speak passable French; I like Zidane and Henry immensely both as soccer players and as human beings. So I was pretty disappointed when Zidane pulled his little headbutt stunt. I mean, here's the star of the French team, one of the best players in the modern era, playing in his last game ever, and the guy does something he had to know would result in a red card. And as fate would have it, his team could have used his magic foot in the shootout.

I was angry at Zidane and for the past few days, his stock had plummeted on the Trout Human Valuation Index. But like I said, I've read some interesting things lately and I've changed my mind.

Zidane had been hassled the entire game. Some reports say it was ugly verbal taunting (the final straw may have been a racial slur about his mother or sister), some say he'd had his jersey pulled the entire game and had even had his nipple pinched.

So an increasingly larger part of me understands what he did. In fact, an increasingly larger part of me, the tough brute manly part, wishes Zidane hadn't simply knocked that Italian loser onto his ass, but that he had stomped on his tenders a la Rooney to boot.

Getting into your opponent's head is a key part of any professional sport. Just don't be surprised when the retaliation comes. Yes, Zidane's headbutt might have cost his team the World Cup. I'm sure he understands that and is sorry for the consequences of his actions.

But I, for one, have forgiven him and wish him the best of luck.

A Little Story

2006-07-11T08:15:00.000-07:00

During an indoor soccer game in the spring of 1992, an opponent's pass came into center and a guy from the other team and I charged the ball at speed from opposite directions. He came in a little high, and my toe-punch kick found not the ball but the bottom of his shoe. My indoor soccer days came limping, literally, to an end.

For months after that the outer edge of my big toe was perpetually bruised and tender. The toenail along that edge wouldn't grow straight but rather out, to the side. The side of the toe itself would bulge in rainbow colors. It got so ugly that at one point my bestest manfriend took a picture of it when we were roommates later that fall.

Sometime in late '92 or early '93, I was back home having dinner. My dad's an ER physician and had been giving me doctorly advice over the phone, none of which really helped. So we were sitting there having conversation after dinner and somehow I mentioned that my toe still hurt.

"Goddammit," Dad said, "I'm sick of hearing about your toe. We're going to fix this right now."

Now, you probably wouldn't guess my dad's a doctor by looking at him. He has a certain cowboy quality that manifests itself when he's not at work or when his kids get hurt – ask me sometime about my broken ribs years after this incident. Essentially, Dad takes precisely no bullshit from anyone and uses whatever means are available to solve problems.

"Take off you shoe and sock and sit there for a minute," Dad continued. "I'm going out to the garage to get the stuff."

The garage? The only things out in the garage were his workbench and truck. Coincidentally, he came back into the kitchen with a rusty pair of pliers and a small first-aid kit.

He produced a small bottle and needle from the first-aid kit. He filled the needle and jabbed it into the side of my toe, up near the joint, relatively far from the bruised area. I felt freezing cold liquid seep under my skin.

"JESUS!"

"Mm-hmm. You won't feel a thing in a second."

He repeated the process on the other side of the toe, near the webbing.

"Oopsie. Hang on a second," Dad said. I looked down and saw him pull the needle back out of my toe – he'd accidentally pushed it through a flap of skin and all the way through. He plunged the needle back in, but this time I didn't feel it.

He pinched at the skin and wiggled the toe. "Feel that?" he asked.

"No."

He tapped the discolored side of the toe with the pliers. Usually a good stiff breeze at that location would send shockwaves of pain rippling up my foot, but this time there was nothing. "Feel that?

"No."

"Okay. Hang on."

He grabbed the front of the toenail with the pliers, jiggled it a little bit, and then pulled up and back like he was lifting the hood of a little model car. In my memory it made a slight sucking sound, but I could just be making that up.

He pulled the nail completely out and held it in the light over the table. Besides the obvious blood, there was an odd yellow goo all along the jagged edge.

"Good one," he said. "You must have had a pretty deep infection in there. I have some pills that'll clear that up."

The toe has always been a little crooked since then – not because of Dad, I'd imagine, but because I probably broke it in the first place.

This post will be our referent for Random Question Friday. In the meantime, the readership is encouraged to think of the most pain they've ever experienced due to an accident. And as painful (and sometimes accidental) as it may be, childbirth does not count.

My Favorite New Show

2006-07-09T08:16:00.000-07:00

A quick post this morning before I head off to check in 15 ~~hyperactive know-it-alls~~ high school debaters.

If you haven't seen it yet, check out Dog Bites Man on Comedy Central. I watched it the other night, alone, and was cackling like a madman. Tivo it, download it, record it on a coal-fired VHS player for all I care, but you must watch this show.

Unless you are any one of my parents. Then you should absolutely not watch this show under any circumstances.

The Good Ship Trout Lists, Tries to Right Itself, and Wrongs Itself Instead*

2006-07-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

Softball Slut stopped by the other day and asked a question about my nickname for my experience at Amazon.com. Several years ago I read somewhere that the process of naming things is a manifestation of our need to control it; that by assigning a word we assume some sort of psychological power. I believe it (and for now, we'll ignore the problematic nature of semiotics as brought to our attention by Saussure and co.)

So yesterday, in the process of covering some theoretical territory I hadn't crossed in a few months, I realized I also hadn't made a list for quite a while.

You see, readers, a few years ago an Amazonian helped me through a rough time by advising me to make a list of absolutely everything I was worried about. So I'd sit up at night writing single words or phrases on regular sized notebook paper, often making two or three columns to conserve space. In my days at the 'Zon, my lists would often cover two full pages.

After I quit the place I got in the habit of not just listing the things I was worried about but also writing out specific steps I could take to fix them. And eventually I even got to the psychological place where I was comfortable crossing stuff off the list if there was truly nothing I could do.

All of that was a longwinded way of telling you that I'm about to list everything that's bugging me right now (well, almost everything). We'll skip the part about specific action to take since at this point I kind of do that automatically whenever something bothers me. In no particular order:

room smells b/c of shower leak no one seems capable of fixing

current job
current camp's behavior sucks
pay
handcuffed to campus

friends' wedding invite found in mailroom a month late
wedding gift for other friends

out of shape and flabby
little time for exercise
little motivation – find it!
shin splints – use bike trainer instead of running
money, long-term
smallish salary
debt
new car?
no cable/internet until cc is paid off – where to blog anonymously?
the move
organizing help
packing
enough room for all my crap?
new job
planning
rules and regs
too busy to coach?

family's health

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

* The first reader to correctly identify the reference to the phrase "Tried to right itself but wronged itself instead" wins a pony.

Random Question Friday: Movie Quotes

2006-07-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, readers, after a hectic morning of dodging ~~feral badgers with~~ ~~wee beady eyes and sharpened claws~~ administrators with concerns about an incident last night, it's time for Random Question Friday.

As tired as the favorite-so-and-so line of questioning can get, today we're doing movie quotes, but here's the catch: it has to be either A) a relatively small and unknown film or B) a relatively ignored and/or throwaway line from a major film. In other words, no "Here's looking at you, kid" bullshit. Give us the good stuff; those small lines that made you giggle when no one else in the theatre got it.

Mine: "How about some gold bracelets?" from Napoleon Dynamite.

A Story from the 'Zon

2006-07-05T20:36:00.000-07:00

[Editor's note: Every now and then I get this urge to catch up with old friends from the 'Zon. Tonight, for instance, I randomly Googled a phrase and found this guy, whom I never knew and who occupied a completely different Amazon universe than I. It's funny, though – it sounds like some Amazon qualities/experiences kind of transcended departments.]

In the spring of 1998 I was packing books at Amazon.com's only (at that time) warehouse, in south Seattle's industrial district. The people were great but the job mostly sucked, especially for someone who felt like his 4.7 GPA at the friggin' University of friggin' Illinois deserved a little friggin' respect from the labor market.

So sometime that spring I applied, interviewed, and was accepted into the 'Zon's customer service department. At that point, "CS" was comprised of remarkably diverse and intelligent people – mostly liberal arts graduates, mostly good if not great writers, all with interesting lives even before we wound up at the 'Zon. We were movers and shakers, man, in our mid-twenties, and very cool in that Seattle hipster kind of way.

After a few months answering email and taking routine phone calls I was promoted to a "Tier 2" position, meaning that I'd handle the truly nasty stuff. Amazon CS horror stories are legendary – a "switcherooed" package results in a kid opening his birthday present from grandma only to find the Kama Sutra, a professor orders a hard-to-find book for a conference and it gets lost in shipping, etc. – but before all of that occurred, I was still a trainee with a headset splitter when I heard one of the strangest and infuriating calls of my career.

My buddy Kevin was already a Tier 2 and pretty much a CS master. I sat next to him one day during Tier 2 training, listening in on a phone splitter and watching him work crazy magic on orders. The phone beeped. Kevin answered it – it was usually a Tier 1 rep introducing the call to the Tier 2 rep before transferring it, but you never knew. Sometimes there would not be a Tier 1 rep on the other end but rather a very pissed off customer.

"This is Kevin, how can I help you?"

"Uh, Kevin? This is Eric. I have a lady on the phone who has a question about our benefits package."

"Our benefits package?"

"Yeah. Can I transfer now?" He sounded eager to get rid of the call, even more so than Tier 1 reps usually were.

"Sure, go ahead." We heard the phone click over and Kevin introduced himself again.

"Hello, Kevin," said a very sweet grandmotherly type with a soft drawl. "My husband and I absolutely love Amazon.com," she cooed. We actually got this kind of thing a lot in those days – people just thrilled with the site and service, as if we really were doing something completely revolutionary. And frankly, in several ways, we were.

"Well thank you, ma'am," Kevin said.

"Now, Kevin, I have a question for you about the benefits Amazon.com offers."

"Okay, how can I help?" I think both of us were anticipating a question about future employment, or maybe something really strange like an insurance sales cold call.

"Do you offer benefits to homosexuals?"

There was an odd silence as Kevin and I exchanged a puzzled look.

"I'm sorry?" Kevin said, cocking his head as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"Does Amazon.com provide partnership benefits to homosexuals living together?" she asked. Judging by her tone you would've thought she was asking if we offered gift wrap services.

"You know, I don't . . ." Kevin started. He looked at me; I shrugged. "I'm not... "

"The reason I ask, Kevin," grandma interrupted, "is that my husband and I love your site, like I said, but we just can't in good faith support a business that encourages sin."

There was another odd silence.

"Ma'am, I'm not sure one way or the other, to be honest," said Kevin. "Can I put you on hold for a moment while I find out?"

"Well of course, Kevin, that would be fine."

He tapped the "hold" button and slowly shook his head.

We walked over to our supervisor's cubicle. She would become my life support at the 'Zon for pretty much my entire career, even well after I left CS. Kayleen said she was pretty sure we did offer benefits to domestic partners but that she'd call corporate HR to find out for sure. After a quick chat on the phone she ended it with, "that's what I thought."

At this point Kevin had two options: he could revert to the old Tier 2 trick of getting the customer off the phone and then crafting the kind of email that would make the White House Press Secretary proud – sly, oily, and just passive-aggressive enough to make him feel better about the world, or he could just deliver the bad news to grandma while he still had her on the phone. Either approach meant losing a customer for good, and as corny as it sounds we took that seriously.

Back at his desk, Kevin tapped the "hold" button again. "Ma'am? Unfortunately, we do in fact offer benefits to domestic partners."

A third odd silence.

"Oh, darn," grandma sighed. She sounded genuinely if not profoundly disappointed; like someone whose favorite new shopping experience, maybe even the best thing to happen to her since air conditioning, had just been snatched away. In the awkward silence I waited for her to say something about the queers ruining the soil.*

Happy Belated Gay Pride Week, folks.

****

* The first reader to correctly identify this oh-so-clever pop-culture reference wins a pony.

Just, You Know, Stuff

2006-07-05T14:58:00.000-07:00

Alright, to pass the time and cool my nerves after unpleasantness with a certain certifying body that shall go unnamed, I thought I'd steal a page from Dirk's playbook and list ten things not everyone knows about me.

1. I still harbor a wish to write something more profound than a blog.

2. When I was 19 my dad ripped my big toenail off with a rusty pair of pliers. Intentionally. More on this in another post.

3. I was once severely allergic to cats but seem to have improved.

4. When I was six or so I stole a candy bar from the neighborhood convenience store. I've never told anyone this until now.

5. I hate onions.

6. I've skinny-dipped in the Puget Sound.

7. I'm terrified of snakes, heights, and clowns. But more of snakes and heights. Clowns just kind of creep me out.

8. When I feel the first tickle of a sore throat, I'll gargle scotch to kill the bacteria. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't.

9. I was once, kind of, a staffer at The Onion.

10. There are a few phrases out there in the popular culture that I think I might have invented and/or simply said before anyone else. I haven't researched this one but have no real interest in finding out either way.

The Post Which Has Nothing To Do With Patriotism

2006-07-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

Hey, readers! I’m in Denver tonight, hanging out at Kathryn’s place and watching the ARG/MEX rerun on Univision. No, I don’t understand Spanish sports play by play. Yes, I know who wins. And yes, I would nuke Argentina if I was the president. Then again, I’d also criminalize reality TV shows if I was the president, but I digress.

The highlights of my weekend so far:

Catching a fish on a fly that I tied myself on Colorado’s White River. The lucky fish was a 13 inch whitefish who was totally suckered by a beadhead. The squirrelly little bastard was a joy to reel in until I realized it was a whitefish (a salmonoid relative of the trout, but not a trout).
Catching a fish on a dry fly for the first time. Fly fishermen live for this, since you get to see the fish actually take the fly – with wet flies, your hook submerges somewhere underwater and you wait for a strike. Plus, fish feed off the surface (and therefore take dry flies) less frequently than they do underwater, so the opportunities are fewer as well. The squirrelly bastard was also a joy to reel in until I realized it was a whitefish.
Catching the third squirrelly bastard of the day, until I realized it was a whitefish plus the fact that I almost killed it. It took me way too long to get the hook out – in fact, I never did and wound up clipping the line with the hook still inside the fish – and in the meantime the fish went into fishy cardiac arrest or some shit. I had to submerge it with its head upstream, gently moving it back and forth, and for at least three minutes it simply went belly up as soon as I let go, and frankly, even the Buddhist in me started wondering if performing fishy CPR was really worth my time. Finally – finally – the squirrelly little bastard could stay upright and in one place on its own, and eventually swam off. For those keeping track at home, this means I caught no trout on the White River, but three whitefish. For those anglers in the audience who maintain whitefish don’t feed off the surface and therefore don’t take dry flies, well, you’re totally full of shit.
While Willie and I fished the Yampa in downtown Steamboat, we traded places next to a riffle and in the process exchanged rods by handing them over my head. I lost track of my line and it floated downstream behind us, completely unmanaged and unintentionally. As I turned to bring it back forward, it stuck and felt like it was snagged on something – and that something was a seven inch brown trout’s mouth. Crazy. Probably surprised us more than it surprised the fish.
Willie caught a beautiful 17 inch cutthroat trout in his Super Secret Honey Hole on the Yampa. I’ll disclose the Super Secret Honey Hole’s location at about the same time I convert to Mormonism.
Later that day, Willie brought in a nice brown and another cutthroat, and when I joined him at this new spot I brought in absolutely nothing but tangled leader. On one occasion, as Willie helped untangle my line, he too caught a fish by mistake. Sorry ‘bout that profanity, Willie, but I was frustrated by then.
That evening, on a stretch of beautiful water, Willie caught a brookie trout – meaning he was a rainbow away from a Grand Slam (when you catch all four kinds of trout in a given time period – in this case, one effing day). As I untied my zillionth tangle of the day, Willie had a bite on his final cast. It was only another brown, and thus he missed the Grand Slam. Unfortunate, but precisely the kind of thing that keeps us coming back.
I was back in the 7200 for Sunday, intending to get some work done. Didn’t happen. Talking to my boss this morning, she said, “I’m not a big fan of you sitting around here when you have better things to do. Get out of here. See you Wednesday.” Sweeeet.
As a result, I drove to Denver without telling Kathryn that I’d be arriving early, and totally surprised her when she came walking back from the bank.

Alrighty. Tomorrow is going to be a hoot - we're watching the Germany/Italy game at my new favorite Denver bar (the British Bulldog) and then going to the Colorado Rapids game. I return to the 7200 sometime Wednesday morning.

Random Question Friday Rescheduled to Random Question Thursday

2006-06-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

Due to my crazy-ass drive-a-thon weekend, we're moving Random Question Friday up a day.

When I was a wee little tyke I slipped somewhere (the fireplace, maybe?) and busted my chin open. I don't remember going ass over teakettle, but I do remember lying on my back in a clean room with shadowy figures standing over me. I remember being especially comforted by one of them, not because of any specific behavior on his part but because he was my dad and he was there and that meant everything was going to be cool.

That's my first memory, folks. What's yours?

8 More Hours . . .

2006-06-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, readers, it's going to be a great weekend.

Tomorrow morning I head to Steamboat Springs to hang out and fish with Dave on the White and Yampa rivers. Yours truly has some new gear to try out, not to mention some self-tied flies.

I'll be back Saturday afternoon, working Sunday and Monday in order to prepare for another giant camp that arrives Wednesday morning.

And Tuesday? I'm glad you asked. On Monday night I head down to Denver to see Kathryn. On Tuesday there's one hell of a soccer match between Germany and Argentina; Tuesday night we're heading to a Colorado Rapids game, followed by fireworks at the stadium. I drive back Wednesday morning in time to help with the giant camp's check in.

Super Evil Genius

2006-06-27T10:26:00.000-07:00

As longtime readers of my previous blogs might remember, I dig pranks and my little OCD-tinted brain constantly seeks prank opportunities. Dirk's nametag left unattended in the breakroom? Why, let's change the stickers around and see how long it takes him to notice people are calling him "Drik." Stepbrother not keeping a careful eye on his wineglass? Why, let's empty a pepperoncini into it and see if he comments about the tasty chardonnay. Girlfriend's sister and brother-in-law are Avalanche fans and on vacation, leaving keys to the house with girlfriend?

Why, let's deck out the place with Detroit Red Wings paraphernalia!

One of the coolest things about Kathryn is that she not only has a sense of humor, she has a sick and twisted sense of humor, meaning that when I first came up with this idea she was all over it and asked how she could help. That's love, readers. True love.

J and P, good luck finding all the Red Wings cards! Let me know when you find the ones hidden in the ***** ***, the *****, the ******* ******, and especially the ***** *******! Heh. That one could take years.

Bwuhahahahahahahahahaha!

Soccer at 7200

2006-06-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes an old dog, once unleashed in the park or campground, will take off with speed and joy not seen since its Puppychow years?

That was me last night on the soccer field. For an hour or two, my shin splints didn't bother me, my knee injury from the other night was gone, and I was back in youthful midfielder form. My centering passes from the wings weren't crisp, necessarily, but they were on-target. I could still defend a little. I could still set myself up for a beautiful give-and-go. I didn't get many strikes on goal, but I've never had a striker's killer mentality anyway so that was fine by me.

Sketchy day around here today. Ghana and Brazil this morning; France and Spain this afternoon, and we conference types don't have a whole lot to do except watch World Cup.

We Were That Table

2006-06-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

Part of my summer job entails living in a college dormitory. As you may or may not know, colleges often host conferences of various kinds in the summer - great publicity, better revenue. The conferences can be athletic, scholastic, or just common-interest in nature, but they're almost always comprised of high school kids.

Yesterday over 1,000 high school and junior high girls checked into our halls for a basketball camp, and my wing (which I usually have to myself) was overrun with squealing terrors. Now, having them on my wing isn't a huge problem since I have my own bathroom, but the squealing?

Kathryn and I were chatting last night and for over an hour I heard nothing but slamming doors, herds of teenagers charging down the halls, and squealing. Loud squealing. Squealing so loud I had to leave my room and go somewhere else.

Now, I left my phone charger in Denver on the last trip and Kathryn very kindly dropped it in the mail - but in the meantime I have no phone. So last night I headed over to the bar without calling anyone; just got the hell out of my room and walked to the neighborhood watering hole.

Lo and behold, four of my best friends and coworkers were already there, two pitchers deep and still going strong. They'd tried to call but my phone, being out of juice and turned off, went straight to voicemail.

Long story short, the five of us spent an hour drinking tasty microbeer, telling horror stories about conferences, and generally blowing off steam. By the end of it we were being truly obnoxious to each other and getting annoyed looks from other patrons. Good times, and I was feeling great by the time I returned to my room at 10 or so.

Then I was kept up until 12:30 by squealing.

Random Question Friday: Comfort (Food or Whatever)

2006-06-23T07:14:00.000-07:00

Alrighty, readers, looks like we're on to something with this Random Question Friday business. Thanks to all who replied last week. Mom, I had no idea.

This week's question occurred to me while visiting Kathryn, whose head/chest cold reminded me that I recently bought a humidifier and was disappointed in it. Oh, sure, it pumps out the steam, but it doesn't hum.

You see, readers, as a kid we had this humidifier that churned out steam in such quantities that Mom would have to put down plastic sheets underneath the nozzle. I'm sure she appreciated the medicinal aspects of the thing, but what comforted me was its consistent "hmmmmmm." To this day I sleep better with some sort of mechanical humming in the background.

So the question for you, readers, is this: what never fails to comfort you?

2006-06-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

SADIEDOG! (No reason. I just like this pick of Willie and Jenn's dog).

2006-06-22T18:24:00.000-07:00

The British Bulldog after England went up 1-0 on Sweden.

Trip Report: Denver 6/19 - 6/21

2006-06-22T15:52:00.000-07:00

Look for photos soon.
---------------------

Monday, 6/19

3:15pm – Depart the 7200. For the first time in recorded history, encounter a headwind from the east, thereby ruining my plan to save at least a little gas. Mutter expletives. Curse decision to buy 2wd truck when living in Seattle. Listen to the Grateful Dead's Live at the Fillmore East, Disc 3.

4:00pm – Despite having nearly ¾ tank of gas just 45 miles back, my fuel gauge indicates less than ½ a tank. Decide not to risk it and acquire gas, iced tea, and sesame sticks at a truckstop near a city that rhymes with "Diane."

4:25pm – The front range traffic thickens as I approach Fort Collins. I-25 is four lanes from the Wyoming border until about 20 miles north of Denver. Those first 30 miles from Wyoming to Fort Collins aren't all that bad – but then the congestion hits and it's time for, like, the 7th installment of Death Race 2006.

5:00pm – In the middle of Death Race 2006, truck makes weird noises when downshifting (my truck downshifts a lot when it's asked to go faster than 65mph). Because of the nature of Death Race 2006, slowing down is impossible – moving into the right lane ensures a fiery collision with southbound traffic from the on-ramps. Keep my foot jammed on the gas. Hope for the best.

5:25pm – Finally – sweet fancy Moses, finally! – make it to the expanded section of I-25. On some days, that third lane relieves the pressure, turning Death Race 2006 into something more like a commute. Not today. Today, semis with "dangerous cargo" stickers hang out in the middle lane, while late model SUVs surf from the far right lane to the far left without signaling. Decide that given the choice, I'd eschew a bigger engine for machine guns a la the Spy Hunter video game.

5:40pm – Take exit 213 into downtown Denver. Am reminded of my purgatory in Phoenix, a year and a half spent in oppressive heat and unrelenting traffic. Silently thank, well, whomever, for free will.

5:45pm – Arrive at Kathryn's apartment. Suddenly understand precisely what she meant when she said her apartment was "really effing hot." Sit on my lazy ass while she cooks chicken for sandwiches. Apply generous amounts of Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce, which I haven't had since I lived in St. Louis. Discuss religion over dinner. Wash the dishes.

7:00pm – Take a walk with Kathryn in the Curtis Park neighborhood, up to and around, well, Curtis Park. See some Latino guys playing soccer. Wish my Spanish skills and soccer skills were not both currently on par with my brain surgery skills.

9:00pm – Watch the first ten minutes of American Splendor before noticing that Kathryn is nodding off. Mock her for nodding off, knowing full well that I'm usually the one yawning by 8:30pm.

Tuesday, 6/20

8:20am – Tell Kathryn to enjoy her job, while I go watch soccer at a bar at 9 in the morning. Remind her this wouldn't be an issue if she had cable TV. She seems unimpressed with this line of reasoning.

8:25am – On her way to work, Kathryn drops me off at the corner and I walk to the British Bulldog. Along the way I say "'Morning" to a large black woman. She says "good morning" in return and also, "I'm trying to be a better person today." Shit, lady, aren't we all? Also pass a large group of what are very likely migrant workers. Notice them checking out my shirt (Glasgow Rangers jersey) and, oddly, hope that a soccer jersey earns me some street cred. Decide not to test my Spanish skills at this juncture.

8:30am – Watch Germany beat the tar out of Ecuador with three other patrons. Drink iced tea. Am encouraged by the bartender to come back early for the England game because "the Brits are going to pack this place."

10:00am – Walk from the bar back to Kathryn's place. Read National Geographic article on the World Cup.

10:15am - Google-chat with Rothfuss about his impending move and his next next career applying nanotechnology to sports.

11:20am – Walk back to the British Bulldog. Acquire decent seat at the bar. Notice the guy to my left is ordering and drinking Tullamore Dew in impressive quantities. Order a BLT and a Newcastle. Find myself explaining World Cup elimination rules to the guy on my right, who wants to talk basketball. Hey man, the only way I'm going to talk basketball is if it's Illinois basketball. Who the hell is this "Nuggets" team you keep talking about?

11:45am – Notice a contingent of pale men in red jerseys starting to fill up the bar. Also notice that the basketball fan has left and has been replaced by a pale man in a red jersey.

12:00pm – Notice the goofy-ass Colorado Rapids mascot has entered the bar. Offer the pale man in the red jersey next to me five bucks if he saunters up and clocks the mascot in his goofy-ass foam face. He declines.

12:10pm – A Colorado Rapids cheerleader, replete with blonde hair and skimpy outfit, offers me a Rapids t-shirt and a poster of the Rapids cheerleaders. Take the t-shirt and use the poster as a placemat.

1:00pm – Bar is packed with, as it turns out, Brits. Start chatting with two chaps about footie.

1:10pm – Kathryn arrives to have lunch at the bar. Give her my seat, which is very cramped at this point. She orders fried pickles. Mock her for ordering fried pickles. Try a fried pickle. Stop mocking her for ordering fried pickles.

1:30pm – England score. Bar erupts. Chants are chanted. Songs are sung. Beer is consumed.

2:00pm – Kathryn heads back to work. A small part of me wishes I could be heading back to an air-conditioned office. Bar is at least 95 degrees, and full of Brits.

2:10ish pm – Sweden score. Bar goes silent, with the exception of a hoarse "Fuck off, Sweden!" screamed by a young woman.

3:00ish pm – England score. Bar erupts. Chants are chanted. Songs are sung. Beer is consumed.

3:05ish pm – Sweden score. Bar goes silent. Hoarse young woman chants "Fuck you Sweden, X X XXX." Everyone in bar joins in.

3:10pm – Walk back to Kathryn's place. Take sweaty nap on couch, using newly acquired Rapids t-shirt as pillowcase. Shower. Drink water. Take ibuprofen for screaming headache.

5:00pm – Kathryn calls from work. I meet her out back to let her in.

5:20pm – Kathryn and I wait on front steps for her sister and brother-in-law to arrive separately so we can all go to the Rockies game. Kathryn checks mail and sees new National Geographic, which excites her. Kathryn enjoys picture of ape holding a shoe. I enjoy first few paragraphs of article about Blackbeard's shipwreck.

5:25pm – J arrives.

5:27pm – P arrives.

5:45pm – Am regaled by P's story about honeymoon adventures on cruise ship. Drink lime-aid.

6:10pm - Insist that Coors Field won't allow cameras now that everyone's scared of terrists. Someone gets bright idea to call and ask. Kathryn calls and asks. Coors Field allows cameras.

6:15pm – Walk to Coors Field. Wish out loud I'd worn my Red Wings jersey.

7:00pm – Game begins. Tell P not to buy me a beer. P buys me a beer.

8:15ish pm – Take Kathryn up on her offer to feed me at the game. Ask for a pretzel. "With salt," I yell as she walks up the aisle. "And chee! Don't forget the chee!"

8:25ish pm – Kathryn and J return with pretzels and containers of cheese. Am told I'm eating all of the damn cheese if it kills me. Dip pretzel into cheese and notice it retains its shape, not unlike cheese pudding might if they made cheese pudding. Am told she doesn't care and that I'm eating all of the damn cheese if it kills me.

9:30ish pm – Game ends. Rockies defeat Oakland Athletics 6-0. Walk back to Kathryn's place.

10:00pm – J and P take off. Kathryn and I head for bed.

Wednesday, 6/21

6:00am – Alarm goes off. Am dreaming about armless robots and alarm is incorporated into dream.

6:30am – Leave for the 7200. Drive into headwind for entire trip. Mutter expletives.

Ghana 340,453,681 - USA 1

2006-06-22T09:21:00.000-07:00

The U.S. National Team is out of the World Cup, having been eliminated by Ghana. Did Ghana really score 340,453,681 goals? No, but it felt like it. Did the U.S. really only score one effing goal? Sure did!

One goal.

IN THE ENTIRE EFFING TOURNAMENT. The Italian own-goal in the 1-1 draw doesn't count.

Those A-holes deserved a first round exit. What makes this especially painful is that Italy did their part by defeating the Czechs, thereby opening the door for the U.S. to advance. (For those who don't follow World Cup, the first round is composed of 8 groups of 4 teams. You only play the teams in your group in the first round and are awarded 0 points for a loss, 1 point for a draw, and 3 points for a win. The two teams with the most points in each group advance to the next round, while the teams with the fewest points in each group go back to warfare, strife, and poverty - and I'm not just talking about the U.S. players from Detroit).

Depending on which U.S. team showed up, we had a fantastic opportunity to play Brazil in the Round of 16. But did we get that far? Why, no. In fact, we played like that Billings JV squad after the Dorritos and Ritalin bender.

And now the U.S. is on a flight home, where they will receive not ovations, tickertape parades, and free drinks but rather the mockery and asskicking they so richly deserve by the U.S. soccer fans.

All five of us.

A Quick Note from Denver

2006-06-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

I'm in Denver for the day, and a longer post about the trip is coming. Meanwhile, I just couldn't resist this little gem from CNN.com.

We had a cat like this. Socks' favorite trick early in life was to run full-tilt-boogie from under furniture and climb up your pants leg. It was hilarious or terrifying, depending on whether or not you were the one getting climbed. Same cat used to ride around in the basket on the front of my sister's bike. Same cat used to run away to the local college dorms.

Socks lived to a ripe old age, became diabetic, and eventually went off to the big sunny couch in the sky.

The Church of Trout, Part 2: Saving Yourself from Christianism

2006-06-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

I need to preface all of the following with an explanation about why I'm writing about religion in the first place. For one thing, I haven't always been completely honest with people about my beliefs – a local friend of mine is an assistant pastor and a hell-and-brimstone religious wacko. He used to be a good guy (a great guy, actually), but after seeing his parenting skills, fueled by scripture and bullying patriarchy, I get angrier and angrier at him. And I've never been totally straight with my family, either (several of whom read this blog), but that was probably because until recently I've never been too clear on the subject. Mostly, though, I've never been honest with anyone about religion because, well, I really hate offending people. But the more I see religion effing up the world, the less I care about offending.

Another reason I'm writing about religion is that I see a scary trend developing in the U.S. in which religious extremism holds sway over politics (nothing new there) and, now, public institutions like universities and even worse, our private lives. I'll put up with a lot of shit from believers like my friend, but I won't put up with someone else's belief system interfering with my rights to privacy, free speech, or pursuit of happiness.

And so when I unload on organized religion I may irritate or even lose some of my 200 million readers. That's not my intent, but if you're offended by what I'm about to write, maybe that's proof that you need to hear it.

To the religious right, believing in Christ is not enough. One must believe in a very specific brand of Christianity, and anything else is hell-bound heathenism. This kind of belief obviously isn't limited to Christianity in the U.S., but it is the only belief system you or I can do anything about in the course of our daily lives (I mean, if you really, really, really wanted to confront radical Islam, you could join the Marines and try to kill a few of 'em). I'd even argue that if you find yourself condemning other belief systems, maybe you're closer to the religious right than you'd care to admit, and had damn well better do some self-evaluation.

Now, before anyone starts screaming "hypocrite!" at their screen, let me assure you that my problems are not with the existence of religion, only in the divisive nature of organized religion. As I wrote earlier in a comment thread, there's something profound about the human condition and it's only natural that we sentient types search for ways to express it. And I am not condemning people for condemning someone else. I simply believe that any group which lays claim to heaven is totally full of shit, and I want you, readers, to fully understand the implications of narrow-minded faith.

Which brings me back to the religious right. Someone on the Internet referred to them as "Christianists," and I like that term a lot. The connotation is a focus not on Christ but on a cultish following. It denotes anyone whose Christian beliefs focus more on judgment, Leviticus-style, than on Christ's teachings. It denotes exclusion, blithe rejection of the human condition, and hate.

The easiest way to identify Christianists is to gauge the degree to which they interpret the Bible literally. I don't know about you, but when a geologist PhD tells me the earth is about 4 billion years old, well, I believe it. I mean hell, who'd know how old the earth is better than a geologist, right? Who could possibly argue with the fossil record? Why, the Christianists, that's who!

Of course, we all know the full-blown Christianist wackos when we see 'em. The troubling part for me is that they've been more aggressive politically, and unless you believe the earth is 6,000 years old, this surge of extremism poses a direct and immediate threat to American ideals of freedom and individualism. These folks don't just want you to believe, act, and pray a certain way – they want control of all aspects of your life. They can't handle a multicultural America; they can't handle difference. And ultimately that's what kills me about Christianists: they're lazy. They'd rather wallow in self-righteousness than go out and do Christ's work.

So what, exactly, do we do? For starters, we vote. Vote against people who belong to fundamentalist churches – these types of politicians are usually not shy about their beliefs, but it will also pay to research candidates' beliefs at all levels of government. For another, call up your congressional representatives when any legislation is in the works dictating what consenting adults do in the privacy of their homes. More on that in another post.

Finally – and this is the hardest one for me – stop putting up with crap from Christianists in person. If they're comfortable telling you about how, when Jesus returns, "believers will be walking the earth as nine foot giants on fire" (direct quote from aforementioned friend), then perhaps we should be comfortable telling them that's not how we understand Christ, or pyrotechnics for that matter. And then maybe offer them a complimentary copy of the Bhagavad-Gita, freshly acquired from the hari krishna on the corner.

Rock Music Lyrics Friday Officially Canceled: Replaced by Random Question Fridays

2006-06-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

Okay. Over 12 hours have gone by and not one of you people have responded to this week's Rock Music Lyrics Friday. Don't despair, though. The blame is mine; I've been instructing you what to write about instead of asking for your experiences. I've come to this conclusion after a serious and thorough evaluation of my blogging technique. Also, after drinking.

So from now on expect random questions on Fridays. And to make up for today's debacle, we'll start with a softball:

Name a song you associate with a specific time and place.

Rock Music Lyrics Friday: "China Cat Sunflower"

2006-06-16T07:19:00.000-07:00

Welcome to our third installment of Rock Music Lyrics Friday! We're getting better at responding to these things – Rothfuss even chimed in last week from the Falklands or Mars or wherever the hell he is these days to take a crack at decoding those Poison wordsmiths. Rothfuss, will you be in the 7200 anytime soon? We have some World Cup to watch.

Anyhoo, since I'm pressed for time today I thought I'd just throw out a Robert Hunter / Grateful Dead tune and see what the 200 million come up with.

------------------------------------------------------
Grateful Dead (lyrics by Robert Hunter), China Cat Sunflower

Look for awhile at the China Cat Sunflower
proud-walking jingle in the midnight sun
Copper-dome Bodhi drip a silver kimono
like a crazy-quilt stargown
through a dream night wind

Krazy Kat peeking through a lace bandana
like a one-eyed Cheshire
like a diamond-eye Jack
A leaf of all colors plays
a golden string fiddle
to a double-e waterfall over my back

Comic book colors on a violin river
crying Leonardo words
from out a silk trombone
I rang a silent bell
beneath a shower of pearls
in the eagle wing palace
of the Queen Chinee

Interlude

2006-06-15T07:48:00.000-07:00

Alright, I'd imagine some of you just can't wait for my next post about religion, but the more I write about it, the more obtuse and tangential some of my points get. I think there will be individual installments regarding Christianism, the word of God, and the sanctity of marriage, but at this point I'm really not sure how I'm going to frame it all so that it A) makes sense and B) doesn't come off like whiny half-baked sentimentality.

In the meantime, how about a little World Cup commentary to lighten the mood?

First, the Germans have played two of the most exciting soccer games I've ever seen. The 93rd minute goal versus Poland yesterday had my kraut DNA going full-blown kraut crazy. If you know me at all you know I tend to play up my Scottish "heritage" (based entirely on assumptions and a surname which came, in theory, from somewhere near Dunfermline). But hey, my German heritage deserves props too, and the Scots are sitting on their sorry asses after not even qualifying for Cup play.

Second, the U.S. national team pretty much sucks. DaMarcus Beasley need not even suit up for Saturday's match versus Italy or yours truly will go apolectic. But watching the U.S. play, and anticipating a trip to Denver to see an MLS game, has spurred pipe dreams about coaching soccer. I really do see that in my future.

Third, I'd like to see an African nation advance but I'm not sure it'll happen. Ghana is in the U.S.'s group, but so are Italy and the Czechs, and those two are the favorites to survive. The Ivory Coast played well but still lost; Tunisia stands no chance. We'll see what shakes.

Okay, folks, I'm off to write a check for like $4,000 so that some group of people can officially say I'm qualified to do something. Wheeeee!

The Church of Trout, Part 1: History

2006-06-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

I've thought a bit about religion over the course of my life: raised Methodist and Presbyterian, my journey since has been a paint-by-numbers exploration of spirituality as experienced by so many other middle-class liberals in 20th and 21st century America.

I was a doubting Thomas by my late teens and thanks to my bestest manfriend, a full-on atheist by my early twenties. The hippy in me, however, kept pointing at spiritual and sacred experiences and asking politely for an explanation. "Hey, man," my inner hippy would ask, "how come we find peace in the mountains?" Or, "Hey, man, why do you like gospel music so much?" Sometimes my inner hippy would get really, really heavy: "Hey, man, is it really so ridiculous to think that we have souls and a larger purpose?"

And so from the plains of atheism I ventured, tentatively, into the tangles of agnosticism for a few years. Somewhere in there I found the Buddha; I lost the Buddha; I found him again a few months ago. We're not the closest pals anymore but he's still around.

Now, for all this searching, I've come to realize a few things about religion. First, no one person or sect has the answer. They can't. The only way we'll know for sure is by dying, and, well, why don't you go first and get back to me. Second, any interpretation of a sacred book is just that, no more. All people understand God and scripture differently, even people in the same church – we are individuals with separate minds and thus separate relationships to the sacred. Third, all organized religions have mandated make-believe notions and the sooner the human species abandons the make-believe the better off we'll all be. Faith itself is fine; helpful even in some circumstances (orphanages, for example, or church-based community services). But faith taken to extremes is precisely why this world is so effed up.

Keep piling on the make-believe for generations and eventually you wind up with snake handlers. Eventually you wind up with the Crusades; with suicide bombers; you wind up with slavery and abortion doctors sniped through their kitchen windows and protests at soldiers' funerals. You wind up with ritual suicides and the Holocaust. Eventually you wind up with bugshit insane ideas about how old the earth is. Eventually you wind up with the religious right.

Stay tuned for The Church of Trout, Part 2: Saving Yourself from Christianism

Craptastic!

2006-06-12T11:30:00.000-07:00

The USA lost to the Czechs 3-0 just a bit ago, and although I'm all mopey and not really in the mood to write, I figure my 200 million strong readership would like an update of some sort. And yes, those longer posts promised a while ago are still in the works.

First, soccer will never catch on in the U.S. if our national team continues to play like the Billings JV squad after a Dorritos and ritalin binge. Watching the game today reminded me of watching Illinois basketball: remarkable talent sabotaged by a serious lack of motivation. If I ever coach - and I'm not saying I will, but if I ever do - you can bet my players will be motivated and ready to play, or they will be substituted out. Quickly.

Second, Kathryn came up this weekend and that was pretty awesome. We bought a soccer ball yesterday and kicked it around. While this stocky, 34 year old frame of mine still retains a bit of speed, she surprised me with some quick bursts and sustained speed on breakways, undoubtedly because of her lanky frame... and she was in a damn skirt. If we ever have kids - and I'm not saying we will, but if we ever do - you can bet they're going to be little musical geniuses who outrun cheetahs in their spare time.

Third, if any of Dirk's readers are here, welcome. I should confess right now that the phrase "manwang" isn't mine; I heard it from a friend a few years back when she recommended that I go see Sideways with the warning that "there is some flopping manwang in it, so be ready."

That is all.

Rock Music Lyrics Friday

2006-06-09T08:49:00.000-07:00

Random stranger Corndog stopped by last week with some thoughts (well, a thought, but that was enough) about Phish lyrics. And after reading his posts on Foreigner lyrics, I thought Rock Music Lyrics Friday would do well to back away slowly from the genius of Phish or any other abstruse artrocker types. So my 200 million strong readership is lucky I didn't bust out any Michael Stipe – this time.

Instead, I thought we'd take a header into buttrock.
-------------------------------------
Poison, Every Rose Has Its Thorn

We both lie silently still
In the dead of the night
Although we both lie close together
We feel miles apart inside
Was it something I said or something I did
Did my words not come out right
Though I tried not to hurt you
Though I tried
But I guess thats why they say

Chorus:
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Yeah it does

I listen to our favorite song
Playing on the radio
Hear the dj say loves a game of easy come and
Easy go
But I wonder does he know
Has he ever felt like this
And I know that youd be here right now
If I could have let you know somehow
I guess
(chorus)
Bridge:
Though its been a while now
I can still feel so much pain
Like a knife that cuts you the wound heals
But the scar, that scar remains

(Solo)

I know I could have saved a love that night
If I'd known what to say
Instead of makin love
We both made our separate ways
But now I hear you found somebody new
And that I never meant that much to you
To hear that tears me up inside
And to see you cuts me like a knife
I guess
(chorus)
-------------------------------------

Yesterday's Post Today, Rock Music Lyrics Friday in a Separate Post

2006-06-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

Blogger went bye-bye yesterday, so here are a few random thoughts in preparation for a series of longer posts -

1. The World Cup brings out the latent soccer player in me. The only time I've ever felt dominant as an athlete was as a hardnosed 9 year old fullback who rarely let the ball get by. Even in my pre-pubescent years I understood the psychological damage a strong defense inflicted upon an opponent. More World Cup stuff soon.

2. If fly tying is an art form, I'm Thomas Kinkade compared to Picasso over here.

3. Al-Zarqawi was a horrible human being and I'm glad he's dead.

4. I've just about had it with this "sanctity of marriage" crap. It's sickening that the GOP wants to prevent two people who love each other from formalizing their relationship. Because, you know, the divorce rate among straight people, multiple marriages, and sexual taboos aren't really issues in the U.S. More on the religious right, the midterm elections, and the homosexuals in another post.

5. It is absolutely no surprise that my girlfriend got a promotion. I never said so out loud, but I saw that one coming from a mile away. Well done, baby!

Ursprache!

2006-06-05T06:37:00.000-07:00

Hey, readers, here's something I forgot to write about last week: the National Spelling Bee was televised live on Thursday night, and although I could go on and on about how wonderful and simultaneously sad the whole thing is, Dirk provides all the social commentary I would but in fewer words.

We (the summer staffers) watched a little bit of it and got outspelled every single time. And how funny were those kids angling for hints? With every question we sensed a growing desperation in the speller's demeanor and yelled things at the TV.

Speller: Can I have the language of origin please?

Judge: Probably urdu.

Trout: Uh oh.

Speller: Are there any alternate pronunciations?

Judge: No.

Trout: You're done!

Speller: Can you define the word please?

Judge: A small rodent-like animal found in South Asia.

Trout: You don't stand a chance! Sit down! SOMEONE RING THE EFFING BELL!

Ah, yes. Nothing quite like armchair quarterbacking a spelling bee.

Rock Music Lyrics Friday

2006-06-02T07:28:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we had "Guitar Tab Friday," and although that post may have been fun, mildly entertaining, and perhaps even educational for the guitar players in my 200 million (and growing!) readership, I thought we'd switch to Rock Music Lyrics Friday. Lyrics are more accessible and relevant to more people, and this blog is all about you, readers. Not me. You.

Plus, tabbing out guitar riffs is a total pain in the ass.

So today we'll explore some Rock Music lyrics. I'm hoping this becomes a tradition not unlike Arbitrary but Fun Friday over at Michael Berube's place, but I'll settle for a random stranger or two just stopping by to say "hi."

I thought we'd start off with Phish's "Possum."

-------------------------
I come from atop the mountain baby
Where the people come to pray
I come from atop the mountain baby
Where the people come to pray
There ain't no truth in action
'Less you believe it anyway

I was riding down the road one day and
Someone hit a possum
I was riding down the road one day and
Someone hit a possum
The road was his end
His end was the road
So they say

(chorus)
Whoa possum...possum, possum...POSSUM
Whoa possum...possum, possum... POSSUM
Whoa possum, possum
Your end is the road

I was riding down the road one day and
Someone hit a possum
I was riding down the road one day and
Someone hit a possum
The road was his end
His end was the road
So they say
(chorus)
---------------------------

Thoughts? Clearly the narrator is trying to keep a cool distance from a wrenching roadkill incident, but I leave the deeper interpretations open to you.

On Wal*Mart

2006-06-01T14:39:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1993 I was 21 years old with a golden 1979 Ford Grenada and bad hair. That was the summer my dad and stepmom moved from Wyoming back to his hometown in southern Illinois and the summer I moved from Wyoming into my mom's basement in Champaign. It was a weird time – I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, much less how to go about accomplishing that goal. After two years of community college, I was ready for something other than more classes, so I'd basically dropped out.

In the meantime I worked at Wal*Mart in the Lawn and Garden Center, heaving bags of manure, moving trees at the whim and fancy of our illiterate department manager, and trying in vain to keep petunias watered in central Wyoming's notoriously hot, windy, and dry summer.

Needless to say, I hated the job. I knew I was fairly intelligent, relative to the Casper shrub-buying public anyway, and I knew it wasn't my true calling. What I couldn't predict then was the extent to which I would come to loathe that effing store.

The only advantage about working for Wal*Mart was (and remains) oddly paradoxical: its ubiquity means easy transfers from town to town, provided the new store has a slot for you. Yeah, Wal*Mart is everywhere, but that makes it easy for its employees to move, even its subversives. So in mid-August of 1993 I found myself working the nightshift at the Champaign store. I distinctly remember driving up Prospect Avenue, dialing the ancient radio knob on the Golden Grenade, and hearing The Breeders' "Cannonball" for the first time. Champaign isn't a big city by anyone's standards except maybe for kids from Wyoming. And that night on my way to the Wal*Mart nightshift, with that wacky key change two bars into the "Cannonball" intro, I thought maybe things would turn out okay.

They did, of course, but not before I came to despise Wal*Mart with every fiber of my being. Oh, sure, I met some interesting people at the Champaign Wal*Mart – people who will go unnamed in this blog – but mostly, in retrospect, I'm really glad I got the hell out of there. One of my fondest memories of my dad is of the two of us and my stepmom puttering along on his pontoon boat in late summer of 1995, after I'd returned to college at the University of Illinois and had just started my senior year. We were chatting idly about how school was going, and I said something about wishing I had more time to enjoy my senior year.

"Is work taking up your free time?" my dad asked.

"Yeah, pretty much. When I'm not studying I'm working at Wally World," I replied. While technically true, I conveniently left out the part about squeezing in an hour or two every night for Murphy's Pub.

"So quit," my stepmom said.

"What?"

"Quit," my dad said. "You've worked hard since you turned 16. Take your senior year off."

For a second I thought he had finally, well and truly, gone totally insane. My dad was telling me to not work so hard? Ho-lee Jayzus. But he hadn't gone insane, and sometime in mid-August 1995 I worked my last shift and turned in my blue vest.

13 years later, I avoid the local store on principle. Place makes me itch.

It's no longer an issue of price and/or convenience with me, and I'm seriously thinking about following my friend's lead, who hasn't shopped at Wal*Mart in over two years and plans on never shopping there again.

It's not really the shoppers or employees, although a single stroll through the clothing section on a Sunday afternoon would give the ladies over at gofugyourself enough material to last all summer. It's not even Wal*Mart's deceptive price strategies, designed to lure shoppers deeper into the aisles where, if they look hard enough, they'll realize that Wal*Mart doesn't beat its competition nearly as frequently as you might think. It's not even the look of quiet despair found on any cashier or CSM (shit, it's been 13 years and I still know the lingo). No, all of these things are simply part of Wal*Mart's charm.

For me, the worst part of any trip to Wal*Mart is the parking lot.

Little more than paved free-for-alls, Wal*Mart parking lots are the end result of a car culture gone berserk; what all of America will look like if the oil companies get their way. Geriatrics in huge wrap-around shades point their Cadillacs towards the nearest curb and floor it, hoping for an exit. Carloads of teenagers on cell phones crisscross the parking lanes. Family vans, referred to in the 7200 as Mormon Assault Vehicles, unload their legions of impeccably dressed Christian draftees, ready to snatch up the latest installment in the Left Behind series. RVs and semis converge on Wal*Mart parking lots like alarmingly obese customers converge on a Little Debby's cupcakes display. And there is always, always, a Confederate flag sticker on someone's shitbox of a pickup.

The sole good thing about the parking lot at the 7200's Wal*Mart, the one thing I enjoy, the thing inherently good and pure and redeeming, is the view from its parking lot. Our Wal*Mart is about a mile out of town and about 75 feet or so higher in elevation, out by the interstate. Looking back, you can see the university buildings, which are no big deal, and the mountains in the distance, which are. If you can catch the Wal*Mart parking lot at the right time, it almost makes it worth the trip.

But not quite.

Ho-lee Jayzus!

2006-05-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

In Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket, R. Lee Ermey plays Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, whose infamous opening monologue is perhaps one of the most profane, horrifying, and hilarious in modern cinema. Most of you are probably familiar with R. Lee Ermey even if the name doesn't ring a bell: he's the guy you see on the History Channel's Mail Call, often barking into the camera and/or hurtling watered-down insults at the audience; he was the ex-coach in Saving Silverman; he was the judge in Murder in the First; he did voice work in Toy Story and I just heard his voice on a rerun of The Simpsons last night.

Now, I mention all of this because Full Metal Jacket is one of my favorite movies of all time, and Sergeant Hartman is one of my favorite characters with one of my favorite lines: while performing hygiene inspections, Hartman empties a very young and fat Vincent D'Onofrio's footlocker, sees a jelly donut, and growls in that trademark drill instructor drawl, "ho-lee jayzus."

I told you all of this simply because in moments of extreme duress or absurdity, I'm known to mutter either that exact line or something like it.

And you needed to know that because I've muttered that line many, many times over the past several days. How else does one respond to seeing one's father shake his ass to Sir Mix Alot's "Baby Got Back?"

My stepbrother's wedding was essentially four days of minor league debauchery with a few errands on my part thrown in, since I'm moving to that town in a few weeks. But alcohol was consumed in impressive quantities every single night by every single person of age, up to and including my 80-something stepgrandpa. The wedding itself was fine; a thoughtfully brief ceremony in a Methodist church spared those of us in the wedding party, since the 5600 was unusually windy and unusually hot: low 90s, which in the 5600 is damn hot. The reception, however, quickly turned into a dance-a-thon featuring my dad and an old family friend competing for Most Unusual Dance Move Performed by a Male Over the Age of 55. You had to see it to believe it.

So while Pop's dance moves definitely topped the weekend, here are some other highlights:

Kathryn laughing so hard her ribs hurt the next morning because the bar band we were watching not only played very bad music very well (think small town 40-somethings wearing black t-shirts doing covers of Blue Oyster Cult, Ted Nugent, and ZZ Top), but because they had a groupie in a sundress several sizes too small, wearing a she-mullet and stiletto whore heels.
The slightly removed (and slightly - how does one put this? - gauche) contingent of family from Denver doing the electric slide en masse.
Dad taking me aside and whispering something about the potential value of Kathryn's family's land, which he learned from a friend who is somehow familiar with Kathryn's family.
My cousin's Irish girlfriend threatening to kick my dad's ass for cracking a joke about the IRA and bomb threats.
At the gift/brunch ceremony, a group of strangers singing "Happy Birthday" to me.
Seeing the biggest effing trout that ever graced God's green earth in a state park near the 5600. Three feet. No joke. Three effing feet of effing trout.

That'll do for now. Back in the 7200 with a job and an itch to move, soon, to the 5600.

One More Day...

2006-05-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

My stepbrother is getting married this weekend in the same town I'm about to move to, henceforth referred to on this blog as the 5600. The 5600 is tucked into the base of a big ol' mountain range, down in a little valley, so it gets way less wind and way more snow than the 7200. There is also epic fly-fishing nearby, but you have to earn it by hiking over nasty terrain.

Anyhoo, I'm taking off tomorrow morning for the 5600, about 3 hours away, and will get to see my dad and stepmom's side of the family, some of whom I haven't seen for years and years. To top things off, Kathryn is making the trip from Denver tomorrow night, and my family being the reasonable progressives they are (for domestic issues only - they're color-by-number Republicans when it comes to taxes, the war, the President, and education), Kathryn and I are sharing a hotel room. This isn't a big deal to either of us (as far as I know), and I'm not exactly sure why I'm writing about it. But writing about it I am.

While I'm in the 5600 I'll also be stopping by my future employer just to check stuff out, as well as looking for places to live. I may just wind up taking my stepbrother's place, which is like a block from my employer, but I may not. Dunno.

So, for those of you keeping track at home, the schedule looks like:

Th - Arrive at the 5600. Check into hotel. Meet up with dad and stepmom. Acquire fly-fishing rod that was a Christmas gift but couldn't make it on the plane. Drink beer or four with stepbrother and/or anyone else. Kathryn arrives sometime in evening.

F - Golf in the morning with stepbrother and others from wedding party. Encourage Kathryn to drive golf cart. Stop by employer. Hang out with family. Do the rehearsal dinner thing.

S - Wedding.

Su - My birthday. Return to the 7200 in the evening.

M - Hang out with Kathryn in the 7200. Do minor summer job stuff. Prepare for major summer job stuff to kick off this week.

That's it! I may or may not update the blog between today and Monday.

The Cold

2006-05-23T10:10:00.000-07:00

I've had a cold or something for like two and a half weeks now. It was much more horrible when it first started, but it's still kind of lingering around: I'll randomly cough when I go to bed; I'll wake up with a minor sore throat, I'm congested pretty much all the time.

So yesterday I went to a doctor. He determined that it probably wasn't in my lungs but was definitely in my sinuses - most likely bacterial, and most likely it's been there for a long time. He gave me this bottle of stuff called Zmax, to which one adds water and drinks in one dose. This particular bottle was cherry banana flavored, kind of, and went down pretty well for medicine.

Still a little stuffy today but generally feeling better. According to the label I probably won't really notice for another day or two. Fair 'nuff.

Oh, hey, I'm running again. Right now I'm at about 1 mile per day, which is a hell of a lot for a flabby almost-34-year old.

Of Fishing and Bank Accounts

2006-05-21T08:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Dave, Kathryn and I met up in Silverthorne, CO, for a day of "Gold Medal" fishing on the Blue River. I use scare quotes here because until about 4:00 in the afternoon, I wasn't even convinced the river contained any fish at all. I didn't catch any. I didn't see any. I didn't see anyone else catch any until about 4 - and an hour later, I pulled a gorgeous 16" rainbow out. Unfortunately Kathryn didn't have the camera at the ready, so there is no photographic proof. But trust me, it was a blazing pinkish rainbow [insert your own joke about homosexual fish here].

Now, yesterday morning on my way out of the 7200, I stopped by McDonald's for breakfast. I usually avoid fastfood restaurants, especially McDonald's, like I avoid church picnics... but for sentimental reasons, I often get breakfast at McDonald's at the start of early-morning road trips. This goes way back to my childhood and memories of cartrips with my mom.

Anyway, I tried to use my debit card to pay for breakfast and it declined. This put a damper on the rest of the day, except for those brilliant few minutes where I had the rainbow on the line. You see, readers, there is nothing - quite literally nothing - that makes me feel ashamed and incompetent and stupid and irresponsible and very unlike an adult as fiscal loserliness.

I turn 34 this Sunday, and I still effing borrow money from my parents. Kathryn did her best yesterday to convince me that anyone could have done this in my situation - on student loans with no steady income and various random costs lately, etc. - and I'm trying really hard not to berate myself. But it still sucks, and I'm still ashamed, and these things go deeeep into my psyche about not measuring up.

At least I caught that effing fish.

Guitar Tab Friday

2006-05-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

As my loyal, 200 million-strong readership knows, I'm playing guitar again. The past few days have been spent trying to get my left hand, fingers, and wrist to simply get back in the swing of things.

Today I'm working on Bob Dylan's "Man of Peace" from his album Infidels. The Grateful Dead (you knew it would come back to the Dead, didn't you?) do a cover on Postcards of a Hanging, an album composed entirely of Dylan covers and/or collaborations.

It's an easy tune. I play it in A, funkified courtesy of Garcia/Weir. The riff focuses on the descending blues thing, particularly the G string.

E---------------------------
B---2--0--2----2--x-------
G---2--0--2----2--2-------
D---x--5--2----2-p5-2-----
A----------0-----------3--0
E---------------------------

Repeat 3 times. Move to 7th fret 4 times. I think the progression is resolved by some E chord thrown in there somewhere.

Good stuff, easy to sing, a perfect song for Willie's band.

Thursday is Stupid-Teachers-in-the-News Day

2006-05-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

Seriously. How stupid are these people?

2006-05-18T06:33:00.000-07:00

That's Dave on the left.

Some haiku from the 'Zon. Not sure when it was written.

2006-05-18T06:22:00.000-07:00

You pushed the button
The fault is clearly yours
I apologize

A cog in the works
is ground eventually
to shavings and dust

Just make it five years
Then quit a young millionaire
Or so we all thought.

Seattle, 1998

2006-05-17T14:27:00.000-07:00

Seattle's trick: it looks cleaner than it is.
Rain scrubs deep and hard,
behind the city's ears and between its toes,
so that even syringes don't leave tracks.

There's a reason its sports teams color their jerseys
turquoise, silver, gray –
there's a reason so many people come, and then leave.

Fishing

2006-05-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

Fumbling against the will of others,
you and I go to the river to fish and curse:
as an art form,
as an oath,
as a prayer.

On the drive to the river we discussed ethics.
deception and barbs
yanking the weak from their element
displaying the trophy
doing unto others
what has in other spheres and places
been done to us.

I wondered to myself, then, about karma,
if we'll pay for this someday
or if we're the masters now,
paying someone back

Why Helloooo, Left Hand Fingertips

2006-05-17T07:13:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, when I lived in Lexington, KY, I worked at the 'Zon for something like 70 hours per week. Most of my time at the 'Zon was spent answering email, checking inventory discrepancies, and firing people who consumed a LOT of tobacco products. It wasn't exactly a happy time in my life.

The one good thing that came from that experience was that, when I wasn't working, I was playing guitar. I didn't have much of a social life (never have, actually), so my waking hours at home were generally spent picking around on my Taylor or Stratocaster. A guitar was always nearby in my apartment and I got this weird giddy feeling whenever I picked one up; I was excited to play each and every time I played. I got pretty good for a bit there, especially my fingerpicking, and for a few brief hours in the summer of 2002 I could improv blues solos with something resembling soul and technical competence.

Those days are long gone.

When I came back to school my guitars and banjo all went into storage. Sure, I eventually pulled them out of storage and into my dorm room, but that only served to relocate the place in which they were stored. Long story short, I was too damn busy to play guitar on a regular basis.

Now that summer has arrived at the 7200 and yours truly doesn't have a whole lot going on, I decided to restring my Telecaster and Stratocaster, polish 'em up a little bit, and start playing again. The strings were crusty and nasty, the fretboards gummy, and years-old smudges covered the bodies. After an hour or two of TLC they look damn good now, but my skills are way, way behind.

I ran some blues scales last night and plinked around on some open chords. I played through a few Dylan and Dead songs and tried to sing - with the remnants of a wicked head/chest cold still playing havoc on my voice.

This morning my left had fingertips are a little sore, but that giddy feeling of having a guitar around is back.

2006-05-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

A rare photo of me. Not sure who the doofus in the sunglasses is.

Utah's Green River, 5/12-5/14

2006-05-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

After moping around Kathryn's apartment for a day and a half, I headed over to Steamboat Springs to meet my good friend Dave. Steamboat is only 2 hours from the 7200, but all attempts to spend a weekend at his place were foiled this winter - weather, Dave's appendix, my crazy schedule, etc. So Dave was eager to take me on a fishing trip, and I was eager to hang out with Dave for a few days, cold or no cold.

We left Steamboat Friday morning and arrived at Utah's Green River around noon. I won't bore you with geographical, geological, or hydrological details, but I will say the Green is one of the most beautiful rivers I've ever seen – and I've seen my share of rivers, bitch.

We met up with Dave's friend Bruce and Bruce's stepson, and by Friday afternoon we were floating the "A" section just below the dam. This is strictly a flyfishing habitat, and the Pabst swilling bait-and-bobber types were nowhere to be seen: artificial lures only, a restrictive keeper limit, and absolutely no motorboats of any kind. Heaven, if you're a touchy-feely tree hugger like me.

A few miles downriver I cast a streamer (a lure that acts like a small fish) into a promising pool beneath a cliff, and as I stripped my line I saw a silver flash in the water, a fish darting to my line, and then the unmistakable tug. The rest is a blur, but someone was smart enough to take a picture.

We camped at a local campground on both nights, and Saturday we floated the "B" section but I didn't catch anything. Dave caught a few more, but mostly we just enjoyed the float – well, I enjoyed it as best I could, since my cold hadn't improved at all.

On Sunday Bruce and his stepson took off early, and Dave and I spent a few good hours at the boat ramp below the dam. We each had bites and fish on the line, and we each lost them without ever pulling them in. Around 1pm we headed back to Steamboat in time for grilled meat and cans of beer on his condo's porch.

The Real Reason Behind the NSA's Data Collection

2006-05-11T14:32:00.000-07:00

The following transcript of a closed session of Congress was found in a dumpster behind the Capitol. The exchange is between Rep. Jim Hilgus, R - Alabama, and Trout.

Congressperson: Mr. Trout, you’ve been called before this committee today because the NSA has detected a strange pattern to your telephone calls. As I’m sure you’re aware, the NSA did not record or transcribe the telephone calls of American citizens; they simply documented the times, dates, and durations of calls.

Trout: I’m aware of that, Congressperson.

Congressperson: Now, like I said, in the course of examining the phone records of millions of Americans, the NSA found a pattern in your calls that suggests consistent contact with another individual. Can you tell us anything about that?

Trout: Yes, Congressperson. I call my girlfriend almost every night, right around 9:00 Mountain.

Congressperson: Now, this girlfriend [the Congressperson has used finger quotes when saying girlfriend – ed.] . . .

Trout: Kathryn.

Congressperson: Right. Kathryn. Am I to understand she works in Denver?

Trout: That’s correct, Congressperson.

Congressperson: And you live in the 7200, about 150 miles away?

Trout: That’s right.

Congressperson: And what does this Kathryn person do?

Trout: She works at a non-profit, Congressperson. Is there a point here?

Congressperson: I’m getting there, son. So Kathryn works at a non-profit? That sounds rather leftist to me. Would you consider it a leftist organization?

Trout: I would not.

Congressperson: You wouldn’t?

Trout: I would not. I’d consider it an organization dedicated to helping inner city kids, with little or no political agenda.

Congressperson: Uh huh. Sounds leftist to me. Do they hand out food stamps and punish kids who pray?

Trout: I don’t know, Congressperson.

Congressperson: Okay, we’ve established that you contact a leftist almost every night at a predetermined time. I think everyone in this room has a right to know what you discuss.

Trout: Kathryn and I talk about how our days went.

Congressperson: And?

Trout: And that’s about it. Sometimes we tell funny stories.

Congressperson: Funny stories. Like how you’re going to mastermind another terrorist attack?

Trout: More like, how my ass becomes a water knife after I eat Ethiopian food.

Congressperson: I see. What other sorts of things do you discuss?

Trout: Well, sometimes we talk about our families.

Congressperson: And?

Trout: And that’s about it.

Congressperson: I find that hard to believe. Here you are, a strapping young man, and you have a girlfriend… come on, Mr. Trout, surely there are some details you’re leaving out.

Trout: I, uh, I’m not sure this committee really needs to hear those details.

Congressperson: Does Kathryn ever discuss things of a sexual nature with you?

Trout: I’m really not at liberty to say.

Congressperson: Mr. Trout, this committee is charged with finding out whether or not you’re a threat to the American people. Now, for the sake of national security, kindly tell us the details of those discussions.

Trout: Congressperson, that is simply none of your business.

Congressperson: National security, son. Now, does Kathryn ever ask you what you’re wearing?

Trout: No, Congressperson, she does not.

Congressperson: Does she ever ask you to take off your shirt?

Trout: No, Congressperson, she does not.

Congressperson: So she never asks you to rub butter all over your stocky, thick, manly frame?

Trout: No, Congressperson, she does not.

Congressperson: And she never asks you to do pushups so she can imagine your rippling biceps and meaty pectorals pulsating with a primal rhythm?

Trout: Congressperson, this line of questioning is making me uncomfortable…

Congressperson: . . . And she never asks you to press your hard and firm body against hers so she can smell your manly scent …

Trout: I plead the fifth.

Congressperson: . . . and in your wild embrace she senses your burning manly loins, eager to sate and be satiated by an older, more mature man than yourself . . .

Trout: What?

Congressperson: Nothing. I, uh, nothing.

Trout: Are we done here?

Congressperson: Yes, yes. Certainly. Mr. Trout, on behalf of this committee and the American people, I thank you for your time and candor today. I’m confident that you and Kathryn are fine upstanding Americans and will lead happy lives together. Thanks again.

Good Uses for Blankets

2006-05-10T19:31:00.000-07:00

I felt a tickle in my throat yesterday morning, and by the afternoon it has escalated into full-blown assault on my sinuses. I fell asleep sometime in early evening, and by the time Kathryn called at 9:00, I was wavering in and out of consciousness. I vaguely remember talking to her. Apparently I sounded like I was crying.

The rest of the night was a series of fade-ins and fade-outs, centering around me alternating between freezing and broiling on a minute by minute basis. If my night had been a scene in a film, it would have been a montage of sitting up, lying back down, flipping the pillow, and most peculiarly, turning on the shower at about 4am.

I remember thinking a shower would be a great idea, stumbling into the bathroom, and turning on the water. Then I must have gone back to bed, because I woke up sometime later - it might have been a few seconds, it might have been an hour - with steam playing in the bathroom light. So I took the shower and felt marginally better.

At some point, whether before or after the shower I don't remember, I dreamt that my blankets were blocks of raw material. Wood, iron ore, sheet metal - you name it. This came as a relief, because I was able to process the materials into useful things like . . . candle holders. Strange, strange shit.

This morning I felt much better and drove down to Denver to hang out with Kathryn. Tomorrow night I'm heading over to Steamboat to do some fishing with Willie for the weekend. Meanwhile, Kathryn and I are watching Lost because Dirk reminded me that the show is actually pretty cool.

Speaking of Lost, if only two people make it off that island, I hope it's John and Ecko. And maybe the Jerry Garcia looking dude. And the dog. I like the dog.

Summer Arrives at the 7200

2006-05-08T16:51:00.000-07:00

Summer happens twice at the 7200. In early May, roughly a quarter of the town vanishes over the course of graduation weekend. One Friday night you'll be fighting for space in the line at the bar, throwing elbows and hip checks with equal force to cowboys and granolas, and by the following Monday they'll all simply melt away like the Viet Cong. Traffic here is never ever bad by anyone's standards, and it gets even better when the college kids leave. You know it's summer when you can go to Village Inn for breakfast and in lieu of youngsters reeking of stale beer, one sees only the elderly.

The second arrival is trickier. It usually occurs somewhere in early June - although last year we woke up to 8 inches of heavy snow on June 4th - and it usually takes everyone by surprise. You'll be out walking around the 7200, sipping a coffee or maybe just running errands, and suddenly a weird trickle will make its way down your face. Sweat? Shit, man, summer must be here!

So the first arrival happened over the weekend. Because I have a temporary residential job on campus this summer, I'm one of three people left in one of the dorms, and two of 'em are gone. I'm the only one here. Too bad I don't have a Big Wheel to pedal around.

And We're Back!

2006-05-06T07:27:00.000-07:00

Alright, so my good friend Dirk Mancuso has inspired me to start writing again, after three - count 'em, three - previous blogs went the way of pre-marital abstinence. Or something.

Things are pretty in my world today. My mom's throwing a monster graduation party for me (booze total: $389), and my sister and aunt have flown out to the 7200 for the weekend. Meanwhile, my girlfriend is up from Denver, her folks are driving down from Sheridan, some old high school friends are all coming to the party, and yours truly has a job lined up in the same state as the 7200, but nowhere near the 7200. It's the dreamjob in one of the coolest towns in the state... near mountains and amazing hiking and fishing. Sweeeeet.

That is all for now. Thanks, Dirk, for the funniest shit I've read in a long, long time.

Welcome to the World O' Trout.

2006-03-09T18:05:00.000-08:00

I'm Trout, and I'll be your host at this blog. Guest bloggers will occasionally stop by to hassle, harrass, and harangue the general readership. Enjoy.